“There’s that look on your face again. I hope I don’t have to whip you again,” I say to her.
“Yes, I can’t imagine how unpleasant it must have been for you. Sir.” There’s a bite to her tone now, a defiant flash to her eyes.
Good. She doesn’t know it, but she’s behaving exactly as I’d hoped.
“That smart mouth of yours will get you in trouble.”
She meets my gaze with bleak despair. “No, what got me in trouble was having enough self-respect to reject your stepbrother. And loving you. I still love you, you know, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll do what needs to be done, just like you do. I’d kill you if I had the chance. Sir. But for now I’ll settle for this bitch.”
And before I can react, she snatches up a tray from the table next to the salon chair, and smashes the hairstylist in the face with it. I have underestimated her; I didn’t know she could move that fast. The woman staggers back, screaming, blood streaming from her nose. Anya snatches up a small pair of scissors, and tries to stab Marya in the eye. Marya just barely manages to turn her head in time, and instead, Anya stabs her in the forehead.
I lung and restrain Anya, wrapping my arms around her in a bear hug and squeezing hard enough that she wheezes and struggles for breath. Aleksandr crosses the room in a flash, and grabs Marya by the arm, hauling her towards the door.
I hadn’t given Anya enough credit. She’s kept the extent of her self-defense training hidden up until now. What else is she capable of?
Aleksandr marches the hairdresser out of the room. “Go home,” I hear him tell her. “You will be compensated.”
“She broke my fucking nose!” the woman wails. “She cut my face! I’m scarred for life!”
“You said you could defend yourself. You lied. Not our fault.” And he slams the door, and looks at me for instructions.
"Go get Raisa," I order him. “Meet me in Anya’s room.”
"What? Why?" Anya cries out. “She has nothing to do with this!”
"You know why."
“You can’t punish her! She didn’t do anything!” Anya wails. I ignore her, grabbing a handful of her hair. I drag her through the house and back to her room. She fights me the whole way, clawing at my arms. I chain her ankle to the floor, and step back out of her reach.
Aleksandr returns, carrying Raisa over his shoulder. She hangs there limply, not fighting. She’s nowhere near as defiant as Anya. She’s wearing only panties. Aleksandr dumps her on the floor, and then fastens her wrists to the chain that hangs from the ceiling.
Her long blond hair hangs over her face. Her ribs are showing; she’s lost weight.
“Kostya, no! Punish me, not her!” Anya screams.
Raisa’s head snaps up, and shock floods her face as she sees her friend chained to the bed.
“This is how I punish you from now on,” I say coldly. “Every time you fuck up, Raisa will get it.”
“Anya?” Raisa whimpers. “What are you doing here?”
I fetch a single-tail whip from the wall cabinet. "She didn't do anything! Don't hurt her!" Anya howls.
I ignore her, and draw my arm back. I slash at Rosa, again and again. I whip her back, and front, until she screams, until she cries. Anya begs me the whole time, shrieking at me, saying she is sorry, so sorry, she will do anything I want. Finally I unchain Raisa, who slumps to the floor.
Then I unchain Anya. “Tell her why she’s here,” I say cruelly, knowing it will break her. “Right now. Tell her whose fault it is”
Anya runs over to Raisa, and gathers her up in her arms. She strokes her hair and murmurs into her ear. Raisa heaves with sobs as Anya whispers to her, trying to comfort her.
I stalk over and nudge Anya with my shoe. “You’re the reason she was kidnapped. You’re the reason she’ll be sold. And today, you’re the reason I had to mark up her pretty skin. When will you ever stop hurting her, Anya?”
"You bastard!" Anya sobs. “I fucking hate you.”
In response, I lean down and brutally pinch Raisa's nipple, making her scream.
"What did you say?" I demand.
"I'm sorry, sir." Anya chokes on the word.
"That's what I thought." I order Alexsandr to take Raisa back to her room, and he slings her over his shoulder again.
