Page 1 of Bratva's Innocent Obsession
1
KON
My cock is as limp as three-day-old lettuce, despite the amount of skin on show and the eye-watering flexibility of the ballerinas. Not only are waif-like girls absolutely not my thing—I’m old enough to be their dad—the way they leap and do the splits in mid-air makes my knees ache with secondhand sympathy as they land.
The ballet is just an excuse for the dancers to waft sheer, see-through skirts around, while almost naked. I’m pretty sure some of the other mafia guys in the small, exclusive audience are wanking. Subtly, of course, they don’t want to draw the attention of anyone who might cut said appendage off. This show is meant for titillation, but I’m focused on the ballerinas’ faces.
As usual, I’m bored and restless, but it’s not painfully bad, because I have a job to do. Rescue one of the ballerinas, Taylor Love.
I should go on life-endangering mercy-missions more often.
With a flick of my fingers, I summon a waitress. I make a show of undressing her with my eyes while I wonder if I can get some Russian candy—or sweets as they’re known in London—to take home from this trip. I finish my perusal with a dismissivesneer. I have a weakness for the strawberries and cream ones, and they’re difficult to find in London.
It’s probably too difficult to go to a shop, and then I’d have to choose all the types. Tedious. And possibly fatal if the Volkov bratva are after me when I’ve stolen one of their ballerinas.
“Vodka,” I demand in my rudest voice. I wonder if ordering flavoured vodka would get me killed? Almost tempting to try it.
“Sir,” she replies with a demure nod.
An argument breaks out between the man to my left in the audience for this exclusive ballet performance—it’s only a few dozen men in plush black leather armchairs and the dancers are practically within reach of the front row where I am—and a man behind us.
On my other side, Aleksandr, the Pakhan of the Volk Bratva, notices and narrows his eyes. Not the response I would want from my old boss.
It’s been a long time since I was part of the Volk mafia, but while I hardly left on friendly terms, I wasn’t in Russia to see Aleksandr’s rage. Ten years later, arriving yesterday with a smile and a proposition for working together was a risk, but so far, it’s been as stable and safe as a peach balanced on a knife blade.
The fight continues, and I study the dancers. Is the girl I’m here to rescue—Taylor Love—one of them? They all look so similar.
Bang!
The slump of the man next to me registers first, then the sound of the gunshot. The panic and yells behind me I notice afterwards, through a haze.
My heart rate spikes, my muscles constrict, my whole body goes into fight or flight. But I remain still and composed as Aleksandr’s laughter echoes, and he holsters his gun.
The ballet has continued without missing a beat.
They’re professionals. And this isn’t the first time someone in the audience has been shot.
“He was very distracting,” I drawl in Russian, folding my arms and leaning back in my chair as everyone settles down. No one dares criticise Aleksandr’s actions.
“Exactly,” Aleksandr replies.
Fuck. That was close.
But I have a twinge of adrenaline, and I like it. I haven’t felt excited for years, bored to tears by the day-to-day threats and money-making of the Harlesden mafia. I keep my breath even, and my expression utterly contained.
Aleksandr sighs as the music ends.
“This is the tedious bit,” he grumbles in Russian. “Yevgeny, the manager of the ballet, insists on some traditional stuff. Says it’s good for the morale of the dancers, and the audiences feel they’ve had the proper tutu experience.”
“What do you like about the ballet?” I ask dryly as classical music starts and the lights dim.
“It makes me money,” he replies with a harsh laugh.
“Repeat attendees?” I grin.
Aleksandr chuckles. “Trafficking,” he corrects me.
Well, I didn’t expect him to be selling apples and giving artistic merit prizes, but that’s disgusting.
