Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  “Just do me a favor and shower and get dressed, okay? It’ll make all our lives easier.”

  “Am I your pet now, Jamie? Is that how this works?”

  “Yes, that’s what you are,” she snaps. She laughs, as though laughing away any flare of anger. “Well, no, not my pet, but—Jesus, Andrei, would you prefer to go with one of those other men?”

  “So you expect me to be grateful? Is that it?” I take a couple of steps forward. She stiffens like a deer sighted by a predator, trying to make itself invisible.

  “I have a gun,” she whispers, hand straying to her blood-red handbag.

  “I’m sure you do,” I say. “But a gun means nothing if you’re too afraid to use it.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” she hisses, flustered.

  “No? Then you are the most special person in the whole fucking world, Jamie. Because everybody is afraid of something.”

  “Look what you’re doing to me.”

  “What the fuck?” she whispers, finally meeting my eye.

  “But you said you wanted me to take a shower, didn’t you?” I swagger over to it and turn it on. The water is cold, but it does nothing to tame my rock-hard manhood as I stare at her, all giddy and flushed in that tight-fitting dress. “I’d make you keep those heels on, Jamie. I’d strip everything else off and bend you over with you standing in those fuck-me heels, balanced just for me. You’d keep thinking you were going to fall. And you would—onto my big hard cock, over and over, until I was so deep you wouldn’t be able to stop your wet release.”

  Her neck is fire-hydrant red. I really am enjoying this. Power. This is what it looks like. And having power over Jamie O’Gallagher just feels so damn good.

  “Just—I’ll have them bring you some clothes!” she snaps, spinning on those fuck-me heels.

  I laugh loudly, knowing that my words are chasing her down the hallway. The water finally warms and I scrub myself, barely feeling a thing as it goes from warm to hot to boiling, searing over my bruises and my scars. No matter how hot the water gets, it’s not hotter than my cock right now, ready to burst thinking about her pale legs in that red dress.

  But I don’t touch myself. I just wait for my cock to finally soften. If she wants to play games, like buying me, I can play games, too.

  Like waiting until I have her bent over and begging for more before I take my explosive release.

  5

  Jamie

  The day after the auction, Dad has Andrei brought to our mansion on the outskirts of the city. Really, it’s a sprawling estate, complete with tennis court, movie theater, bowling alley, ice rink (I’m not kidding), and any other luxury a person could think of. Sauna, spa, Jacuzzi, two swimming pools, and on and on like that. The place is huge and guarded day and night by twenty guards, a surveillance system, eight vicious guard dogs, and a barbed wire fence.

  It’s so nice, apparently, that Dad has made it clear that I never have to leave.

  “Why would my daughter need to live anywhere else?” he said, as though the question was so stupid it barely needed to be asked. “She has everything she needs!”

  Dad is overprotective as hell, hence his strict instruction the day we bring Andrei home: remember that you’re Irish and he’s Russian.

  “Use him for your little project,” he says. I cringe at the demeaning word ‘little’ like I always do. “But don’t get any silly ideas, Jamie. I know what young, naïve girls are like.”

  I just nod, like I always do, playing the ditzy daughter he expects me to be.

  Oh, I forgot to mention a couple of other special features of the estate: two underground prison cells. One is spartan, just about livable, which Dad uses for his low-ranking prisoners. The other is plush and has a few luxuries, which he uses for the high-ranking prisoners he’s expecting to ransom.

  It says a lot about how Dad views Andrei that he orders Garret to stow him in the spartan cell.

  That evening, Garret comes to find me as I’m photographing our big magnolia tree. It’s been raining and it just looks so glorious with the droplets clinging to the pink leaves. I’m trying a type of photography where I shoot nature as though it’s a portrait, giving each piece a unique character.

  That way, I can distract myself from the fact that the lie I told Dad—about using Andrei in my latest project—is starting to become more and more alluring. The way he looked when he stripped naked in the cell, the size of him, all muscular and heaving and strong and ready to tear me to shivering pieces … Jesus, I ache just thinking about it.