“Now. Let’s try that photo session again, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir!” She chokes on a sob as I grab her wrist and pull her to her feet.
Anya behaves perfectly for the photo session. I make her wash the tears from her face and do her own makeup and hair. I take the pictures myself. Her whip marks still show. In a week I’ll take more pictures, once they’ve faded.
Anya’s desperately eager to please for the rest of the day. All the fight’s gone from her. I don’t see a hint of resistance any more. Why doesn’t that make me happier?
After dinner, I head to the bar. I pick up a bottle of vodka, and stare at it, long and hard. It’s calling to me. I should drink all of it. I should drink until there’s more alcohol than blood in my veins. Until the world disappears.
I hurl the bottle across the room at the wall, and it shatters into sharp, vicious shards. Then I grab another bottle, open it, and pour myself a drink.
Chapter Eleven
Kostya
Over the next couple of days, in between my training sessions with Anya, I put together a crew composed of the men that Mikhail had identified as fuckups. I did my own investigating, of course, and confirmed what he’d told me. These men are incompetent. They’re the weak links. They needed to be dealt with anyway; might as well make their deaths useful.
Diego, following the plan that I suggested to Claudio, pulls together his own crew of disposables.
Then, I have an informant leak information to the Chechens. The informant has been agitating them for the last few days, telling them that the Russians have been insulting their manhood, and mocking their leaders. Finally, he tells them that we will be delivering a shipment of guns to a small warehouse outside the city limits, and the buyers will have bags of cash.
The gun sale goes exactly as planned. Diego and I each send in our crews of cannon fodder. I obey my stepfather’s orders and only send 80 guns where there should have been 100, but before it can cause a problem, the Chechens burst in, guns blazing. They mow down both Diego’s men and mine, and take off with the guns and money.
My stepfather is incandescent with rage. For the time being, he forgets his vendetta against Joe Esposito, and the two are united against a common enemy. This was exactly what Diego and I were hoping for. The Chechens are not powerful here, and if we must go to war, they’re who I’d prefer to fight.
Now, an emergency meeting is being held at a restaurant in Wicker Park. The restaurant is owned by a businessman who launders money for both of our organizations; it’s considered neutral ground.
I leave Aleksandr and a few more guys at home guarding the girls, and bring Mikhail, and a street soldier named Leonid, with me. Leonid’s a good man. He lives in the small outbuilding on my property, where I always house a dozen or so men so they can patrol the grounds at all times. He’s another man that I brought into the Bratva personally; I find that those men are specifically loyal to me, which could be a life saver if things ever get really bad with my stepfather.
We’re patted down before we’re allowed to enter the private meeting room. We all have to walk through a scanner and hand over our weapons and cell phones.
Joe Esposito, and Tiberio, are already there. They’re both in their late sixties, gone soft from too many years of decadent living, and from letting their underlings do all the heavy lifting for them. They sit there, squat, puffy toads in suits. Joe nods at me as I sit at the table, and Leonid and Mikhail stand against the wall with Carmelo, Rocco, and the Italian’s bodyguards.
Ever since this whole feud between Joe and my stepfather started, I’ve had my people invest
igating him. I’m looking for weak points, some way to take him down. He screws a lot of underage whores, cheating on his wife, who’s dying of cancer, but that’s not something that would turn the other members of the council against him.
So I started digging deeper. I’ve run up against a black hole of information when it comes to his family back home, which is unusual, because most of the men on the council take great pride in their bloodlines.
Granted, his immediate family was murdered long ago. When he was in his teens, fifty years ago, there was a war between his family and a rival mafia clan, in Sicily. He was sent to America – under murky circumstances. Some people said it was to protect him. Others said his family sent him to America in disgrace, but it was so long ago that nobody remembers why. Or maybe they’re afraid to say.
While he was in Chicago, his immediate family was wiped out, and he flew home to Sicily to take his revenge. He swiftly and methodically murdered every single adult member of the clan that killed his own family, and then left the country, saying that he couldn’t bear to live with so many bitter memories.
