The Bratva's Captive: A Dark Mafia Romance (Wicked Doms) Read online

  "Hello," I say shyly, dipping my head. "Yes. It's quiet tonight."

  He wears a long-sleeved navy-blue t-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and his large, muscled arms. Just the very tip of a tattoo peaks out from his collar, but I can't see much else. His shoulders and chest taper to a narrow waist, and dark, faded jeans hang low on his hips.

  I'm not used to being in the presence of men like him. He makes the guys I go to school with look like little boys. I swallow hard, looking down at his hands. I imagine what it would be like to feel those large, powerful, confident hands on my body. I shiver.

  Twenty-one years old and still a virgin, I have... issues. Hell, maybe I should consider going to the party with Maiya.

  I suddenly realize he's standing at the counter waiting for me while I'm lost in thought. "Can I help you, sir?"

  I risk a look back up at him. For one brief second, his gaze darkens, but he quickly schools his features. Leaning across the counter with his large forearms supporting him, he says in a low voice, "Do you call all your male customers sir? Or just me?"

  I blink, taken aback by his question. Something hot and thrilling stirs in my chest.

  Sir.

  Master.

  This is no mere boy to spend time with. This is a man who commands respect and obedience. Hell, a crazy, irrational part of my mind feels like he's controlling the very beat of my heart. He raises a brow, like a stern schoolmaster, reminding me that he's asked a question,

  A pulse aches low in my belly. He hasn't even touched me, and our exchange is the most sexual thing I've experienced all semester. Okay, ever.

  "I don't call the boys who come in here 'sir,'" I whisper. There is something about him that made the word come to me without conscious thought. I clear my throat. "Only the men."

  His chocolate-brown eyes, framed with thick black lashes, crinkle a bit around the edges, even as his gaze heats with something dark and possessive. "Good girl," he says approvingly.

  I don't know why. I don't know how. But when he says that... when he calls me good girl, a little thrill of pleasure ripples through my body. I swallow hard, unable to mask how this man both intimidates and intrigues me.

  "Your name?" he asks softly.

  "Olena," I reply. His gaze alights with recognition, a look I should heed, like he's a hunter and I've just stepped into his target zone.

  Extending his hand out for me to shake, he waits. I follow his lead and slide my much-smaller hand in his. But when his large, rough hand touches mine, I look at him in confusion when vivid awareness takes hold.

  I... I know him. I've met him before. This isn't the first time he's touched me.

  I stare at him in bewilderment, trying to place him, but I can't. I am rarely allowed to socialize, so he would have to be a student or professor. He definitely doesn't work for my father, and even if he did that would mean nothing. Only my bodyguards are ever allowed near me, and none are allowed to touch me.

  How do I know him?

  "And your name?" Maybe knowing something else about him will trigger a memory.

  "Maksym," he tells me.

  "Pleased to meet you, sir," I respond, this time on purpose. I'm completely swept away by his gaze, his voice, his powerful presence, and ready grin. If he asked me to go to a party tonight, I would ditch my bodyguards so fast it would make my father's head spin, and I'm fairly certain this guy could talk me out of my panties without even trying.

  "Have we—have we met before?" I stammer curiously.

  He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I would remember meeting a woman as beautiful as you."

  Oh, my. It's a classic pick-up line. He's blatantly flirting with me.

  I like it.

  But even as my body yearns to be touched by him, for our handshake to never end, my mind admonishes me.

  There are reasons my father has guards on me.

  There are reasons my location detector is always on my phone.

  There are reasons I don't go to parties or anywhere near large groups of people. My father would lose his mind if he knew I was talking to any man, let alone this huge, much-older, tattooed man.

  But I haven't talked to a guy in so long. None of the college boys interest me, and it's easier for me not to have any relationships because of my father's overbearing nature. And this man intrigues me.

  He releases my hand too soon, before he resumes leaning across the counter. I glance back over at the table, surprised to find my guard hasn't returned yet. A flicker of trepidation warns me to be careful.

