Sold to the Russian
Isabella Laase
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Afterword
Books of the Bratva Masters Series
Books of the Cloudcroft Ranch Series
More Stormy Night Books by Isabella Laase
Isabella Laase Links
Copyright © 2021 by Stormy Night Publications and Isabella Laase
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Laase, Isabella
Sold to the Russian
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Shutterstock/Oleksandr Zamuruiev, Shutterstock/Dmitr1ch, and Shutterstock/vitaliy_73
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter 1
St. Petersburg, spring 1995
The late spring breeze tickled her skin throughout the long night to envelop her in a familiar comfort. For the first time in forever, she spent a few blissful hours, escaping her reality in a deep sleep and returning to the rugged Caucasus Mountains where she’d been raised. Her dark curly hair flying untamed behind her, she ran wild across the meadows with her giggling sisters, their bare feet toughened to callus pads against the stones and prickly grasses that scratched their sensitive legs. They pulled fresh figs from the trees and ate sticky, sweet apricots and pomegranate seeds that stained their fingers and dresses. But the honking horns and oversized trucks grinding their gears down the busy street in St. Petersburg reluctantly pulled her away from the memories, reminding her that everything she’d ever held close to her heart was lost.
“Zoya!” called Jelena from the bottom of the stairs. “Hurry. The master is expected today, and he won’t be happy to find you still in bed. It’s almost noon.”
Twenty-year-old Zoya Zhvania rolled over in the tiny cot nestled under the eaves of the attic, but nothing would return her to the drowsy, perfect stage of sleep where she could live in her dreams. Through the lone tiny window, the sun sent sharp streaks across the plain wooden floor, drawing her attention to the Neva River that fed into the Gulf of Finland. A beautiful city, St. Petersburg was built in the early eighteenth century from a frozen swamp to emulate western culture. Under the cover of darkness, the rooftop offered spectacular views of the golden spire from the Peter and Paul Fortress and the Great Winter Palace where Russian czars had lived in luxury during centuries of Romanov rule, but she’d seen none of the sights in person. Zoya hadn’t even left his house since she’d arrived in the cold Baltic port as Damir Petruskenkov’s newest possession.
“Zoya!” came Jelena’s persistent voice. “Come down at once, or I will report your insolence to the master.”
Despite the housekeeper’s nagging, Zoya had no place to go. She was a woman without a purpose, except to keep her master’s cock satisfied. He’d been away for weeks, but his previous night’s phone call had upset the serenity in the quiet household they shared with Damir’s nine-year-old daughter, Ana.
She brushed the snarls out of her hair before slipping the simple cotton dress over her panties and thin shirt. She was tall with a classic Georgian ancestry, but she’d lost much of her curvy figure in the last four months, leaving the old dress to hang awkwardly on her frame. The rich sauces and foods that Jelena prepared in a Russian kitchen had never appealed to her simpler peasant tastes, but homesickness and misery had played a bigger role in destroying her appetite.
The back servant’s stairway in the centuries-old townhouse led to the basement kitchen where Jelena frantically rushed from the pots and pans in the sink to the hot stove. A thick stew with carrots and potatoes delivered a rich, earthy aroma, but Jelena stirred it unhappily. “He’ll beat both of us,” she murmured, wiping aimlessly at the spidery stains on her worn navy blouse. “I spent all day yesterday trying to find beef, but there wasn’t any to be had.”
“This is a country of shortages,” said Zoya with a little more attitude than she’d intended. “Russia is in its infancy, and we’re all trying to make do.”
“You tell him that,” said Jelena, her dull eyes refusing to make contact. “And while you’re at it, get to his study to make sure that it’s clean and dusted. There is no sense in making him any angrier than necessary.”
“It’s fine,” she dismissed. “I took care of it yesterday. And I’m not your servant, Jelena.”
Zoya braced herself for a slap. Making the master happy wasn’t an easy task for either of them, and the older woman often turned her frustrations on Zoya who had no resources other than her sharp tongue and a quick wit that easily outdistanced her reluctant companion. Instead of striking her, Jelena snapped, “Shut up. Sluts have no place in a grand, privately owned home. His ancestor built this house before the revolution. He is a powerful man with royal blood in his veins, but now that the communists have been defeated, he is destined to be a leader in this country.”
“Royal veins filled with ice,” she said quietly. “I’m not a whore. Even though he hasn’t locked my door in weeks, with no resources, I’m a prisoner, and you know it.”
“Why do you complain? He brought you from a country where you were starving. You have no business challenging—”
“He didn’t ‘bring’ me,” interrupted Zoya, her dark eyes burning with an unwelcome anger. An emotionless perspective and a focus on the future was the only way to survive an unfair life. “He forced me. I was drugged for weeks, locked in that room with nobody except Damir who came whenever his cock pushed against his zipper. I don’t understand why you put up with him. You’re Russian with no accent to attract unwanted attention, and he pays you a salary. You could go anyplace you wanted.”
