Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  I never let myself get like this about men. It’s too easy to think about where it could lead. Once, I let myself go all doughy-eyed over a man—well, a boy—and it led to some really, really bad places. Emotional abuse plus physical abuse doth not a happy relationship make. Maybe being flippant about it isn’t the healthiest move, but it’s either that or cry myself to sleep at night.

  I exposed myself emotionally and he took advantage. He preyed on me … just like Andrei wants to. But Andrei would never harm a woman. He might be a Beast, but he’s above that.

  I think.

  I shake my head and take a sip of champagne. We’re sitting in the main dining room, which is like something out of a palace, with marble walls and a big-ass chandelier and the waitstaff moving around like silent ghosts. Dad was just talking to me, but I was so lost in my own thoughts, I have no clue what he said.

  So I do what I always do in these situations. I nod and agree.

  Predictably, Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “See!” he snaps, turning to Rafferty. “Even Jamie knows it’s better to show strength first and leave diplomacy for last.”

  Rafferty bites down, respectful as usual, though I think I see some impatience in his avuncular face. “The whole purpose of diplomacy, my friend, is to forgo the need for strength.”

  “Forgo,” Dad mocks, clearly finding it hilarious. “Look at Mr. Harvard over here, Jamie! Ha!”

  He’s drunk, of course. No surprise there. The conversation moves on and I wriggle in my seat as I feel Declan looking at me, his flinty eyes mocking and superior. He really thinks he’s God’s gift to, well, everyone. It’s so strange how one kind of arrogance, Andrei’s, is appealing as hell. And then another kind, Declan’s, makes me want to scream.

  I think it’s because Andrei’s comes from real strength, real ability. Everyone knows that he earned his place at the top through hard work and violence and Bratva honor. Declan’s just a dog eating scraps at the table. A fucking hanger-on.

  “Anyway,” Dad goes on. “With Timofey on our side, it will be over soon. Those Russians still loyal to Andrei will realize they’re beat. No honor in these men, Rafferty. No Irish blood in ’em to keep them strong.”

  Rafferty’s frown says what he thinks of that, but he knows better than to argue.

  Surprising even myself, though, I speak up. “I thought the Bratva used a strict honor code, though?” I ask. “I can’t see them giving up on Andrei, especially since …” I trail off, my cheeks turning red. The whole table has turned to me in disbelief. I shrug. “I’m just saying.”

  “Especially since what?” Declan demands, his voice quiet with an undertone of violence. Especially since he inspires loyalty, is what I was going to say. “You seem to be a real champion of the Russians, Jamie.”

  “No,” I laugh, picking up my champagne. Be careful here. They’ll crucify Andrei if they think you care about him. But you don’t, do you? “It’s just something I read. I’m probably wrong.”

  “You are,” Declan says definitively. “The Russians are dogs. We’ll whip them into shape.”

  Rafferty’s frown deepens. I see him looking at me in agreement, but he’s got more tact than me and just turns to his food.

  “How is your little project going, anyway?” Declan asks, grinning like he’s trying to win Asshole of the Year award. “What is it—Portraits of the Wolf, or something?”

  “The working title is ‘The Beast.’”

  “Like Beauty and the Beast?” he scoffs, his tone mocking.

  I shrug, as though his words mean nothing to me. Which they don’t. But I really do despise this man. I wonder what would happen if I leapt across the table and impaled him with my steak knife. Would Dad be on my side, or would he punish me? I need to relax, really. These violent thoughts can’t be healthy, right? I just hate how far up his own ass he is.

  “Well?” he demands.

  Rafferty tuts. “I’m sure Jamie doesn’t want to discuss the details of an ongoing project.”

  “Know all about what my daughter wants, do you?” Dad laughs, his tone argumentative for absolutely no reason. He turns to me when Rafferty bows his head deferentially. “Well, Jamie? How is it going? I hope it’s not going to take too long. Really, I had no intention of buying that useless motherfucker, but now? I’ve got half a mind to make some use of him, especially if Egor keeps causing a fuss.”

  I have no delusions about what ‘making use of him’ means. It means torture, it means doing horrible stuff like taking photos of him beaten and bloody to try and force Egor, who must be Andrei’s most loyal man, to stop his guerilla war.

  “These things take time,” I insist, ignoring the pounding in my ears. I’m stunned by how much the thought of them hurting Andrei terrifies me. “I only just got him to—”

  Shut the fuck up. Here’s what I was about to say: “I only just got him to agree to let me take a photo.” But if I say that, they’ll counter that I don’t need his agreement. They can beat it out of him.

  “To what?” Declan says.

  “To look the part,” I lie. “There was some trouble over the mask.”

  Dad smiles the same way he would about a new car or an expensive brand of cigar. “Jamie’s got a real good reputation in the photography scene,” he says. “Lots of newspapers have written about her. Now, I don’t know what makes one photo better than another, but you can’t deny her reputation.”

  Even if it’s slightly patronizing, I feel a flush of pride. Dad’s praise is so rare.