  This isn't right. This isn't normal.

  Something is wrong.

  Or is it? I need sleep. It's almost closing time, and my guards must be right outside the door.

  "May I get you something?" I ask. "We're closing shortly, so our selection is limited, but I'm happy to get you what I can."

  "Are you?" he asks curiously, tipping his head to the side and smiling, but this time, the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

  "O-of course," I stammer, suddenly nervous.

  "Blinchiki, please," he says, ordering the signature crepes we're famous for. I quickly fill his order, but my hands shake.

  "Anything with it?"

  "No, thank you," he says, taking the food from me and handing me some money. "Are you a student here, Olena?"

  I love how he says my name, enunciating each syllable with precision, his deep voice resonant and powerful.

  "I am," I tell him, and without thinking, needing to know something about him, "Are you?"

  He chuckles. "No," he says. "Though I've always wanted to be a professor."

  "Have you, Maksym?" I like saying his name. Welcoming the familiar. The word feels delicious on my tongue.

  "I have," he asks. Folding his blinchiki in his hand, he takes a large bite, chews, and swallows. I stare when his tongue flicks out and captures a crumb. The way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. I want to stare at him and watch every powerful move of his body. I try to stand casually, but how do you stand casually?

  "Would you like one?" he asks, noting the way I stare at his food.

  Wow, so maybe casual isn't something I do well.

  My cheeks heat. "Oh. Oh, no thank you," I say, when I realize I've been staring at him eat. "God, I've eaten so many of these things, I'd be happy if I never see one again for the rest of my life."

  His eyes twinkle at me in mild humor while he finishes his snack, crumples up the paper, then takes a step away to toss the paper in the trash. Is he leaving? My heart beats harder.

  I don't want him to leave.

  Hope flares in my chest when he comes back to me. Once more he leans his huge, strong body on the counter.

  "When are you done for the night, Olena?"

  I glance at the clock. "Five more minutes," I say. "But honestly, I might as well close up for the night now." I've already done our nightly routine of restocking shelves and preparing food for the next day.

  Please don't go, I silently beg him.

  I like his undivided attention.

  "Good," he says. "I'll walk you to your car."

  I glance back at the door, puzzled, now truly concerned my guard hasn't returned.

  Where is he?

  I can't take him up on his offer, because I don't have a car. I have an escort and guards and a ride back to my proverbial tower.

  But I want to stay with him.

  "Thank you," I tell him. While I gather up my books, he speaks easily to me of my classes, what I'm studying, and even seems interested in early childhood education. Soon, I've closed up the café, and when I reach the door, I go to lift my heavy bag, but he reaches over and silently takes my bag from me.

  He's a gentleman, too.

  "I'll carry that for you," he says. "Just tell me where to go?"

  I should protest. I should keep my bag, because my cell phone and wallet are in it, but I think he's just being polite. And I've never had anyone offer to take my bag for me before.

  "I... well, thank you... but I..." I suddenly trip on absolutely nothing and fall head first toward him. My face crashes into his chest. His arms surround me, gathering me up before I fall, and I'm dazed by the earthy scent of musk and leather, the confidence in his hold, and the concern in his eyes. Tipping a finger to my chin, he lifts my gaze, his heavy brows rising questioningly. "Are you alright, Olena?"

  I nod. I'm so embarrassed I don't want to look at him, but he won't let me look away.

  "Good girl," he says. But before I can register his praise... before I can gather my wits about me... he's pulling me closer. Too close. He's holding me tightly. Too tightly. Large, strong fingers wrap around the back of my neck and his mouth is at my ear, his breath hot, his voice a deep register of command.

  "You will not scream. You will not make a move to get away. You will walk with me to the car that waits beside us and take your seat like the good little girl I know you can be. Do you understand me?"

  His fingers on my neck tighten in warning. I close my eyes, my heart hammering in my chest so hard and fast I feel faint.