“Why would I leave a warm, dry home with food and a steady income?” Jelena scoffed. “Without the communists controlling prices, the country is starving. I’m the spinster cousin to his late wife, but he promised to keep me safe from what’s out there. I’m grateful for his protection, and you should be as well.”
“Grateful?” shouted Zoya, taking a step toward her. She’d spent months avoiding this topic, but she was nobody’s victim. “Are you kidding me? Grateful that he took me from my home? Grateful that he rapes and beats me? I would leave here in a heartbeat if I had a few rubles and a place to go, but my life is thousands of miles away. I’d never get back, and I have no idea where safety exists in St. Petersburg.”
Jelena slammed the spoon to the counter, twirling on her in anger. “You aren’t listening. There is no safety in St. Petersburg. It’s full of hungry people, waiting to deliver worse than Damir for a poor immigrant. And your father sold you. You have no reason to complain. Your family is probably still living off the money that Damir gave them.”
During her childhood, her father had provided their large family with a simple, subsistence existence. Separated from Russia b
y the tallest mountains in Europe, Sakartvelo had been thousands of miles removed from their communist-controlled masters in Moscow, but the collapse of the Soviet Union had changed everything. They’d gained their independence from the new Russian federation, but her family’s small farm had been lost for almost four years since the civil wars destroyed the country that westerners called Georgia.
“My father isn’t an evil man,” she insisted, her tone dropping. “He believed that I was married to Damir and thought he was making the decision for my benefit. Even I didn’t know that the priest was fake until I saw him here, in St. Petersburg, laughing at me as though I were his personal fool. Damir tricked my father; he would never have given me away if he’d known.”
Jelena returned to the dishes in the sink, and Zoya took deep breaths to fight the intermixing effects of panic over her lack of a future and anger over her dismal past. Her father may or may not have known the full story, but he’d still forced her to leave with a monster and promised not to report her disappearance to the authorities. He’d never been a warm man, but hunger and defeat had changed him to a bitter shell after the loss of their farm and the death of her mother.
She’d met Damir at her father’s small khachapuri stand in the outdoor market in Batumi. Surrounded by unsmiling men with heavy weapons bulging under their jackets, a leering Damir had returned several times to buy more of the cheesy stuffed breads she and her sisters had made in their tiny apartment. With a broken heart, she’d sobbed and begged her father not to abandon her, but his mind had been made up when he was handed more cash than he’d seen in his life. His closed expression was her last clear memory before Damir’s men surrounded her. She’d fought for her life, kicking at anything that moved and scratching their ugly, expressionless faces before they’d delivered to her thigh the sharp needle filled with tranquilizers.
But she’d never give up. “I’m nobody’s victim, Jelena. I may have a deep hole to climb out of, but I will succeed. I won’t waste my life. You should take a stand while you can. You can do better than this.”
“Jelena!” Damir’s voice accompanied the slamming of the heavy front door, interrupting their spat and causing both of them to jump. “Where the fuck are you?”
He would establish his meals and household first, but it was only a matter of time before he called for his ‘prize.’ Zoya was fastening her hair into an unflattering, messy knot on top of her head as Jelena returned, rubbing a burgeoning pink bruise on her cheek and her eyes were downcast with guilt. “He’s waiting for you, Zoya,” she said quietly, standing aside so Zoya could pass her to reach the narrow staircase.
Cut from the deepest Russian forests, the scarred solid oak floors and trim highlighted a turbulent history in a nation defined by revolution. Curving upward from the tall entry, a wide marble staircase had been hand-polished by artisans from the Ural Mountains, and crystal chandeliers from Italy sparkled in the sunlight. The rooms were filled with classic paintings, fine porcelain, and an expensive collection of iconic Fabergé figurines resting behind heavy glass doors.
What the home provided in beauty, however, was lessened by its lack of a familial presence, creating the effect of a cold museum. There were no photos of his four children or his late wife and the ugly brown synthetic rug in his study didn’t belong. Like the rest of the house, the beautiful grand piano in the main living room sat day after day, untouched and unappreciated. The dark, massive double door to the street was as uninviting as the faceless men who stood guard on the other side.
The discarded plastic bag and straw on his desk was followed by a trail of white crystalline powder. With a half empty tumbler of brandy, Damir stared out the leaded glass window with his back to a decades-old portrait of his mother. Her jewelry was stunning, but the artist had focused on her deep blue eyes and the red-hued chestnut brown hair nestled over her shoulders. A strapless navy blue evening gown was fitted across the lace bodice, cut low to provide the perfect framework for the massive emerald set in a cluster of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.
