Page 78 of Merciless Desires

Those were my orders from the pakhan himself—orders I fully intended to follow until I laid eyes on her a little over a week ago…

The sharp slap of fists against flesh and bone echoes through the empty warehouse, punctuated by grunts of pain. I observe dispassionately as two of my soldiers pummel a man tied to a chair, his face swelling beneath their blows.

Blood drips from their knuckles as I lean against a concrete pillar, arms folded. "Have you reconsidered being more forthcoming?" I ask calmly when they pause. "We can make this quick, or drag it out. The choice is yours."

The man spits out a bloody tooth before glaring up at me. "Go to hell!"

I shrug, keeping my tone polite. "Suit yourself."

At my signal, my guys resume their brutal rhythm. The man's bravado quickly dissolves into choked pleas for mercy. Amateur. He'll break soon—they all do under enough pressure. And I apply pressure extremely well.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. Few have this number—my pakhan, Boris Kozlov, is one. I step into the shadowed hallway to answer.

"Boss?"

"We have a situation requiring your attention." Boris's gravelly voice instantly sets me on edge.

I listen silently as he outlines the problem—an eyewitness to a Bratva hit. My jaw tightens. Sloppy, leaving a witness who can connect our brotherhood to one of the corpses probably now lying at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

"I'll handle it," I assure the pakhan. As the Bratva enforcer, it’s my job.

"See that you do." The line goes dead. Boris never wastes words. I consider the task at hand, calculating logistics. My men will track the witness's identity based on the info Boris transmits over a secure line. Once a name and location surfaces, eliminating said witness will be simple.

I tuck away the phone and adjust my jacket before striding back into the makeshift interrogation room. One sharp twist later, and the whimpering man slumps forward in the chair, a loose end tied off.

"Clean this up," I order my men as I head for the door.

For once, as I climb into my sleek Porche 911, I feel a weariness settle over me. At just shy of my fortieth birthday, I'm not as quick to enjoy violence anymore, even when necessary. I’m not sure why. Perhaps the years have exacted their toll.

I don’t love killing civilians—those whose only crime is being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I brush the troublesome sentiment aside, turning the key in the ignition.

I took an oath. The Bratva comes first.

Sentiment gets you killed in my world. I learned that lesson as a boy in the streets of Moscow, and later at my father's side when he inducted me into the brotherhood.

Streetlights wash over the sleek car's dashboard as I pull up to the iron gates leading to my estate. They open smoothly and I speed down the tree-lined drive.

Kill the witness, toss her body in the lake, and wipe my hands clean. That's all this requires. Simple.

Simple. Or so I thought at the time. It should have been simple. Track the girl down, get her to a secluded location, and eliminate the threat. Clean, clinical, detached. Instead, I allowed this waif of a girl—a diner waitress—to get under my skin. I barely recognize myself anymore. Since when do I hesitate before a kill?

I step out onto the back porch, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. The nicotine rushes through my veins, easing my nerves. Out here, surrounded by the silent forest, my mind begins to clear. Emotions, especially tender ones, are liabilities in my world. If you let them cloud your judgment, you won't last long. My father forged me into a hardened instrument of the Bratva, one with no compassion and no misgivings. Emotions are for the weak, and the only devotion a made man can afford is to the brotherhood.

For some reason, Natalia unsettles me in a way I don't understand.

I scrub my forehead in frustration. This is foolishness. She is my captive, my plaything to use however I wish. She is merely a diversion to pass the time until I finish her.

But even as I think these things, I know it's a lie. From the first moment I saw her in that cheap diner, humming under her breath as she poured coffee, a hint of a smile on her pretty lips, I knew she was different. There is something about her that calls to a place deep within me, a place I didn’t know existed.

I flick my cigarette butt onto the driveway and mutter a sharp curse, before going inside to pour myself a drink from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. The vodka burns going down, but it does nothing to quiet my thoughts. I sink into the leather armchair in the corner, resting my head in my hands.

What am I going to do with her? I am bound by my code of honor to eliminate any witness to our activities—no exceptions. But the thought of ending this girl's life now…I don’t like it.

I take another long swallow of vodka, letting the alcohol warm my blood. I’ll play with her, get my fill of her, and when I grow bored of her, as I do with all women, her time will come to an end. At least that way her last days might contain a few shreds of pleasure.

The thought sends an unexpected jolt of heat through my veins. I close my eyes, picturing her bound naked on the bed before me, golden hair spilling across the pillows, long limbs stretched taut against the restraints. I imagine the sounds she’ll make as I inflict exquisite pain and pleasure upon that luscious body, her cries mixing with moans of ecstasy. My breath grows ragged as desire rises within me, hard and urgent.

Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll take my fill of her thoroughly and completely. I'll dominate and possess every inch of her, satisfy my dark desires, and indulge in every depraved act that enters my twisted mind.

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