Scarred Souls: Raze & Reap Page 5

  He became this aggressive whenever we’d been apart, even if it was only for several hours, but on this day, I had to lie back and take whatever punishment he deemed fit.

  Alik’s teeth again bit on my nipple. Then he wrenched his mouth away. “I go insane when you’re not near me, when I’m not all you’re thinking of. I go insane wondering what you’re doing, which fucker is watching you, picturing your pussy, him fucking this sweet cunt.”

  Alik rammed his fingers into my channel, causing me to throw my head back and release a long strangled moan. His hard cock was suddenly free from his shorts. Taking my wrists, he pushed me flat on the table and slammed inside me with a guttural groan. He began pounding into me, teeth bared in pleasure, eyes burning with aggression.

  Lifting his left hand while strumming my clit with his other, he grabbed my face and hovered above me. “You didn’t call me last night, Myshka. You fucked up. Did some fucker look at you last night? Did you talk to anyone? I couldn’t stop thinking about you out on the streets last night, men getting hard for what’s mine. You forgetting you got a man at home, a man that owns every fit piece of this body?”

  My heart flipped as I pictured the man who had defended me. The large homeless man clutching a jar, the man I had dreamed about last night, the one I couldn’t get out of my head. The man I’d fallen asleep thinking of … forgetting to call Alik in the process—a grave mistake on my part.

  Alik’s gaze hardened and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He could sense my lie. He knew, but no, how could he know? I had to reassure him, to assuage his concerns. Had to make him think it was all about him. Just him and me … no Luka and definitely no hooded rescuer.

  “No, baby,” I whispered, my eyes rolling back as pressure from my approaching orgasm built between my legs. “Only you. Only ever you. I belong to you. You’ll have me forever soon.” My voice was frantic as I begged, strived to think of anything that would calm his jealous rage.

  A crazed but satisfied hiss slipped through his lips, his thrusts picking up speed. “I own you, Kisa. There’ll never be anyone else for you but me. I fucking own these tits.” He squeezed on the plump flesh, ripping a cry from my throat. “I own this ass.” He continued as he slipped his hand under my ass and pushed his finger inside. I gripped his shoulders and dug my fingernails in deep at the unwanted sensation. Alik suddenly stilled and squeezed his hand tighter on my cheeks until the pain made tears well from my eyes. “And this cunt, this tight, wet cunt … Who owns it, Myshka? Who. Owns. It?”

  I stilled, all actions suspended by this threat-laden question. Alik’s dick lay in wait at my entrance. His fingers built an almost unbearable pressure on my jaw, his unwavering stare boring, until I said, “You, Alik. You own it.”

  His stern expression softened, allowing the softer Alik a brief moment of play before he slammed into my pussy, his finger searching my clit, unrelenting in its movement. My legs stiffened, my back arched, and I came, my channel choking Alik’s cock. I hated that he knew how to make my body react to his touch. I didn’t want such pleasure when he was like this, but I knew fighting the inevitable was pointless.

  Alik’s thrusts became furious and he gripped my thighs so tightly that it would definitely leave a bruise. “Fuck, Myshka … FUCK!” he called out and spilled into me. His eyes were crazed with possession … with inert possession.

  Alik pressed a consuming kiss to my quivering lips, then abruptly pulled out of me, righting his training shorts as if nothing had happened.

  “Get dressed. Our fathers will be here soon,” Alik ordered coldly. Panicking, I jumped from the table, pulled on my skirt, and fastened my shirt just as a loud double knock sounded on the door.

  My father. I knew that distinctive double knock.

  Alik smirked and dropped down to casually drape onto a chair as I flustered, straightening my long brown hair. A couple of seconds later, the door opened and my father walked through, followed by Abram Durov—Alik’s father. Ivan Tolstoi—Talia and Luka’s father—came through last. He was the quietest out of the group, kept to himself. I always thought it was because of the shame he carried over Luka. For his son to kill the Pakhan’s son, then for him to die too, was like a sentence in itself. Ivan was the finance man, the one who handled the mob’s money. He had little to do with The Dungeon. He handled the books from his home office along with Talia, attended the matches through duty. But he rarely came to the gym, never really took an interest in the fighters. In fact, I was surprised he had even showed today.

