Claimed Bratva Virgin (Yezhov Bratva #4)

Chapter 1 – Rafayel

Rewards were a natural part of life. If they weren’t necessary, they would not exist.

I wasn’t a good man. I didn’t believe in the morals that framed the foundations of the world. But I had some reasonable integrity, believing that, all things being equal, dealing fairly where my business was concerned was non-negotiable, and one of the few results of my benevolence happened to be this moment—walking into the Obsidian with ecstatic, eager men trailing closely behind.

Soft golden light danced across lavish décor, glittering like diamonds. The ceiling shimmered like glass, and the stone pillars were works of art trapped in archaic and medieval times. I liked it, the ambiance of a secret underground world strictly reserved for us, the nightlife lovers.

“We’re here, baby!” Laughing, Vasili whistled at a blonde dancer on the stage.

She whipped her hair back and forth, struck a suggestive pose, and winked at him. My men hooted, and he lifted his shoulders like a man who knew he was getting some tonight. To his credit, Vasili always got some. No one knew how he did it—and that was only if we were judging by the visible jagged scar running in a parallel slash from his left eyebrow to the sharp edge of his right jaw, the full-sleeved skull inked on both arms, and the dead look in his eyes. He was the roughest and toughest-looking in the bunch. You’d think the women wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, but he always got them.

“ Ya ne pomyu, Kogda v poslyedniy raz ya imel odnogo iz nikh.”

I can’t remember the last time I had one of those.

Maxim raised a brow. “Thought you preferred Latinas.”

“I do. Some days, I prefer them light.” He gave Maxim’s back a playful slap. It was a loud, solid clap. Of all my men, he had the shortest fuse, but I watched him allow the steam to roll off his shoulders because tonight was an exception. It was a good—no, a great night.

Oh, happy day! Oh, happy fucking night!

We had Santana in the bag. Formidable partners Miguel Angel and Javier Hernandez were two of the biggest sharks in the corporate ocean, specifically Santana Corporation, a conglomerate with far-reaching influence beyond Mexico and California. Getting them on the hook had been easier than I thought. A compelling, strategic proposal, a few sweeteners, and…done. A solid handshake to seal the multi-billion-dollar deal. The alliance of the Mexican corporation with the Bratva was going to revolutionize the entire industry, and in anticipation of yielding unprecedented profits and promising substantial expansion, the men had worked the hardest to close this deal. I knew we had to celebrate.

In the end, no one could really say no to me.

Getting to the VIP section, Maxim peeled Vasili’s fingers off his shoulder, edging forward to raise the lush red ropes demarcating the private lounge from the main area. We got settled, Vasili and Maxim taking spots beside me on the wide black tuxedo sofa. One by one, they picked tumblers off the table, snatching bottles alongside.

Slinging an arm above the rim, I leaned back to relax. While they talked, I let my eyes linger across the club and inhaled a lungful of air. It was heavy, a mix of Kauffner, tequila, and champagne. The rich scent always appealed to me, like a strange, unique blend of culture I never paid attention to but somehow noticed. The hype and exquisite class were two of the reasons I preferred the Obsidian to other clubs. Being inside here was different, like a sudden hush on the constant noise in my head. I could just sit for a minute and not think.

“Don’t forget, we’ve got work to do in the morning. Let’s get straight into the fun and turn in early.” Maxim had a tumbler raised while admonishing the men. Besides possessing the shortest fuse, Maxim was an unapologetic workaholic, always trying to keep the men in check and their eyes on the goal. “All play and no work makes Jack—”

“One successful son of a bitch.” A lopsided grin settled on Vasili’s face when he spread his arms to welcome two blondes on his thighs. They squealed and collapsed on his legs with glee.

Maxim took his tumbler to his mouth, hiding a faint smile. “Idiot.”

One of the girls flipped her red hair, eyeing Vasili with interested eyes. “Who’s this handsome devil?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to think I could be your guardian angel.”

Vasili groped the redhead from behind and tilted backward to watch the girls move in a seductive rhythm on him. In harmony, they whined, twisted, and twerked, and in seconds, the scene turned from PG to R-18.

To be honest, the view was entertaining, watching each of them take turns to grind Vasili and playfully fighting each other to have a taste of him. But a part of me had wilted, grown weary of the action, because that was all there was: fun and no promise of anything more substantial or daring.

When you were born into a world like mine, you learned to accept the packages that came with it: the good, the bad, the ugly, the gruesome—all of it.

Power, influence, and pleasure were a few of the items in the good package, and those three things often had women attached to them. I had my fair share—that was no secret—but the rollercoaster of rising body counts rapidly depreciated from the green rise to red lines.

One of the girls slid from Vasili’s thighs over to Maxim. She was bubbly, with brown hair, bright blue eyes, and straight teeth. If I had to guess, the pretty one wasn’t older than twenty years.

Her fingers found the gold snake chain on his neck, and she twirled it, leaned forward, and whispered indistinctly into his ear. Maxim stayed still before lifting a quizzical brow.

I gave it a few seconds. If she was alluring enough to catch my attention, the big guy wasn’t going to stand a chance.

Ten seconds down, and he whispered back. The sound of her laughter tinkled like tiny bells when she nodded, and Maxim snaked a tattooed hand around her neck before crashing his lips against hers. I looked away.

Taking my glass to my lips, I opted to blame maturity. When a man grew far from the razzmatazz and nuances of being twenty-five, realizing he was forty, I believed he tended to change or modify his modus operandi.

That was my story.

Maybe.

Or it was something else, like a desire to meet women who would strike a challenge, pose to be some inferno I couldn’t possibly quench, even if I tried. I’d never really enjoyed an easy chase, and the irony was that they all came too easy.