  Noooo.

  He's not a good man. My instincts were right. He's come to take me.

  "Yes," I say in a strangled whisper.

  Turning me so I can walk to the car, he wraps an arm around me from behind and grasps my elbow firmly, marching me to the car. And that's when I see it. My guard lies on the ground, crimson blood pooling around his head.

  Dead.

  Panic rises in my chest, but I'm too shocked to scream, when I look frantically toward my ride. The driver lies, slumped over in his seat.

  Oh, God.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  He killed them.

  Men cloaked in black already swarm my driver and guard, removing eviden
ce with their gloved hands. They'll dump the bodies and cover up this crime scene. I begin to fight him, my arms flailing helplessly to push him away, even though I already know he's too strong and I'm outnumbered. I open my mouth and try to scream but I can't. With one fluid motion, he pins my arms to my side. One of the cloaked men opens the side door to the car that waits, and Maksym lifts me up in his arms, and slides noiselessly into the car with me on his lap. The door shuts with a thump of finality. I writhe in his grasp, my fight or flight instinct kicking in with full force, when something pricks my neck. I feel a pinch, just before my limbs grow heavy and my vision blurs.

  Help, I think, trying to speak the words out loud, but I'm not sure the words actually come out of my mouth. I'm succumbing to darkness, pulled into an abyss of nothingness.

  Chapter 3

  Maksym

  It doesn't take long for her to surrender to the sedation. She's slight, and a normal dose quickly subdues her. I hold her to my chest while we drive back to our compound, prepared to restrain her if she wakes and flails in protest. She should be sedated for hours, but I want to play it safe. And if I'm honest? I like holding her like this.

  I'm a sick bastard for enjoying the way her beautiful, luscious body feels pressed up to mine. Guilt plagues me. My Taya's body lies cold in a grave not two months old, and I'm already allowing myself to be attracted to my innocent captive.

  Innocent. She's innocent.

  But when I think about the man who orchestrated my woman's death, I no longer see the woman I hold as a bystander, but a victim, a casualty of war.

  My grip tightens on the woman I hold. If she were conscious, she'd whimper in protest, but instead, I mark her with my tightened hold.

  Taya was innocent, too, and she died a violent death. I've watched my brothers fall, Dimitri by his own hand, young Anatoly shot dead, and so many others fallen victim to the violent ways of the Bratva. This is the life we choose. These are the consequences of battle. We're no different than the soldiers who bear arms in battle, ready to lay down our lives for the good of the brotherhood.

  We pull up to the compound. It's near midnight, but I know that my brothers wait for me. They got rid of the bodies of Olena's guards and disposed of the car. Demyan sanctioned what I planned, and the others would support my decision.

  It will not take long for Yuri to suspect someone has taken his daughter, but I want him to sweat it out. I want him tormented with the thought of what her captors will do with her. I want his dreams plagued with visions of her rape and destruction.

  How did The Thieves know who my Taya was? We keep such a close lockdown on our family details. Demyan knew about Taya, and several of my brothers as well, but I trust them with my life. How would The Thieves obtain such information? I wasn't followed. But somehow, they knew that she was mine.

  I open the door of our car, and step out into the cool night air, still holding her body against mine. Such a pretty, fetching little thing she is. Thankfully, she looks nothing like her father with his vapid, watery eyes, crooked nose, and thin, colorless lips. She must have inherited her looks from her mother.

  Long, thick, auburn hair frames her oval-shaped face, in ringlets of tight curls. Her bright hazel-colored eyes are tinged with green, so trusting and innocent. Though she's taller than most girls her age, she's still a good deal shorter than I am. Her clothes are simple and unobtrusive, far more fitting for an American college student than a Russian.

  Our women take pride in their appearance, their trim figures, copious, bold makeup, and stylish clothing. This girl, however, wears faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt, no makeup on her pale face dotted with freckles.