  Alik stood and greeted each of the infamous Bratva bosses with a triple kiss. Then my father’s—Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov—gaze fell on me and a wide smile spread on his lips.

  “Kisa!” he greeted. Smiling at the happy face of my father, I walked around the table and he pulled me to his chest.

  “Papa,” I greeted in reply, then moved to greet Abram and finally Ivan, whose hug always squeezed me just that little bit too hard and lasted just that second too long. I had always loved Ivan like a father. He was a kind man, the conscience, the calm of the Red bosses; Luka had been just the same in nature.

  But Abram, no, there was always something off about the man. He brought violence to the Bratva. He forgave no one; he ensured dirty deeds got done. Alik was pissed most of the time due to his inability to do anything right to please his father. We were all aware that Alik’s anger came from the violence meted out by Abram to Alik from when he was a kid.

  “Please, sit, papas,” I said, gesturing to the chairs. All of the Bratva—my family—took their seats as I moved behind my desk to take mine. Alik pulled his chair next to me.

  “So,” my father said as he turned to me, “how are we looking for this season?”

  Alik smirked. He ran his hand up my back to rest his grip on the back of my neck. It was a possessive move, a move to assert his dominance, all to show his worth to the Bratva.

  “Good, Papa. All the trainers have fighters, except—”

  “Who do you fucking think?” Alik interrupted me and laughed. Abram, Alik’s father, smiled in response as Alik added, “The fucking Georgian Albatross! Lost another of his guys in the first warm-up fight. Fucker got his throat slit by Sav’s man at the start of the first round. I’m telling you, the prick’s cursed. Five seasons of first-round losses. No fucker will fight for him this year.”

  “He must have a fighter,” Ivan said calmly. “The Dungeon must have all the scheduled fights. We have too much riding on this year for Viktor to fuck it up. Biggest income we’ve ever had. We’re only getting bigger and bigger, which means better fighters, more fighters.”

  “We’ll work it out,” I said. Ivan and my papa gave me wide smiles. Papa leaned forward and patted my hand. “You have this place running like a well-oiled ship, Kisa. I know you’ll get it done.”

  A knock sounded on the door and Yiv, our head trainer, entered. Although Alik’s personal trainer, he was responsible for all the new fighters who came through The Dungeon’s door.

  “Yiv, we were discussing the Albatross,” Abram said smugly. Yiv ran a tired hand down his face.

  “Yeah. He already lost this year’s man and his sponsor’s pulled out. Fucking lot of money too,” Yiv explained.

  “We got any replacement prospects?” Ivan asked, all business. The Dungeon, the Bratva’s underground gambling ring, was their principle source of income. They had several sources, mainly drug running and arms dealing, but this place was the cash cow. There was too much at stake to mess up. The Dungeon ran all year round, low-level fighters, more dirty street fights than anything else, but for three nights each year, The Dungeon held its championship—it was three nights of nothing but death, money, and only one winner.

  Yiv shook his head, then stopped and said, “We had a guy drop in this morning. Said he wanted to fight in the cage. Big fucker too. Russian. Seemed fucking insane.”

  Papa turned his head to face Yiv. “How did he know we were here? Not an undercover Fed, is he?”

  Yi
v shrugged and paled slightly at my papa’s pissed-off tone. “No idea. But that guy looked soulless, dead inside. My gut tells me he just wanted to kill some fucks for fun.”

  “And?” Abram pushed. “Did you trial him or do we have to bring someone in from outside? We’re running out of time.”

  Yiv edged closer to the door. “Told him he’d have to buy in. He left, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be back. Something in his dead voice told me he needed in that cage. Probably some serial killer who wants to shed blood without being locked away.”

  “Like all us Dungeon fighters, you mean?” Alik joked, causing all the men in the room to laugh, well—all except Ivan. My blood ran cold. Alik was a straight-up killer; he wasn’t lying. And if he didn’t have this underground life as an outlet, I was pretty sure he would still need to kill. It was the part of him I feared most. The part of Alik that needed to take another person’s life for him to keep sane.