  “I’m sure the studio and equipment you so kindly provide helps,” Declan agrees. But he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Actually,” I counter coolly, “It’s true that Dad paid for my college, but my equipment, my studio, my gear, everything, I paid for myself. I got a job as an intern at a city life magazine and I worked my way up. I saved for my first camera. Now, I pay for everything with money made from my exhibitions.”

  I’m getting heated, but I hate when people assume that, just because Dad has money, I’m a silver-spoon priss who’s never worked hard in her life. I’m sure a lot of people see me that way just because I don’t have student loans like everybody else. But who would turn down having their college tuition paid if they had the chance?

  “Hmm,” Declan says, grinning. “But The Clover … who pays for that?”

  “That’s just a gallery,” I snap. “I’ve only held one exhibition there.”

  Declan bites down, apparently annoyed at me for defending myself. He sits up, fingering his fork. He has this look in his eyes like I’ve personally offended him. Declan is the sort of sexist dickhead who thinks a woman disagreeing with him is tantamount to original sin or something. Well, fuck him and the horse he rode in on. If he didn’t want me to snap at him, he shouldn’t have opened his fat mouth to begin with.

  “Well, what is photography, anyway?” he grunts. “Everyone and their mom can take as many photos as they want nowadays. Maybe it was valuable when it was rare, or whatever. But what’s so special about it now? A bunch of pretentious bullshit, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you,” I point out. “As usual, you just decided to butt in with your uninformed opinion. But if you want to put down somebody else’s passion just because you don’t have the drive to get one of your own, then fine. Knock yourself out.”

  He looks around at the table as though for support. But Dad is just looking between us quietly, an ambiguous look in his eyes. It’s like he’s waiting for somebody to cross the line from ostensibly friendly disagreement to outright argument. Rafferty pats his son on the arm.

  “Drink some champagne,” he says. The way he says it, I know he’s worried Declan’s going to go too far and will get himself in trouble with Dad. Rafferty is always stopping people before they do that, basically saving their lives, because Dad has a murderous temper. “Relax. And stop talking about things you don’t understand. You’re not a photographer.”

  Declan fumes. “Neither is she.”

/>   “How so?” I ask. “How the hell do you figure that?”

  He grins, and I know he doesn’t even have a point. He just said it to get under my skin. I turn to Dad. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to excuse myself.”

  He gives a brief nod. I push my chair back with a loud screeching noise and pace away from the room, annoyed at myself for getting so emotional. Rule number one when dealing with Declan: don’t let him get under my skin. But I failed horrifically.

  I go outside and stand under the magnolia. It’s early May and the sun is still shining. The garden really is beautiful, with the fountain and the flower beds and the statue at the back. I mean, the statue is pretty ridiculous: Dad riding a dragon with a trident in his hand. I’m not kidding. I wish I was. But outside of that, it’s a nice scene.

  I take out my cell and text Molly. You-know-who just pissed me off BIG time.

  A few moments later, she texts back. Don’t let that piece of shit get under your skin, babe.

  He was trying to make it seem like I didn’t work to get where I am, like it was all handed to me. Fucking annoyed!

  So it seems like this whole not letting him get under your skin thing is going well …

  I squeeze down on my phone, smiling softly. Molly knows me so well. I have something to tell you, I text. Can you talk for five?

  Always!

  I call her and walk to the back of the garden, past the statue and to the bench area. Since I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, I tell her about me and Andrei, all the things we’ve done, the sort-of sex yesterday, the chemistry and the twisted closeness.

  “Wow,” Molly says in amazement. “Shit, that’s crazy. You know you can’t let your dad find out.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Is it just … just sex?”

  “It’s not even sex,” I protest. “I just let myself get carried away a couple of times, that’s all.”

  “Hmm,” Molly says doubtfully. “I’m not saying I’m an expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure that when a man’s pee-pee enters a woman’s hoo-hah, that’s considered sex.”

  “Here come the morality police,” I grumble.

  “Don’t be an ass,” she laughs. “You had sex with Andrei, Jamie.”

  “And I’m guessing this is the part where you tell me to keep my distance, where you remind me of how dangerous it is for me to get involved with him, right?” I sound almost desperate, as though if Molly tells me the magic words, that will give me the strength I need to stay away. “Well?”

  She pauses, and then says, “I guess it is dangerous, but more for him. It’s not like your dad’s going to do anything to you. But yeah, if he found out, Andrei would be in serious trouble.” I laugh darkly at the phrasing. Serious trouble implies, like, detention or something, which is a far cry from what Dad would actually do. “And for you, yeah, sure. I mean, if you feel like you’re developing feelings, I can see why you’d be scared. The last time you had feelings for a man, it didn’t exactly end well.”

  “No,” I agree. But I don’t feel better like I thought I would. Maybe because part of me wants Andrei?

  “But,” Molly goes on. “I don’t think it’s fair that you have to live your whole life in fear of developing a connection with someone just because you had a relationship that went bad.”

  “That went abusive,” I correct.

  “Still!” Molly says. “You were a teenager then. I know you got hurt. I know you promised you’d never let yourself feel anything again. But how long are you gonna punish yourself for?”