  Behind me, Garret clears his throat. “The prisoner is acting up.”

  “Acting up, how?” I ask, snapping another photo.

  “Trying to fight the guards. I’m asking you again, please, to give us permission to beat some sense into him.”

  I wince at the thought of them methodically beating him, wondering if they would ever be able to break him. I highly doubt it. “I can’t have him bruised for my project,” I say, thinking quickly.

  But that raises the question: why do I care if they beat him?

  “I don’t know what to do then. He keeps beating on the door.”

  “I’ll go and talk to him,” I say. “Maybe I can calm him down.”

  Garret is a tall man with deep gray hair. He always looks mildly angry. But I can see the laughter in his eyes, too, the love for me, since he basically raised me in many ways. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  I wink at him playfully. “Then it’s a good idea you’re not the boss of me, huh?”

  He rolls his eyes, but I can tell that he enjoys the banter. “Your wish. But please note for the record that I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Noted. Now, let’s go.”

  We enter the back conservatory, through the first kitchen, down a long corridor past Dad’s suits of armor and other things he’s bought over the years to try and make the place look sophisticated, and, finally, to the password-protected elevator that leads to the cells … which is, itself, down a flight of stairs in the basement. I’m reminded again, as we ride the elevator down, of how impossible it would be to break out of here.

  Garret leads me to the cell door, which is built of thick metal and sealed with a heavy bolt.

  “Wait outside,” I tell him.

  “Jamie—”

  I shoot him a look. “Garret, I know you care about me, but I’m pretty sure Daddy has told you like a thousand times you have to obey my every word and command.”

  He grinds his teeth to bite back a smile. One of our running jokes is that I’m the spoiled, entitled little girl Dad seems to think I am. It’s even funnier because he tries to stop himself from laughing, not wanting to show any disloyalty to Dad, however minor.

  But then again, it’s a confusing joke, because it happens to be true.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, touching him on the shoulder. “Everything will be okay. You stay outside and wait for me.”

  I type in the code to the cell door and step inside, hovering in the doorway so I can make a quick exit if I need to. Andrei is leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. This is his ‘living room’: a small couch and table. Behind him, the doorless passage leads to his bed and toilet.

  He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, which reveal pretty much everything. The outline of his manhood in the shorts, hardening at the sight of me, his bulging muscles in the shirt. Jesus, now he’s rock-hard. He eyes me possessively, knowing the effect he has on me.

  He pushes away from the wall, looking so beast-like I think all over again about that photography project. Could it work?

  “I’ve been told you’re being difficult,” I say.

  He just smirks alluringly. Jesus, it’s his sense of control that does it, never letting himself lose it. I wonder what it would be like, finally breaking through that steely shield.

  I need to take a deep, deep breath.

  “So, can you behave, please?” I go on, when he just keeps staring.

/>   “A man needs three things in life, Jamie,” he snarls, taking a slow step forward. I sense Garret behind me, but, as I instructed, he’s staying outside the cell. “Food. Women. And war. I need to fight. I’m tired of eating shit. And the only woman around here keeps trying to tell herself she doesn’t want what we both know she does—more than anything.”

  “Now hang on …” Garret interjects.

  But I spin on him. “Just let me,” I say, not even sure why. Okay, so maybe part of me is enjoying this in a twisted sort of way. “Garret, I need to be alone with the prisoner. For my project.”

  He looks at me doubtfully. “This isn’t a good idea …”

  “He’s not going to hurt me,” I interrupt, with a confidence I don’t feel.

  Here’s the thing: I’m a bit reckless sometimes. Blame it on the artist’s instinct. Garret doesn’t even look that shocked when I dart forward and close the door. He just looks disappointed. “If I need you, I’ll scream!” I yell. “Don’t open this door, Garret! That’s an order!”