He’s never gone back to Sicily since, not even to visit distant relatives. It’s unusual enough that I’m sending a couple of my best men over to make quiet, discreet inquiries.
I vow that I’ll get to the bottom of this; it might be something that I could use against him. But I give him my most pleasant smile as I settle in to my seat.
My stepfather is patched in via video feed, watching us from a screen on the wall.
The hellos are brief and curt.
“We must respond to this, and with great force,” my stepfather says, his face flushed with anger.
“I agree. However, the police are all over this. Someone called in about the shots fired at the warehouse, and they arrived before we could get cleanup crews out there,” Tiberio says sourly.
I suspect that Diego was responsible for that. He has a lot of men inside the police department. It helps us to have the police looking into this, hovering over us, watching our every move. It means that there’s absolutely no way we can declare all out war on anybody. Not on each other, not even the Chechens. If there’s one thing that the Council and the Elders won’t allow, it’s an escalating war that would result in the possible death of civilians. That’s the kind of thing that makes the news, and is swiftly followed by legal crackdowns.
“I have an inside man who can get to the Chechens,” I say. He’s the same inside man who tipped them off about the gun sale, but nobody besides Aleksandr and me knows that. “I am hearing that Khasan is responsible for killing our men. Khasan trusts my man, he’ll be able to get close enough to take him out, and in a way that delivers a message. It will cost us. After it’s done, I’ll have to spring for new identity papers for my man, and pay him a good chunk of change so he can leave the country.”
“I will authorize it,” my stepfather says. “Get it done as soon as possible.”
“This is in my territory. Any acts of retribution must be authorized by me,” Joe interrupts, and Tiberio immediately nods in agreement. His faithful puppet. My stepfather’s face instantly turns beet red, and he sucks in a breath, ready to bellow his fury. And just like that, we’re on the verge of war again.
“How can we indicate that the Italians were involved too?” I ask quickly, before my stepfather can start blustering. “Because the Chechens need to get the message that they can’t fuck with either of us. As you know, I generally favor beheading, for the shock value. If he is beheaded, it will be known that I gave the orders. What if we also stick a cannoli in Khasan’s mouth, and leave his head on the dining room table? That shows them it was a joint venture.”
“A cannoli.” Joe Esposito smirks. “I like it. Surround the head with a ring of profiteroles, and you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll pay half the kill fee.”
My stepfather bobs his head aggressively. “Damn right. We’ll leave a real nice arrangement for them,” he says, like it was all his idea. And for now, the tension is defused.
But Diego’s brow is furrowed and a line of tension juts out his jaw, and I know what he’s thinking. We can’t hold them off much longer. Whatever it takes, we have to find a way to deal with these men.
“I can have it done by tomorrow night,” I assure my stepfather.
My men and I leave a short time later, and I rush back home. My need to see Anya, to be with her, is all-consuming. And that is a problem that’s even more worrying than the pissing match between my stepfather and Joe Esposito.
Chapter Twelve
Anya
I’m not wearing a blindfold today. As always, I try to take in as much detail around me as I can without being obvious. So far all I’ve picked up on is that the house is decorated in a really ugly, generic, chain store style, and nobody is leaving any sharp objects where I can snatch them up. Also, many of the doors in this house only open and shut using a handprint scanner, so escape would be just about impossible.
There’s sunlight leaking through the window shutters in the living room, and I ate breakfast a couple of hours ago. There are no clocks anywhere, so I can only guess at the time, which I think is mid-morning.
I stand quietly, hands folded in front of me, staring at the floor. Kostya’s left the room, but I don’t fool myself into thinking that I have been left unsupervised. I’m sure someone’s watching me on a hidden camera.
I’m wearing only a t-shirt and panties, and I shiver in the air-conditioned chill.
