Untamed (Bratva Kings #2)

Chapter 1

RODION

The low thrum of dance music beats steadily, like the heartbeat of California’s underbelly. Neon lights slash across the dance floor, throwing jagged shadows over the dancing forms of women. I lazily watch them. I love women of all shapes and sizes. I don’t care about the color of their skin or their hair, if they’re short or tall, curvy or slender, or if they have glasses or freckles or whatever. Women are god’s gift to men, and fuck, I miss having one in my bed. It’s been way too long.

I’ve tried to be good. Responsible. Mature.

God .

California might glitter, but I miss the familiarity of home. Here, under these neon lights, I feel untouchable and detached—like a tiger prowling, watching the world from behind the bars of a cage.

I want out.

I nurse my glass of the bar’s sorry excuse for vodka—some cheap, local crap that doesn’t hold a candle to what we drink at home for any excuse to cheer a victory—and glance at my hands.

Fuck. For a second, I swear I see flecks of blood from the job I wrapped up earlier. But no, it’s just the lights messing with me. I washed my hands in the penthouse bathroom so many times under steaming water that they’re half-scalded.

Not that it matters. Rafail, my oldest brother and the pakhan of our family, rules with an iron fist and expects every job to be wrapped up neat, tied with a bow. Me? I like the reminders of what I’m capable of.

Maybe it makes me a sociopath. I like to think it keeps me human.

Got one more job to do here.

A burst of laughter gets my attention. I look over to see a table of giggling women. I shift closer to the bar, slinking into the shadows so I can watch unnoticed. Six of them, dressed in low-cut tops and short skirts, sit at a table cluttered with empty glasses. A young brunette with waist-length glossy hair shoves her phone under the nose of another woman. The second one’s wearing something across her shoulders. A sash?

I squint.

Bride to Be , the gold lettering reads. Ah. A bachelorette party.

How cute.

“I’m telling you, it’s the possessive ones! Like, ‘I own you’ energy!” A blonde giggles over her drink. Her friend rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

My ears perk up. “I own you energy.” What are they talking about?

I’ve got better things to do than eavesdrop, but I’m bored as hell and need to get laid. Rafail would fucking kill me for not sticking to the plan.

I fucked up, big time, and he sent me here to lay low while he manages the fallout. Turned out I could utilize my skills while here for the greater good of my family, so I can’t lose focus now.

I look away from them.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Rafail

Heads up. Semyon got fucked over… instead of wedding bells, looks like he’ll be playing clean-up crew and teaching some lessons.

Shit. It’s been a year since Rafail married his wife, Polina, which meant it was time for one of us to get married. We had to. Taking the position of leadership after my father’s death, Rafail wasted no time in establishing himself as the married eldest because, in the old-fashioned, cutthroat world of the Russian Bratva, a married man had more power. Respect. A man like me —wild and free, untamed by the love of a woman—was unfettered but unpredictable… and wielded less power.

We don’t have time to date casually and don’t have the luxury of playing around. Marriage, children, the stability of vows are a must.

Semyon was ready to marry before the ink was dry on Rafail and Polina’s marriage certificate. He didn’t have the time or patience for anything less.

What was it about our luck, anyway? Rafail’s first attempt at marriage was an epic fail, and now Semyon…

Rafail

So maybe… if you happen to find a wife in California, make it happen. At least for now. The Romanov gala is in a month, and we need a show of strength when we attend

Of fucking course. Rafail didn’t “joke.” Semyon’s fucked-up nuptials left us with few choices, and one of them was up to me.

God.

Find a wife, he says. Like it’s that simple. I already play his enforcer, his pawn. Now he wants me to play groom too? God forbid I don’t bow to the family legacy.

I roll my eyes and lift my hand, about to order another drink, but the bartender beats me to it, sliding a glass into my outstretched palm. “Here,” she says, smiling. “This is better than the vodka here. Do me a favor? You seem like a decent guy.”

Little does she know. Still, I flash her the grin that melts panties and throw in a wink. Her neck flushes with heat, but she schools her expression fast, tilting her head toward the end of the bar.

I take a sip of bourbon—strong, potent, now we’re getting somewhere—and follow her gesture.

“I’m not supposed to intervene unless customers cross the line,” she says, her voice low. “But that asshole’s been buying drinks for that table of women, even though they’re clearly trying to avoid him. I don’t like it. You seem…scary-looking enough. Not my business, but that guy’s bad news. Maybe just park yourself down there?”

I nod. Playing silent bodyguard for a stranger isn’t on my agenda, but I push off the bar anyway, drink in hand, and head down the row.

The bar thrums with a low bass. The air reeks of expensive cologne, tequila, and cheap sex. I shake my head. I hate California. Too many rules, too many people who thought money made them untouchable.

But tonight isn’t about me—it never is. I’m here for the Bratva, for my family. For Rafail’s newly born son, so small he can’t even hold his little head up yet. For my parents, who were buried way too young, with their lives still ahead of them.

I’m here because Rafail and family honor demanded it.