  Papa stood, as did Ivan and Abram. Papa turned to Alik. “You’re needed tonight again. We got business with the Chinese. Need to smooth some shit out after you gutted one of their soldiers for staring wrong at my girl.”

  All the blood drained from my face, and I turned to face Alik. “You killed someone for just looking at me?”

  Alik shrugged as if he’d done nothing wrong. “Caught him watching you from across the street when we went to dinner. Remembered his face. When I saw him at the deal last week, decided I wanted to see his intestines on the ground at his feet.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly through my nose, stopping the nausea climbing up my throat. When I opened them again, Alik was staring happily at his hand on the nape of my neck, not a care in the world.

  “I’m busy tonight,” Alik said to my father, but I couldn’t stop feeling sick.

  Alik had zero remorse.

  He had no sense of right and wrong, no moral compass or conscience. He terrified me at times.

  My father’s fist slammed down on the desk. “You will be there tonight. You do not disrespect the orders of your Pakhan! You may be a champion fighter, Alik, the most lethal one we’ve got, but cross me and I’ll fucking gut you.”

  Papa seldom showed anger. If he did, those at the receiving end didn’t live to regret it. Alik was in a unique position. He was the only surviving heir of the Bratva. He had to keep breathing.

  Alik tensed at my father’s wrath. “I need to see Kisa tonight. I need it!”

  My papa’s eyes narrowed. The room fell silent. “You’re coming, Alik. That’s final.”

  Alik’s hand suddenly gripped my neck, and I almost whimpered at the pain his hold brought. “Then she stays at my place tonight,” he demanded.

  I closed my eyes. Again, I tried to breathe slowly through my nose in a monumental effort to stay calm. Papa would not allow it, could not allow it. Alik would flip and I would end up beneath Alik on this desk—again—until he’d worked off his rage.

  Papa’s eyes flared and his mouth tightened into a thin line. “You’re not married yet, Alik. She stays at my home. You won’t make a whore out of a Volkov!”

  Alik began to shake with rage. I placed a hand on his thigh, trying to cool him down. But when he jumped from his seat, fists flexing and face reddening with anger, I knew he’d blown all his fuses.

  “I’m fucking through with it,” Alik yelled. “We’ve been engaged for two years and it’s about fucking time she lives with me! You’ve made us wait too long!”

  My father’s silent response told me how pissed he’d become at Alik’s display of disrespect. Abram lunged forward before my papa had a chance to, and with cupped hand, struck Alik on the lip, drawing blood.

  “Enough! Show some fucking respect, boy, or I’ll do more than cut your fucking lip,” Abram hissed, embarrassed by his son’s outburst.

  Alik gritted his teeth, saying nothing in response. He would never say anything back to his father. Alik was his father’s puppet.

  I stood, legs shaking, and cleared my throat. Alik glowered at me. Flashing Papa an appeasing glance, I stepped up to Alik and, taking a tissue from my desk, pressed it to his lips. He didn’t flinch when I pressed the tissue to his cut, but his crazy possessive eyes bored holes into mine.

  “Go with our fathers tonight, Alik. I’ll be fine alone.”

  Alik pushed away my hand and fisted my hair. “What will you do … alone?”

  Lowering my eyes, ignoring his suspicion, I shrugged. “Go to church.”

  Alik’s hand twisted my hair, but I didn’t raise my eyes. He knew the reason I was going. After all these years, it was amazing how my childhood connection with Luka drove Alik to insanity.

  “Alik! She’s going to church. You’ll come with us and take care of this family. It’s your duty,” Abram commanded.

  Alik grunted in anger, pressed a rough kiss to my head, and abruptly left the room. I heard the men follow him out the door to check on their fighters. When I looked up, Ivan hovered at the exit, watching me with a sympathetic gaze.

  “Talia and my wife will also be at church tonight, Kisa. They’ll be happy to see you there.”

  I nodded and offered a small smile. “I hoped they would be, Papa Ivan. I’ll … I’ll be happy to see them too … I’m glad you came in today. I love to see you too … I…” I trailed off, my throat clogging with emotion.

  For a moment, I saw raw pain reflected in his eyes, but he left without another word, and I slumped down on the seat behind my desk.