I’ve spent the last few days scrambling to do everything that’s asked of me. I am using every lesson that I ever learned in theater class back in college. I immerse myself completely in the part. I am no longer Anya Lebedev, the girl who is running for her life. I am Anya Lebedev, Kostya’s eager servant.
My tone has been respectful, my gaze submissive. My thoughts are still dark and hateful. I am just praying for an opportunity to escape. The longer I obey him, though, the more chance there is that he’ll lower his guard.
I’m so tired and sore, though, that I fear that when the chance presents itself, I won’t have the strength. Kostya is a master at his job, and he knows how to break a girl down. Every day, he works me until I’m ready to drop, until my brain is fuzzed with exhaustion and my muscles are screaming in agony.
He orders me to kneel and stand up and kneel again until my legs tremble. He makes me run in place for hours, leaving me gasping, dizzy, spots flashing in front of my eyes. He dresses me in slutty dresses and high heels, blasts music from speakers mounted on the walls, and orders me to dance in front of his men until my feet throb in pain and tears run down my cheeks.
My only relief is when he brings me into his bedroom. He uses sex toys on me, probing every orifice. He forces me to orgasm again and again, until I’m too limp and exhausted to lift a finger. He makes me take him in his mouth and service him, and I do so eagerly, swallowing every drop.
Because the truth is, I love it. When I’m in bed with him, I can lose myself to a world of intense physical pleasure. I surrender to him completely, and pretend that he’s my lover, not my captor. Whether he’s spanking me or snapping clamps on my nipples or caressing my pussy with his tongue, I welcome every new sensation. He has a magical way of turning pain into pleasure. If I weren’t Kostya’s prisoner, I could spend the rest of my life in bed with this man and never want to leave.
When I’m not in his bedroom, though, he seems to devote all of his time to making sure that I’m tired, sore, and frightened. And it’s not just during the daytime. I can’t even get respite in sleep. He sends his men in to my bedroom throughout the night, and they scream orders at me. They make me jog up and down the hall, carrying heavy weights, or move furniture around the living room, or take books down from a bookshelf and then replace them all exactly as they were.
I’m so worn out most of the time that I barely have any fight left. That’s exactly what he’s going for. He wants to drain me of my physical and mental strength so he can remold me without resistance
.
“Anya.” Kostya’s entered the room. His gravelly voice slices through my mental haze.
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow me.”
He leads me to the center of the room, and makes me stand in between a decorative column and a potted plant. He takes a thread that was looped around the stalk of the potted plant, and ties it to my left wrist, so I have to hold my arm out to my side. He takes another thread that was tied to the column, and attaches it to my right wrist, pulling that arm straight out as well.
He stands back and looks at me. “Stay like that,” he says, and walks away.
My heart sinks. Every day, he makes my tasks harder. “Yes, sir,” I call out after him.
The first fifteen minutes aren’t too bad. After twenty minutes, my arms hurt. Half an hour, and my muscles are screaming. By the end of an hour, I’m crying, gulping out loud sobs as his men walk by me, casting amused glances in my direction.
I can’t fail. He’ll punish Raisa again.
I picture her, drawing strength from the memory of her smiling face.
I can’t do this much longer.
No, no, I can’t let him whip her again.
My arms hurt so much. My arms are on fire. I can’t, I can’t...
My left arm spasms, and drops down to my side. The thread snaps.
I cry out in panic, jerking, and the right thread snaps.
“No!” I scream aloud. I shake my arms out madly, and then stick them back out to the side again. I march in place, I cry, I bargain with whatever God might be watching over me, begging for strength to hold my arms up.
And Kostya walks in, with a benevolent smile.
He circles me slowly, and then nods. “You may put your arms down by your side.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” I sob. I drop my arms.
“Go down on your knees.”
I sink to my knees, so tired and emotionally wrung out that I could fall asleep right there, on the hard marble floor, if only he’d let me. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” And I’m disgusted to realize that I mean it. I’m grateful to him for ending my torment – at least for now.
Kostya A Dark Bratva Hate Story Page 9