One target’s an arrogant little bastard who thought he could cheat the Russian mafia and walk away. And I came here to remind him how far loyalty went when it was wrapped in barbed wire.

I know immediately who the bartender’s talking about. I give the businessman in a wrinkled suit a once-over. He’s got one of those comb-over hairstyles to mask his receding hairline and a gold chain around his neck. I glance at his hand, where the indentation on his finger indicates a wedding band recently removed.

Sigh. So predictable.

I’m not a hero. Hell, I’m barely human some days. But I know the lines a man doesn’t cross. And when I see this guy crowding her, all I can think is I’ve crossed too many lines already. This one? Not tonight.

He leans across the table and pushes a drink to one of the women.

She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

“I bought it for you,” the chubby douchebag says, pushing it over to her again. Oh, for the love of… Rafail would get on a plane just to throat punch me if he knew I was getting involved, but I can’t help it.

There’s nothing I like more than helping a damsel in distress. And it’s gotten me laid more times than I can count.

My voice is low when I meet his eyes and push the drink back. “Hey, buddy. She said no. Drink it yourself. Better yet, why don’t you leave her the fuck alone and don’t come back?” I feel their eyes on me but focus on this guy and this guy alone.

Beady eyes narrow on me as he draws himself up to his full height. Aww. He thinks he can get away with it. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard.

I’m easily a head taller than him, with one more tool in my kit he probably doesn’t have: I don’t care if I spill another man’s blood tonight.

“Who the fuck asked you to get involved?” the businessman asshole says. “I bought her a drink. She wanted one.”

“I did not !” I turn to look at her and narrowly miss getting coldcocked by this asshole. I swivel, grab his wrist just in time, and shake my head with a little tsk.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” I say in a whisper, twisting his hand back until pain dances in his eyes and he grits his teeth. “I promise you. You’re going to regret that. Why don’t we take a little walk.”

Still gripping his wrist, I drag him toward me and discreetly shove him in front of me.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he begins, but I shake my head.

“Too late for apologies, my man,” I say, my temper rising. “You disrespected a woman.”

I follow few laws, but never disrespect a woman is one of them.

As we head toward the exit, I can hear the table of giggling bachelorettes.

“Oh my god, he’s like one of the book guys.”

“Did you see those muscles?”

“He looks like the video mafia queen posted!”

Mafia… what? I catch a glimpse at the screen. What the fuck is that ? I try to take another look, but my friend, the predator, tries to use my distraction to his advantage and wheedle out of my grip.

Nah.

I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and help him focus on doing what the fuck I say. The neon Exit sign flashes in the center of the doorway above a dark hall.

“This is what you’re gonna do,” I tell him as we near the door. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of here and pretend tonight never happened. You’ll pretend we never talked, that you never tried to push yourself on a woman who said no.”

Blood thrums in my veins, molten lava teeming with destruction.

“You can’t?—”

I lean in close. He’s half a breath away from meeting my fist. “I have a knife in my pocket and a gun in a holster at my back. I can and will.” I hold him in my right hand so I can discreetly flash the sign of the Bratva, a universal tat that every man of our family gets when he’s sixteen years old.

I watch his eyes widen in recognition. Good. I kick open the door. “Good riddance,” I mutter as I shove him out and slam the door behind him.

The bartender catches my attention and gives me a thumbs-up. The women giggle and wave at me, but I only jerk my head and sit back down at the other end of the bar. I shoot my younger cousin and best friend Matvei a text.

Dude, you see these mafia posts these girls online are raving about? Tf? I just scared away some guy that wouldn’t leave them alone and they were GIGGLING. I heard something about mafia books.

The response comes immediately.

Matvei

Got your head up your ass again? You that clueless what these romance girls are reading these days? Serial killers, masked men, stalkers… I got fucking tagged in a post. This is amazing

I snort and shake my head. I don’t know if I’d say it’s amazing, but it’s amusing, definitely.

I tap the screen as I sit back at the bar and drink. He sends a group text.

Jesus, Matvei. Leave Raf out of it. We leave him out of anything remotely fun.

Matvei

You guys see this shit online?

I roll my eyes and play dumb.

I’m swimming in shitbags in California. My brain is fried. Maybe I need to find one of those oxygen bars they have or something. The fuck are you talking about?

Matvei

All those girls online are drooling over mafia men.

Ice hits my teeth, and I shove the glass back on the bar while I glance at the girls who are whispering to each other and casting discreet glances my way.

Semyon

What the fuck are you going on about now?

Matvei

Social media, dumbass. Apparently they’re drooling over dangerous, tattooed men who do dirty things to them and wife them up.

I pop an ice cube in my mouth like I’m eating a bowl of popcorn. This is entertaining, but I need real food that’s not in the form of liquid and ninety proof. My gaze falls on the table of scantily clad, giggling women.

This time, I take a closer look.

It’s some video with a masked man holding an ax. He’s swinging it with force, cutting wood in the dead of winter. Bare-chested. Fuck. Who does that? Wear a coat, fuckwit. Even my nips ache just thinking about that frozen hellscape.