  First things first, I had to organize the fighters and make sure The Dungeon’s business was done. Then I would take myself to church and mourn the boy I was supposed to hate … but could never find it in my heart to do so.

  6

  KISA

  Serge dropped me off outside our Russian Orthodox Church. I stepped out into the stuffy night, black headdress and long-sleeved, calf-length skirted dress firmly in place as orthodox tradition demands. I quickly ran up the steps and went through the large doors, entering to the sound of the choir singing hymns from their rehearsal room upstairs. The large church was dark, a dark challenged only by the soft glow of candlelight. As always, when I entered this place, I glanced up to the paintings on the ceiling, images of the saints, of Mary holding Jesus.

  A hand pressed gently on my shoulder. Looking to my left, Father Kruschev’s kind smile greeted me.

  “Father,” I greeted and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.

  “Are you joining us on the food trucks tonight, child? We are a volunteer down and I could use your service,” he asked hopefully.

  My heart began pounding at the thought of my defender sitting on the street, holding that jar. Before I had time to consider the consequences of my actions, my head nodded in agreement.

  “Excellent,” Father Kruschev said, gesturing for me to light a candle. I walked past and he added, “It pleases me to see you so dedicated to helping the needy, Kisa. It will purify your soul.”

  I offered a tight smile but scurried away as fast as I could. I wasn’t trying to save my soul tonight or trying to help the needy. I was serving my own selfish desire, a desire—no, a pressing need to see that man again, to see his face, to ask who he was … why he was on the street.

  Taking a long candle, I lit the wick with that of another and offered a silent prayer to my Luka. May he forever rest in peace.

  Moving to the end of the pew, I crossed my chest to the crucifix hanging somberly on the wall. Clasping my hands, I closed my eyes.

  Feeling as though my chest would crack, I was transported to the past …

  Twelve years ago …

  The New York summer was stifling, the humidity too much to bear. I lay on a towel as the sun blazed down on Brighton Beach. We always came here for the summer. The Bratva kings descended on this little slice of Russian heaven from our houses in downtown Brooklyn. Papa and his “associates” would spend the summer months “discussing and taking care of business” while the kids and mothers would spend it lazing on the sand and eati
ng ice cream.

  I liked summer. It was a time I could get away from our rigid life in Brooklyn, a time that “the heirs” wouldn’t be called away to learn their craft, a time when Rodion, Luka, and Alik could relax … a time when I could hang out with Luka all day long.

  Closing my eyes, I smiled at that thought as I soaked up the rays in my secluded spot. Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over me, bringing a brief moment of coolness to my scalding skin.

  Cracking my eyes open, hand shielding the sun, my stomach sank when I saw Alik smiling down at me, his board shorts hanging low on his hips.

  I didn’t say anything, just balanced on my elbows as he slumped down beside me on the towel, his thigh rubbing against mine.

  Alik’s always harsh narrow eyes surveyed my body, and I no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Shivers ran down my spine as Alik’s finger gently trailed down my arm. His nostrils flared, and I froze in fear. Alik always made me feel this uneasy. His eyes tracked me wherever I walked. He would beat up any boy who so much as looked my way. He threatened them and told them I was his girl … Well, all except one. The one who truly was mine, the one whose eyes showed a piece of my soul.

  “What’re you doing, Myshka?” Alik asked. I swallowed at his pet name for me—his little mouse. He’d called me that for years, for as long as I could remember anyway.

  I glanced around to see who was nearby, but no one was in sight. Alik’s hand suddenly wrapped around the back of my neck, and I gasped in shock.

  “I said,” Alik pronounced in an angry voice through gritted teeth, “what’re you doing? Don’t ignore me. I don’t like to be ignored.”

  I caught sight of Alik cracking the fingers on his right hand. I also glimpsed a large black-and-blue bruise on his thigh, hidden under his shorts. My gaze snapped to him in surprise. What had happened to him? It looked terrible.

  Alik noticed what I was looking at. He quickly covered his bruise, jaw clenching in anger. Alik turned away his head momentarily, and I internally cursed. It must have been his papa. I knew he hurt Alik. I heard his screams coming from his room as we visited his house growing up, then witnessed Alik’s bruises, limps, and occasional broken bones after “meeting” with his papa when he’d done something wrong.