  “But I’m not!” I protest. “It’d be more punishing to get involved and then …” I think about the abuse, shivering. “But this is all irrelevant, anyways. Because Andrei is just my subject, nothing more.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  I sigh, the topic coming to a natural close. “How are you, anyway?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know, pretty good.” A girlish note comes into her voice. “Better than good, actually.”

  “Wait … you found somebody. A male somebody!” I cry, sensing the change in her voice.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she says coyly.

  “Who is it?” I gasp, suddenly intrigued. It’s good to focus on somebody else’s relationship dramas … not that I have any of those, I forcibly remind myself.

  “I haven’t even said there is anyone!” she argues. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I have a client Skype call in ten and I need to make myself look halfway presentable. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But don’t think this is over.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it! Say hello to the big man for me! Mwah!”

  When I look up, Declan is walking toward me. He pauses at the statue, smirking up at it. I’m glad he wasn’t standing there during the conversation. Because of course he’d report back to Dad, and then … But I don’t let myself think about that. Declan seems drunker than he did at the table. I bet he did a few whiskey shots.

  “So you found somewhere private for us?” He winks. His lips are moist and his eyes red from the alcohol. He makes me feel sick. “Bend over that bench, Jamie, and I’ll show you what a real beast is.”

  I stand up, shaking my head. “I’m fine, thanks. I don’t really wanna throw up my dinner.”

  He scowls. “Why do you always have to be such a bitch? You playing hard to get, is that it?”

  I walk around him. He moves sideways, blocking my way, but he knows better than to lay a finger on me. That would be crossing a line that even Rafferty would not be able to save him from.

  My head sometimes spins with the politics of the Family, but it goes like this: Declan, as Dad’s second-in-command’s son, has leeway to get away with a lot of stuff. But not too much leeway, since I am the don’s daughter, and any disrespect toward me is also effectively disrespect toward Dad. Rafferty plays the role of the mediator.

  I step aside again. He does the same.

  “Move,” I finally order.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “If by ‘hard to get,’ you mean that Satan’ll grow a beard made of ice and Pegasus will turn out to be a pig with wings before I sleep with you, then, yeah, sure. I’m ‘playing hard to get.’”

  “So you’re still into those myth stories, huh?” he says, trying for a kind tone of voice. I want to slap him so badly. I hate him. “Remember when you used to read those in high school?”

  My back is turned when he calls after me, “It’s obvious you’ve got the hots for the prisoner. It’s just a matter of time until I can prove it. And then, Jamie, shit, you don’t wanna be around to see what we’re gonna do to him!”

  I don’t give him an answer, just walk away as quickly as I can. But his words jab at me and I find myself, as I stomp up the house to my room, clenching my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms. What a tangled mess my life has become.

  In my bedroom, I try to do some reading. I’m in the middle of a really good thriller right now, but I have that annoying feeling when I’m distracted and, instead of sinking into the book, I’m all too aware that I’m just lying there with my Kindle in my hand. It pisses me off.

  I end up scrolling through stuff on my phone instead: Facebook, Twitter, photography blogs, and, finally, news articles.

  My heart stops when I read the title: Arson Suspected in Destruction of Russian Orthodox Church, Several Injured. I read the article frantically. Basically, a church was burned down by men who seemingly knew what they were doing. The fire department thinks they left their rags behind on purpose, as a deliberate sign of arson. A message.

  This is Dad, through and through. His trademark callousness. The infamous Irish cruelty that only Cormac O’Gallagher really knows how to wield.

  But what really upsets me is that of the several injured, three of them are women and one—oh fuck—one is a little kid. The kid isn’t in intensive care, but still, what the fuck is Dad thinking? He’s going to risk killing children for his war? Andrei would never do that.
Andrei would never—

  I toss my phone to the floor, breathing heavily. There’s a reason I never look too closely at Dad’s business. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my control. The Family is Dad’s domain.

  I tell myself this stuff over and over.

  But then, what if I’ve just been lying to myself to make my life easier? And what if it has taken Andrei to make me realize that?

  10

  Andrei

  “How the fuck did you swing this, Russian?” Jerry snarls, walking into my cell with his rifle raised. Behind him, Ronan hovers with the handcuffs in his hand, looking so young I almost laugh. These are the men who are supposed to intimidate me? “Turn around so we can cuff you and bring in your fucking meal.” He scoffs to himself. “Feeding the Russians now? What has the world come to?”

  Two days have passed since Jamie said she was going to bring me the food in exchange for the photo. In that time, I’ve thought about her a lot, far more than I should have. Several times, I’ve had to forcibly remind myself of the vow I made to myself the day after the fire. As a small boy, I made a promise that I’d never let myself feel anything more than the barest flicker of emotion.

  Because the one and only time in my life that I got too involved, I became paralyzed, unable to act, and it resulted in my own parents burning to death in front of me. I heard their screams, and I did nothing.

  “Russian!” Jerry bellows. “Turn around and put your fucking hands behind your back. I mean it.”

  “No room for small talk, Jerry?” I say. “I was going to ask how your niece is doing.”

  He flinches. “How the fuck do you know about …”

  I don’t know anything. Random shot in the dark. I have to stop myself from smiling when it works. “I know a lot, Jerry. More than you’d guess.”