  I inhale, turning back to Andrei.

  What. The. Fuck?

  How can such a big man move so silently? For a second, I curse myself for being the naïve rich girl I always tell myself is just an act. What the hell have I just done: locked myself in a cell with my dad’s sworn enemy? Maybe I am stupid.

  “Did that seem like a good idea?” he said, his hand toying with the collar of my shirt. I can feel the power in him, even in these small movements, the strength pressing through his every muscled inch. “If I really am a beast, what sort of woman would willingly lock herself up with me?”

  Behind me, Garret is pounding on the door. I hear him typing into the keypad, but Andrei darts his free hand out, grabbing the handle and clutching it tightly. The veins stand up on his forearm, since Garret is probably putting his whole body into trying to move the door, but it doesn’t move an inch. Andrei smirks, the rest of his body free to move as he grips that handle in a white-knuckled fist.

  “Maybe a woman who wants a beast?” he teases, touching my neck now, straying down under my collar. I need to stop this, fast. But my heart is pounding crazily and half of me is screaming that I want him, the other half screaming that I can’t have him. It’s how bad he is, how much I shouldn’t want him, that makes him all the more appealing. A giant muscled package of sin, just tempting me, and oh fuck …

  I want to be tempted.

  “Is that what you are, Jamie?”

  “No!” I retort, finally getting ahold of myself.

  “Open up!” Garret snarls. “Right-fucking-now!”

  Andrei ignores him. “What are you then, if not a woman looking to be ravaged by a beast? Do you have a death wish?”

  I scoff now, standing up straighter. I pretend not to notice when his hand slips under my shirt, when a button breaks. His hand strays to my bra, probing, a finger gliding tantalizingly close to my nipple and then away again.

  “You wouldn’t kill me,” I say, feigning an easy laugh. “They’d torture and kill you if you did that.”

  Plus, you don’t want to kill me, do you, Andrei? No, you want something else altogether. And I think I might, too.

  He grins, stepping back, sliding his hand free of my shirt. “Let them try,” he says breezily.

  I yell and fall backward when the door flies open. Garret catches me, his face red, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’m telling her father about this!” he yells at Andrei.

  Andrei shrugs, looking at me the whole time. “Do whatever you have to do,” he says. “Whatever you want to do.”

  The double meaning is achingly clear. He wants to fuck me. And I want to fuck him. Except—no, no, that can’t be right. Remember: he’s Russian, I’m Irish. Remember: Dad would kill me. Remember: he’s a jerk and I’ve been hurt by jerks in the past—one jerk in particular, who thoroughly convinced me to stay away from men.

  So much to remember, and yet as I look at my red-hot beast, I just want to forget.

  “No,” I say quietly. Then, louder, “Garret, you won’t tell Dad. This’ll help with my project. It’s going to be called The Beast, so we can’t be surprised if our guest acts a bit … beastly, can we?”

  Garret blinks. “This is a joke,” he says. “Jamie, I have to tell him!”

  I wheel on him. Garret keeps his gaze on Andrei the whole time, hand near his hip. “If you tell Dad, he’ll ruin my project.”

  “Your project,” Garret mutters.

  “My project, yes!” I’m so sick and tired of everybody acting like my photography is, I don’t know, marble collecting or something? “I get it,” I go on. “Photography isn’t curing world hunger or whatever. But it’s what I love. And I need Andrei for my next exhibition. So, I’m ordering you, Garret, don’t tell Dad.”

  “You’re putting me in an awkward position,” he murmurs, but I can see his resolve wavering.

  “Did I ever tell Dad about you and your wife living here for five summers in a row when he was on vacation? Did I ever even think about it? No. You wanna know why, Garret? Because you’re my fucking friend, even if you work for him.”

  Finally, Garret nods, but he doesn’t look too happy about it. “Fine, Jamie, but you have to promise to tell me when this bastard steps out of line. And let me tell you this, too.” He stares daggers at Andrei. “You hurt her, you lay a fucking finger on her? You’re a dead man.”