Zoya willed her nerves to relax while staying sharp to anticipate his every move. A large man in his late thirties, Damir had likely been handsome in his youth, but his dark blond hair was shaggier than when she’d last seen him and his soft stomach bulged over his pants from too much rich food and expensive wine. Holding out the glass, he nodded without speaking. She moved quickly to fill it for him, but when she took the finely cut Polish crystal, his hand was visibly shaking.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Zoya,” he slurred, absently wiping his nose. “Your country raises the most beautiful women in the world. Come closer.”
She reluctantly moved to his side, and he pulled her to his chest while she tried not to struggle. He would take what he wanted whether she cooperated or not, and he enjoyed himself too much when she fought his authority. Moving his palm under her dress, he fondled her breasts, turning her stomach and burning her cheeks with humiliation. When her world had been limited to a drug-induced fog, she’d quickly learned to give him a small piece of her physical self while building walls around her emotional core. With any luck, he would pass out from the drugs and drink before he could take her, but he pushed her stomach over the arm of the couch to stand behind her.
The grumbling, deep voice came from the hallway. “Damir, I need to speak with you.” Sacha Belsky entered the room, but Zoya didn’t move, closing her eyes to escape her harsh reality. He’d shared her with Sacha before, a fat, ugly Russian with greasy black hair who managed the security in Damir’s complex business hierarchy.
But they’d misjudged her, dismissing her as an uneducated immigrant. Over the last few months, all of them had spoken openly about assassinations, bribery, extortion, and smuggling, each name and incident memorized and evaluated until she’d discerned a pattern for their illicit businesses. She didn’t dare write anything down, but her mind was quick and her motivation was even stronger. The more information she had, the better prepared she would be for her future.
“It’s an emergency,” said Sacha. “I got a call from Boris Novik. Somebody brought your nephew to his police station.”
“Already?” Damir asked sharply, but his hands continued to tremble. “What about his parents? Did they find them, too?”
“No,” dismissed Sacha. “I told you it would be weeks. The housekeeper must have taken him to the authorities. Do you want me to tell the Andreyevs to go get him?”
“Fuck, no,” Damir grumbled. “Their son was a piece of shit who didn’t fulfill his part of our bargain for me or my sister. Get the kid yourself and bring him back here. I’m not letting them have another fucking thing until they start cooperating with me.”
“The Andreyevs’ KGB connections have been valuable to us,” countered Sacha. “But I agree they haven’t delivered everything that they promised. I blame Gavrie, though. He didn’t want to marry your sister any more than she wanted to marry him, but send Boris Stasevich to get him. I hate kids. His wife has four or five of them, and he owes you after he fucked up the money in Moscow.”
Damir pushed her to the floor, scraping her knees against the rug. “Stasevich is done. Take Zoya. She can nursemaid my sister’s brat. It’s about time she did something to earn her keep besides providing a wet pussy for half of St. Petersburg.”
“I… I had many brothers and sisters,” she said, keeping her gaze on the abstract rug patterns and fighting to keep the eagerness from her tone. Leaving the house would provide valuable information on the city’s layout and, possibly, an open door for her escape. “I can do that.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to run away from me, would you?” asked Sacha. “I wouldn’t want to face Damir if I lost his toy.”
“Where would she go?” Damir laughed, kicking her thigh. “Home? Who would have her in a country that values morality? She’s a whore, fucked by half a dozen men. She’s only good for one thing now, but she’s too compliant after those first few days with all that attitude. Sell her after she br
ings the kid back here and find me one who doesn’t speak Russian. I don’t give a fuck what they’re saying.”
Any dispute would return her to the locked attic room and the influence of his opioids. She stayed on the floor, but her panic increased. As a child of the Soviet Union, she could speak a heavily accented Russian in addition to her native Georgian, but the unknown would take her even further from freedom.
“How much do you want for her?” asked Sacha, rubbing his hand across her cheek. “If I could find a place to keep her, I might take her for myself.”
“You need to work on controlling your own fucking wife,” dismissed Damir. “Just last week, her disrespect to you was unacceptable, and I had to step in. Besides, there are dark places to sell this one, and she knows it. It’s what keeps her legs opening for me.”
The fat Russian laughed. “Knowing that I would share her with you has made my Bertie almost timid. Her lover disappeared quickly once you got involved.”
“It was nothing,” scoffed Damir with a wave of his hand. “My father built this business far beyond what his father and grandfather ever dreamed of, but he never took full advantage of his position. My brother and I understand what to do with power.”
Sacha released his cock from his brown baggy pants and pulled her off the floor by her hair, the unexpected move and subsequent sharp pain causing her to whimper. Rubbing his shaft with his palms, he bent her stomach over the heavy antique table while Damir poured himself another shot of whiskey from the crystal decanter. Damir liked to watch.
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