“None for you, Rafa?”

I met Maxim’s half-lidded gaze over the bare shoulder of the girl with her lips perched on his neck. He was high on ecstasy and desire, and I didn’t blame him. If I could channel my inner twenty-five-year-old, Maxim would have gladly sent her over to my suite when he was done. We’d never had a problem sharing our women. It was part of the package.

I rose to my feet, tilting a glass toward him. “None. But you have fun. You’ve earned it.”

The spread of their happiness spurred a smile to curl up the corner of my lips, and I basked in self-content. Fuck it, I was a proud man.

I tipped my head back to swallow. I liked this: the satisfaction of a fulfilled man. Didn’t matter that I’d had spontaneous urges to punch some of them in the faces at one point or the other; we were still family. And this was what we thrived on: loyalty, bond, and honor.

Dropping my glass, I fixed a hand on my hip. Everything seemed complete, and the vibe of the night progressed as planned. But someone was missing: the hype man. He’d been the most ecstatic out of them about our night out. He’d almost sponsored it. So, not finding him mingling amongst the rest of them was oddly strange. The possibility that he’d been mischievous with one of the strippers and taken her back home was not beyond him, but that was one activity I would’ve definitely caught in the partially empty club.

My eyes were still scanning, and I had my fingers hovering inside my jacket to pull out my phone when I caught movement at the entrance.

Tikhon’s shadows danced against the walls in rhythm with the pulsating lights, and the darkness of his suit reflected the vibrant blue, red, and aqua-green colors. Knotting his fingers over his belt, he stayed there, unmoving, like a statue fixed in the ground. But it was the familiar clench of my lieutenant’s jaw and the hardness in his eyes that made me groan. Current status: Harbinger of Doom.

If Tikhon Beroev saw a party with women and stayed far away from it, it meant one thing: There was trouble.

“Maxim, eyes and ears open. I’m not far.” The Russian flying out of my mouth was fast enough for another person to miss, but Maxim was the smartest and most quick-witted for a reason.

With his hands gripping Blue Eyes tightly on the hips, he nodded.

When I got to the entrance, Tikhon didn’t even break into the smallest smirk. Loud music was reduced to a quiet muffle as he led me further away from the noise into a quiet room with yellow lights and beige sofas, shutting the door behind us.

“No explanations for your sudden disappearance?”

He stayed mounted by the door. “Rafayel, it’s not good.”

Rubbing the crease between my brows, I slipped my hands into my pocket. “What happened now?”

His eyes spoke before his mouth did. Never before had I seen Tikhon with a frown so deep or a stare so ghastly. “Jabril Enterprises is no longer our client.”

It was my turn to frown. “What the fuck does that mean? The last time I checked—which was yesterday, by the way—everything was good. Lev had that assignment under control, or didn’t he?”

Deafening silence followed, thick enough for a knife to cut right through. The only sounds between us were the heavy thumps of bass and beats from outside the room. Tikhon shifted uncomfortably. Worry wrinkles formed at the center of his forehead, and his jaw ticked.

“Lev’s dead.”

“Great.”

Shit.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair, and it wasn’t because of anxiety. If I hadn’t busied my hands, I might as well have shot something, and Tikhon was too useful at the moment to be wasted. Lev was one of my foot soldiers until I discovered his brain was bigger than pea-size and could be useful for more important things. I promoted him to the corporate ranks, granted him permission to click deals and supervise a fraction of the clientele. Now, Lev’s dead, and it smelled like someone was sending a message. His death and the loss of Jabril Enterprises were no coincidence.

With short, calculated steps, I walked toward one of the sofas, gripping the hard edge for support. My hands already began trembling. “What happened and when?”

“I found his body about an hour ago. Did a little groundwork, and it didn’t take long to find out he was ambushed while they were in an on-site meeting. Lev opposed, put up a fight, and didn’t stand a chance. Jabril was coerced to join the other side.”

“The other side….”

Tikhon blew out a breath, and I almost asked him to hold it before confirming my suspicion.

“Don Enzo Colombo. He’s had his eyes on Jabril for months now. Guess he waited for the most vulnerable time to strike.” Tikhon came up to me, so I saw the look on his face when he said, “Rafa, bagging Santana is going to mean almost nothing if Jabril is off the hook. They’ll be like mere compensation.”

My nails dug into the soft, lush fabric coating the seats, and I kept my gaze pinned on the wall. What I felt now was no ordinary anger. Fury licked up my blood and ran a course through my veins. Rage boiled and squeezed at the walls of my chest until I thought I was exhaling and inhaling internal heat.

It wasn’t the first, or second, or third time the Italians were crossing territories, smearing our walls with their filthy hands. They’d been at it, like children beating rattles for attention. But this time, Colombo went beyond the boundaries. Jabril was also one of the biggest sharks in the corporate industry and had a solid link in the sea of politics. Tikhon was right; if we lost them, then having Santana Corporations as clients was insignificant. We were going to lose millions, and more clients would go down the drain.

While we were closing one major deal, one of our clients was being snatched right from under our noses. Where we took time to present solid, meaningful proposals, the Italians enjoyed proving to be brainless crooks who preferred hitting below the belt.

And they called themselves a mafia.

More like a gang of powerless thieves.

I faced Tikhon. “Set up a meeting with Jabril,” I said in Russian. “If he is one minute late, I’m blowing off his fucking head.”

“ Da. ”

I headed for the door.

I was a fucking businessman, and I didn’t fancy myself a good man, but I took pride in having reasonable integrity when it came to business.

But who said anything about not using my guns when I had to?

If Colombo wanted blood, then he’d better be ready because I was going to use his to build a bank, and I’d fill those packs with pleasure.