  Andrei just nods. It takes me a moment to realize he’s nodding to the button from my shirt, discarded on the floor. I shoot him a warning look and quickly drag Garret from the room before things can escalate. It takes me a while to get my breathing under control as I walk down the hallway, heading back outside.

  After spending a day taking photos and writing up some notes for The Beast—it’s really taking shape now, going from vague idea to solid outline—I drive into the city to meet Molly for one of her events. This is a charity gala raising money for the blind, and Molly, as usual, has done an exceptional job.

  Since this one is much larger than my exhibition, she doesn’t have the time to talk to me at first, rushing around in the background with a clipboard and a headset. We shoot each other the occasional secret look. At one point, she pretends to fan herself with the clipboard, as if to say, Jeez, it’s hot in here. Can somebody get me a drink?

  I get a glass of orange juice, knowing that Molly doesn’t drink on the job, and intercept her on the way to the kitchen. “Either you were just giving me the fuck-me eyes or you’re thirsty,” I joke.

  She takes it gratefully, knocking it back in two large gulps. “Okay, girl, just hang around for five more minutes and then I’ll be able to have a little break. Better yet, go and mingle with that couple over there.” She nods to a stylish hipster-type couple on the other side of the room. “They’re huge fans of your work.”

  “Okay, boss!” I grin. “Order received and understood!”

  I do a big military salute and, both of us walk across the room to the couple. We talk for a few minutes. The woman—Cecilia, with purple lens-less glasses and a zillion piercings in her ears—compliments “Companions” and my exhibition before that, “Waterscape,” which was a series of photos of people on the docks around the city, some of them on little rafts in the water.

  “I think you capture the essence of a person,” she says. “It’s just … Oh, Jamie—may I call you Jamie?”

  “Of course,” I smile.

  “I can’t explain why your photos touch me so deeply. I can’t analyze it. I just know that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right! Please tell me you’re working on something else.”

  I nod. My ideas for The Beast are becoming more and more certain now. “I am,” I say. “It’s going to be … different.”

  She gleams. “Different is good!”

  When they excuse themselves, I finally have a chance to see Molly. We sit at the edge of the room, watching everybody having a great time. “You’ve done an amazing job,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she gri
ns. “So … how is Lover Man?”

  “Ha-ha-ha.”

  “Your slave,” she mutters teasingly. “I hope you’re not—oh my—forcing yourself on him?”

  “Jesus, Molly!” I complain. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest—”

  “Yeah, yeah, shut it,” I sigh. “No, but you know that project, The Beast? I think it’s real now.”

  “Ah, so we’ve graduated from a lie to an excuse.”

  I roll my eyes. After a long sip of champagne, I tell her about my note-taking session earlier, how I’ve already outlined a general premise of what I want the exhibition to be. “Obviously, there will be changes along the way. You know what it’s like. You’ll be planning a party and you just know the band is going to go there—but then the genuine Persian wall-hangings arrive, and they just have to go there instead.” I grin, mimicking her voice, since the band/Persian wall-hangings incident was the bane of Molly’s life for a little while. “But the project has started. In here, at least.” I tap the side of my head.

  “And it’s all about the project, of course?” Molly asks, eyeing me closely.

  I shift uncomfortably, both hating and loving how easily my best friend can read me. “Of course it is,” I lie. “Why else would I want to spend my time photographing Andrei fricking Bakhtin?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  I pause, a smile toying at the edge of my lips. I’m thinking about the photos, about the sweat sliding temptingly between the crevices of Andrei’s chest and abs.

  “No,” I admit. “I don’t think I do.”

  6

  Andrei

  I don’t sleep well that night, mostly pacing and doing push-ups to distract myself from this cold spear of rage moving through me. I imagine all the different ways I am going to kill Cormac: crushing his throat with my hands, bashing his head against a brick wall, slitting his neck wide open.