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Synopsis
USA
Today bestselling author Jane Henry delves deep into the Russian underworld,
with a high-stakes, heart-rending story of betrayal, atonement, and a hard-won
happily-ever-after.
He'll
make me call him daddy.
Demand
my obedience.
Drive
me to my knees.
I've
been in love with Stefan Morozov for as long as I can remember.
He's
fearless. Powerful. A vicious leader of the Bratva underworld.
And
he barely notices my existence.
That
is, until the day I see something I shouldn't.
The
day the man I love makes me his prisoner.
The
day my love turns to hate...
Please
note: This dark romance features kinky, sexual scenes, including a Daddy Dom,
non-consent, and strong elements of violence. If such material offends you,
please do not read.
Chapter for Reveal
Stefan
It’s
been too long since we’ve encountered conflict. Too long since we’ve had a
skirmish or a battle. We’ve had nothing but peace, and though I appreciate
these moments of quiet, I know Bratva life well. I don’t trust the quiet.
I
walk the grounds of our compound observing everything. Everyone. Who’s home for
the night, who isn’t, if anything’s out of place. As pakhan, I’m father to all
and ever vigilant. Trusting no one, I’m always alert for the hint of anything
that might put my men, my brothers, my son in danger.
Something’s
wrong. Like the quiet before a storm, the still air tonight holds the promise
of uncertainty.
Amaliya
called me a pessimist. She said I saw a threat in the very moving of the clouds
in the sky. But Amaliya is now dead. I’m arguably more guarded than before she
was killed.
There
are rhythms and cadences, what others might call ups and downs, in Bratva life.
It’s not so much highs and lows, but silences. Any musician will tell you that
the quiet places in a composition often have the greatest impact.
So
when we hit the lulls, the quiet moments, I’m more alert than ever. I hardly
sleep.
For
well over thirty years I’ve been Bratva. I was inducted as a full-fledged
member before I graduated high school. We don’t induct teenagers into Bratva
life anymore, now demanding fluency in Russian, signature ink, and jail time
sentences served before we even consider new membership. We’ve upped the
stakes. I’m glad we have. Teenaged boys need to earn their spurs before they
dedicate themselves to the Bratva.
I’d
killed a man before I’d even lost my virginity. And I swore to fucking God that
wouldn’t be my son, and it wouldn’t be the boys I brought into Bratva life. And
I’ve kept my word. Though I still recruit and welcome younger men into our
brotherhood, I demand a high school diploma and life experience before I’ll
even consider a new applicant.
Christ.
I’m getting too old for this shit. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m
barely over fifty, having had Nicolai in my early twenties, but being Bratva
since adolescence ages a man.
I
sigh, scrub a hand across my brow, and make a mental note to have the
landscaping team trim back the bushes by the main entrance. They obscure my
vision.
I
can’t shake this feeling I have. My instincts say shit’s about to go down, and
soon. I think of calling Nicolai to check on him but stop myself when I swipe
the phone on. He’s a full-grown adult with a child and a pregnant wife, and I
don’t need to be waking him to check ghosts. Soon enough, he’ll be giving me
hell about getting old and senile. I don’t need to start now.
So
tonight, I make more than one round of our compound. I check every lock, every
window. I sweep the beam of my flashlight in every corner of our interrogation
room, though we haven’t used it in months. I swear that when I turn away from
the ominous darkness, the screams of the men that we’ve interrogated echo
behind me.
We
should move this room. It’s not hidden well enough.
I
even walk back to my office and scan security footage. I see nothing, and
almost get up to leave, when a shadow crosses my vision. Someone’s awake,
moving. I turn back to the screen. It’s one from my private home.
I
squint at the image. It’s a shadow of a woman. I look more closely and breathe
out a sigh of relief.
It’s
only Taara. Of course.
When
Taara’s mother could no longer fill the task as housekeeper and personal
assistant, I hired Taara. I like keeping non-Bratva employees within the same
family when possible, and Taara is the most attentive assistant one could have.
My
worries forgotten momentarily, I sit back in my chair and watch her. It soothes
me, and for a moment, I forget my troubles. She’s in the kitchen, wiping down
the counters, but she must have some type of music playing in the background,
for the girl is dancing like no-one’s watching. She knows I have cameras
trained on every inch of our property, but I think she either forgets sometimes
or no longer cares.
