Page 8 of Forced By the Bratva Beast

“Yes,” I reply in a matter-of-fact tone. “I lost my father. He was murdered in front of me when I was a kid in Russia.”

“What, holy shit! How? What?” Her shock endears her to me, even though she’s suffered herself, it appears she would much like to hear about my suffering.

“Chance opportunity for scumbags in the neighborhood. We didn’t live in best places when I was young,” I explain, covering up parts with a white lie. My father was Bratva, and stupidly he crossed the wrong people without covering his ass. He was not as smart as me, but this information is on a need-to-know basis. Oddly, I think if she pressed me more, I would probably confide in her.

“Oh. That’s terrible. It’s the memories and flashbacks, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.” Her eyes flitter with a sudden sadness that I want to take away. The pain never truly leaves. It might become duller with less shine, but it never subsides completely. I learned for a little while from my father, but after that, my brother Pakhan showed me the Bratva ropes, but that fatherly advice is something I miss to this day.

“Every day I wish they would come back to earth, but they’re not going to, so hey, what can I do?” She shrugs as I move in closer to her, instantly wanting to comfort her.

“Did they find the man who killed them?”

“No. He got off due to a technicality. The justice system failed my parents; it’s probably the reason I’m so hell-bent on becoming a lawyer. The guy was part of some fucked-up gang and get this—they were from Chicago.” I can see in her eyes that she reliving the memory on the spot.

“They were?” If she knew the service I provide, I could probably find them and kill them myself. “Do you know who?”

“Saints of Destruction. Some stupid name like that. They were smuggling narcotics across the border.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard of them.” And that’s the truth, I haven’t, but it’s likely one of our Bratva networks would know about them. I commit the name to memory, knowing that later I’ll find out who they are. If they’re Chicago street thugs, it will take no time to find them. What I will do to them when I find them, is another story.

“You wouldn’t have heard of them, because they’re criminals and you’re not,” she replies, ferocity in her tone as the pain of the past resurfaces.

I only nod, wanting to smile, because if the truth were revealed I wouldn’t have the privilege of being inside her home. “If I was around then, I would have made sure they never did that again,” I explain, stroking a wandering hand through her ginger hair.

Sheepishly, she gulps down her orange juice, taking her time to look up. “Thank you. It’s okay. I’ve learned to cope with their death. Do you want to sit down?”

“Sure. Your couch looks comfy and big.” I wink, wanting her to feel comfortable. Finishing the rest of my juice, I set it down on the table next to the couch, smirking internally as I think about what I really want to say to her. If I knew who her parents’ killers were, I would have hunted them down and gutted them like fish. I still might….

Her body turns inward as she sets her juice down as well. Her emerald eyes link with mine.

“Did you ever find out who your father’s killer was?” she asks inquisitively.

“Yes.” Smiling, I recall the pleasure of meeting Slovac years later alongside my brother, shooting him execution style in a robbery deal gone right for us. “He was caught and dealt with, but this probably isn’t the best nighttime conversation to be having,” I add, shifting the topic and then her ginger hair from her shoulder.

She chuckles. “Sorry for being dark about things.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper lightly. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. We’ve got something in common and have lost the people we love the most. You’re a strong one.” I rub my thumb over her hand briefly as she smiles. “It’s just you’re so beautiful that I don’t want to waste the time I have with you.”

“Hmm. That’s nice,” she replies deliberately, sizing me up. “What is it you do for work?”

“Distribution. Warehouse shipments are complicated. That type of thing,” I reply, lowering my voice, her neck begging for my mouth. I kiss her there softly, her long lashes fluttering before her eyes shut. As I draw back, I watch, not wanting to take it further than she wants. I like this one. She has special qualities, and she’s strong. A survivor like me.

“Okay. Distribution… sounds….”

“Uninteresting?” I jump in as she giggles, and I break into a smile with her.

“No, I wasn’t going to say that. Maybe it is interesting. You haven’t told me everything,” she persists, my expression darkening and lust driving me.

“Not as interesting as you, especially in that little black dress of yours,” I flirt, her cheeks blushing. I drop a hand back over the couch as she stills, her leg touching mine.

Surprisingly, she leans forward, her full, provocative mouth parting as my hand glides to the nape of her neck firmly drawing her in deeper. I feel her body melt as my tongue flattens against hers, my cock rising from its slumber. The kiss deepens as her hand splays over my chest, a whimper escaping her irresistible lips. Lost in the moment, I pull her forward, her back arching, but I quickly apply restraint, panting as her eyes fly open.

She’s beautiful, and it’s not as if I don’t want her. No. This is the perfect end to my night. I want every part of her. “Why did you stop?”

“Because, Sophia,” I reply gruffly, blood rushing through my veins.

“Because what?” Her hands tinker around with the buttons on my shirt for a fraction of a second.

---