  It doesn't matter, though. She will lose those clothes soon.

  I wonder how innocent she really is. How sheltered.

  Does she know the touch of a man? Is her body still tight with a virgin's secret?

  Possession tightens my chest as I stalk to the compound with grim determination.

  I will find all this out and more.

  It used to anger me when our revenge involved any type of violence inflicted on women. I felt we should have standards. That there were lines we should not cross, and I let my thoughts be known to my brothers. I hated Kazimir for abducting Sadie, and it wasn't until he repented for his actions that I forgave him. But that seems so long ago now.

  That was before my Taya was murdered.

  Before I held her limp and mutilated body in my arms.

  Before I witnessed her casket lowered into the ground.

  Before I promised I would soak the earth with the blood of the people responsible for her death.

  My priorities are different now. There are no lines I will not cross.

  The door to the compound opens, and Demyan stands in a pool of yellow light. His blond hair looks like a halo in the darkness, but I know better. Demyan wears no halo.

  "You found her," he states.

  "Obviously."

  "Sedated her?"

  "You get a college education for that, Dem?"

  The first part of our plan has gone off without a hitch, and I'm feeling almost cheerful.

  "Fuck you," he says good-naturedly, his lips quirking at the corners despite our dismal purpose here tonight. "I've prepared the guest room in the basement by the library," he says. "The set-up will be perfect for any videography you may need."

  But I know he has a further purpose. The basement is a full floor away from his own suite on the first floor, and he knows his Larissa will not be thrilled about Olena's capture and imprisonment. It's the first time since Larissa joined our ranks that we've taken another woman captive.

  Larissa will have to be watched. I don't trust her.

  I thank him with a nod and head inside, taking the small flight of stairs that leads to the basement. When we reach the room he has prepared for me, I observe the surroundings where I'll be holding Olena for however long it takes me to avenge Taya's death. The guest room has one large king-sized bed, flanked on either side by bedside tables, already made up with a thick navy comforter and matching pillows. It's naturally dark in here, but overhead recessed lighting brightens the room. There's a chair and little table against one wall, and to the right, a small bathroom. The cement floor is bare.

  We've used this room for interrogation. Until my capture, I was the head interrogator. I'm familiar with the way this room is built to absorb the sounds of screams and torment.

  "We'll get you what you need in the morning," Demyan says with a frown. "Any idea what tools you'll want?"

  "Restraints tonight," I tell him. "Towels. Toiletries, food, and water. Medication from Rothsky. Anything else I'll get on my own."

  Demyan frowns at the woman in my arms, his brow furrowing in concern. I look down and realize something strange is happening to Olena. She's no longer quiet in her sedation. Her head falls back, and she moans, perspiration dotting her forehead and spittle forming in the corner of her mouth. I look at her curiously, frowning.

  "What'd you give her?"

  "Simple barbiturate."

  "Hate to complicate shit, man, but she's reacting."

  "Fuck. Get Rothsky."

  He's right. She isn't sleeping and sedated as she ought to be. She's whimpering and sweating, writhing as if in pain, when a full-body convulsion takes over.

  Fuck.

  I lay her on the bed and pin her wrists so she doesn't hurt herself.

  "What the fuck?" I mutter. It takes mere minutes for Doctor Rothsky, our resident doctor and confidante, to arrive, still in pale blue pajamas. He's a tall, clean-shaven young man with wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a grim expression on his face.

  "You sedated her, and she reacted?" he summarizes. I nod. "Who is she?"

  I give him a pointed glare, and he shakes his head. "Forget I asked. Type of injection?"

  I go through all the details, while he takes her pulse and listens to her heartbeat, then checks her breathing.

  If she dies... so soon, before I've had a chance to even enact my plan... this all would be in vain, and I'd have the death of another innocent on my hands.

  I push the thought out of my mind the second it comes to me, reminding myself of why I'm here and why I'm doing this at all.