I
watch in rapt fascination as she sways her hips and skips to a beat I can’t
hear. And hell, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Born
a Russian refugee, Afghani blood runs in her veins. With her exotic dark skin
and thick, straight black hair she reminds me of a foreign princess. It’s easy
enough to imagine her swathed in magenta, her head covered in a traditional
chador.
If
she were mine, I’d dress her in a burka. I’d cover every inch of her stunning
beauty.
My
phone rings, shaking me out of my reverie. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong
with me, letting my mind wander like that. Taara is young enough to be my daughter,
and she’s my employee. I heave a sigh.
It’s
been way too long since I’ve had a woman warm my bed. I’ll have to do something
about that before I make a decision I fucking regret.
I
glance at the image of Taara one more time as I answer my phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s
me.”
Nicolai.
He never calls me this late. He should be at home with his expectant wife. I
scowl at the screen.
“Nicolai.”
My gut instinct tells me this is the call that brings the cadence of Bratva
life back into full swing. “What is it?”
“Tonight,
Marissa went shopping with Laina. The plan was for them to stay at a local
hotel, as we’re several hours away from home.”
I
wait for the other shoe to drop.
“They
were attacked in the parking lot.”
“Jesus.”
I’m on my feet, willing myself to be patient, to hear the rest of the story
before I act. “Are they alright?”
“Yes.
They had three men on them, and what their assailant didn’t realize was that I
was one of them.”
Of
course. He’s training one of our youngest new recruits. I wait to hear more
details.
“I
insisted we take the man back to our compound. I’ve got him in the car with me
now, and I’ll take him to the interrogation room, but I don’t need a fucking
interrogation room for me to tell you who he is.”
His
voice is hard, the tone he gets before he’s about to make a ruthless,
irrevocable decision. I hear a muffled voice in the background, a hard thump,
then silence.
“You
know who he is then.”
I
watch Taara spin and swirl on the screen in front of me in rhythmic circles. So
pretty. So innocent. In such contrast to the violent world outside her door.
“I
do. He’s one of the fucking traitors that worked with Myron.”
“Christ.”
Myron, Marissa’s father, would have been Nicolai’s father-in-law. Several years
back, he sold his daughter into slavery to pay off a debt. Nicolai
systematically tracked down every fucking traitor who worked with Myron and
eliminated them so none would pose a possible threat to his wife. Or so he
thought.
“I
was under the impression you got all of them.”
“So
did I. I wouldn’t have settled until I did. But he’s said enough that it’s
obvious. He’s said way too much.”
“Are
Marissa and Laina taken care of?”
“Yeah.
I secured Marissa and Laina. Now I’m heading home with this motherfucker.”
Home.
That’s here.
I
swallow hard. I don’t want another man’s blood on my son’s hand. Not again.
“I’ll be waiting. I’ll deal with him for you.”
Taara
puts the broom away, then comes back to the kitchen with a rag, wiping down the
counters and appliances. I didn’t know she did this at night, but it makes
sense. She keeps my home impeccable.
I
don’t like having this conversation with Nicolai while Taara is right there.
Though she can’t hear me, and isn’t privy to our conversation, it feels wrong.
I want to keep her safe, and well insulated against any threat that could harm
her.
“No.
I know why you’re offering, but I can’t allow it. If I’m to take over as
pakhan, you need to allow me to do this.” He takes in a deep breath, and I feel
a sense of pride rise in me at my son’s words, despite my desire to keep his
hands clean of this. “And anyway, this is my battle to fight.”
When
the time comes, he’ll be ready to assume the role of pakhan.
I
nod even though he can’t see me. “Where are you?”
“On
the road, and I’ll be home in a few hours, but once I arrive, I’d like you to
give me time with him before you join me.”
I
automatically nod again. He wants to be sure no one else is implicated before
he kills him.
Neither
of us will sleep tonight.
“Let
me know.”
I
hang up the phone, staring unseeingly at the dancing girl on the monitor. I
don’t want her to suspect anything’s awry. I’ll go back to my home and spend
the next hour doing what I normally do, my evening ritual. I’ll let her think
I’ve gone to bed.
Then
I’ll join my son and witness the execution.
About the author
Jane Henry
USA
Today bestselling author Jane Henry pens stern but loving alpha heroes, feisty
heroines, and emotion-driven happily-ever-afters. She writes what she loves to
read: kink with a tender touch. Jane is a hopeless romantic who lives on the
East Coast with a houseful of children and her very own Prince Charming.
Connect
with Jane at http://janehenryromance.com
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