Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3)
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Authors: Hayley Faiman
Tags: #Russian Bratva #3
Dancing for the Badman
Copyright © 2016 by Hayley Faiman
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: RC Martin,
Another Pair
Cover: Cassy Roop,
Pink Ink Designs
Formatting:
Champagne Formats
Table of Contents
Crystal —
Your kindness and help is more than I could ask for.
Thank you.
Authors Note —
This novel begins after the last chapter in
Seducing the Badman
, just before the epilogue. Coincidentally, this book also takes place after
Rough & Raw (Notorious Devils #2
) …
RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE
Pakhan
– The Boss: Controls everything.
Sovietnik
– Councilor: Advisor and most close trusted individuals to the Pakhan.
Obshchak
– The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.
Brigadier
– Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.
Boyevik
– Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.
Kryshas
– Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.
Torpedo
– Contract Killers
Byki
– Bulls: Bodyguards
Shestyorka
– Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.
Ten Years Ago
Brooklyn, New York
“P
LEASE,”
I
WHIMPER AS
his fingers lazily pump in and out of me. He grins wickedly, a look I love on his handsome face.
“I want you to beg for me, moyo zolotse,” he murmurs huskily.
My gold—his gold.
I shiver when he calls me that—every. single. time.
“I’m begging you, Kirill. Please, please, I need more. I need you,” I cry out. He chuckles before smothering my lips with his hand.
We are in my dorm room, the all-girls dorm. No boys allowed after ten in the evening, yet here Kirill is, in my bed—after midnight. He never follows the rules. Honestly, I don’t think rules apply to him in general.
Kirill does what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants. No man, woman, or child could ever stop him or tell him differently; and if they try? He shrugs them off and does whatever he wants to anyway. His no bullshit attitude is what drew me to him. A shy virgin when we met, he melted my panties before I even knew what was happening. He made me addicted to his hands, his mouth, and his cock. I am starving for him on a twenty-four-seven basis.
“Then you shall have me, krushka,” he mutters. Babydoll. He slides deep inside of me, slowly filling me.
I groan at the sensation of his cock stretching me. I will never tire of this feeling, of him on top of me and inside of me, of his dark gray eyes focused solely on mine, and of the way he makes me feel.
“Kirill,” I breathe. He quiets me with a hard kiss before he pulls out and thrusts back inside.
Kirill’s fingers dig into my hips as he slams in and out of my body, my breasts bouncing with each thrust. His eyes never leave mine. He is focused, and he is intent on showing me something—what, I don’t know.
I shiver when one of his hands leaves my hip and his thumb presses against my clit.
“Come on my cock, Tati” he mumbles, his voice deep and raspy. I know that he is close to the edge.
“Yes, Kirill,” I breathe on a sigh, closing my eyes as I arch my neck back.
I shouldn’t have closed my eyes. I should have kept them open. Had I known it would be the last time I would watch Kirill come undone inside of my body, I would have watched every. single. second.
“Oh, God,” I whimper as I come, my eyes pinched tightly and my body shaking beneath Kirill’s strong frame.
He takes his hand from my clit and buries it into my messy blonde hair before he wildly fucks me—hard. No rhythm, no rhyme, just primal and animalistic. When he finally comes, he buries his face in my neck and fills my body with his climax.
“Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya,” I hear him mutter against my skin. We fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, and I wake alone the next morning.
Kirill and I were together for six months.
I
thought
we were happy.
I
thought
we were in love.
I
thought
I was going to marry him and be his wife.
I never thought the FBI would be at my door, explaining to me exactly what he was—
who
he was. I wanted to go to him, to ask him exactly what was happening, but they wouldn’t let me. I had a choice to make and I had to make it immediately.
I was young and scared.
I made a choice.
It was the wrong choice.
I should have stayed with him—
trusted
him.
Kirill’s last words to me were a mystery, since I didn’t know Russian. Kirill was
very
Russian. I went to the library and combed through Russian to English phrases. A poor old soul helped me. I asked him what
Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya
meant and he looked at me with wide eyes and said—
I will always love you.
I cried.
I broke down and cried.
He would always love me?
I left him.
I was scared.
I was desperate.
I was pregnant
.
Present Day
San Francisco, California
I
DON’T REMEMBER MUCH
about my father. He is this mysterious man that I have glimpses of in my hazy memory banks. I remember his thick, Russian accent and his light, blond hair. I remember his dark eyes and how big and scary he was. He never smiled, and he never played with me.
“Tatyana,” he calls. I run over to him obediently.
“Yes, papa?” I ask, looking up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes are trained on me.
“I will be gone for a long while, Tati. You must behave, be a good girl for ma,” he orders. I nod. I am always a good girl, the best girl.
“Yes, papa,” I whisper with a smile on my face.
“You are special, my Tatyana, do you know this?” he asks.
Then he does something he has never done before. He sinks down, crouching in front of me, our eyes leveling. I inhale and smell the cigarette smoke that still clings to his suit.
“No, papa,” I say softly. He smirks.
“You are. Stay a good girl, listen to your ma, and always do what is expected of you. One day you will find out just how special you are in this life. A beautiful little shakhmatnaya figura,” he murmurs.
I look at him with confusion until he touches the tip of my nose with his finger, straightens, and walks away from me.
I never saw him again.
Years later, I asked my Russian boyfriend, Kirill, what
shakhmatnaya figura
meant, and he told me it meant chess piece. My own father called me a
chess piece.
To this day, I still do not know what he meant by the words.