Americans romanticize the strangest shit.

My phone buzzes again, and I consider flushing it in the nearest bathroom when a video pops up from Matvei.

I click the triangle. I have to download a fucking app just to see the damn thing and immediately have to turn the volume down on my phone when some stupid dance music blares on the screen.

It’s a girl—no, a woman—talking about her fantasies of dark, possessive mafia men. It should be absurd, laughable. But there’s something about the way she says it, her tone laced with teasing vulnerability. Like she wants to be swept away but can’t trust anyone enough to let it happen.

And she’s… crying. I know it’s staged. I know it’s just for show, but something in me cracks at the sight of a woman in tears. My hands clench into fists.

Who do I need to punish?

Her caption reads: “Who else dreams of being kidnapped and ‘tortured’ by a hot, billionaire, masked mafia man? Asking for a friend.”

My lips curve into a smirk. No tall order, lady. Though… I mean… I tick off all those boxes.

I just need a mask. That’s easy enough.

Matvei sends another video.

Matvei

This shit’s gone viral

Semyon

Is this a bad joke?

Rafail

What the fuck is this?

Matvei:

You guys need to listen up. There are MAFIA THIRST TRAPS. They want us. Like, really want us.

Rafail, you’re not keeping him busy enough.

But just for the fuck of it, I click the link.

And I watch. A gorgeous blonde with wide blue eyes and thick lashes licks her lips while the right side of her screen shows a masked man with tats and muscles.

I roll my eyes. He’s fucking scrawny compared to my brothers, and did she really think those pecs were real? Nah. I can tell from here he used a filter like a goddamn fucking pussy.

I almost shut the thing and get another drink when she starts fanning herself with her phone—no, it wasn’t a phone, it’s much too big for a phone. I look closer. Is that an e-reader?

That’s when I notice the wall of books behind her, like some sort of fucking shrine to a bookstore, but it isn’t just any bookshelf. They’re color-coordinated in a rainbow, twinkling pink lights entangled with greenery, making it look festive.

“This is all I want, girls,” she says, wiping a fat tear from her cheek. “I work sixty-hour weeks at a thankless job, and when I come home? I want this guy waiting for me.” She lowers her voice. “Is that too much to ask?”

Huh.

I scroll.

And I scroll.

And I scroll.

I feel my lips curve into a smirk, the kind that typically makes my enemies rethink their decisions.

They want… us ?

They don’t. No, they really, really don’t.

They think they want us—the barbed-wire promises, the wolves lurking just beyond the storybook light. But what they want is the illusion of us, not the raw, vicious truth. No woman wants my calloused, bloodstained hand in her hair—or, more accurately, wrapped around her throat, pinning her to my headboard, or—heh. Maybe that was a good drink.

I tap my finger against my jaw. I still have a job to do before I go back home, but January in Moscow is frigid as fuck, and if I’m honest, I might not want to move here, but this weather feels downright balmy. And it’s nice not having to put up with the daily discerning eye and constant criticism of my eldest brother.

I look back over at the giggling party girls. They’re glued to their screens, their expressions dreamy as they giggle over obviously fake videos with posers— men wearing masks from a goddamn party store, their weapons a sham. It’s like some sort of cosplay gone bad.

I can’t help but snort when a few of the videos have three men, ropes in hand, masks hiding fuck knows what, with a low growl of a man’s voice. “We’re coming for you. And when we find you, beware…”

It's so damn fake.

Obviously , a real man didn’t fucking share. This is the stupidest shit I ever?—

My hand hovers over the x at the top of the page, ready to shut it down, when I see… her.

Fiery red hair tied back in a thick ponytail, a mischievous spark in her jade-green eyes.

She’s so different from the other videos I’ve seen, so authentic. Unlike the fake thirst traps or heavily edited videos, she looks candid and excited, as if she can’t wait to talk about her latest book.

She looks… real . Strong. And even though she’s wearing a plain white top and a pair of jeans, the girl fills them out. She has the body of a gymnast, tightly wound and powerful. My breath slows as I take her in—sparkling green eyes, a strength in her every movement that makes my fingers itch to touch her, to feel if she’s as real as she looks.

“Girls,” she says, shaking her head.

Girls ? Was she completely unaware of the absolute magnetic pull a woman like her had on a man like me?

I’m instantly, irrationally filled with rage toward any other man who sets eyes on her. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before.

“Stop what you’re doing right now and read this book.” She holds up a black and gold book with raised lettering, the edges sprayed gold, as she flips through it. “You’ve never heard of it before. No one has. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever read before. And this book.” She shakes her head and bites her lip.

That single motion—her teeth grazing her lip—ignites something primal. It’s the smallest tell. I’ve honed my observation skills, and I know how to read body language. It’s part of my job description, and partly why I can so easily spot lies. She really does want what she’s reading about.

This girl wants to surrender, even if she doesn’t know it yet. I’d make damn sure she learned what that meant.

I swallow hard and watch.

She lowers her voice to a whisper. I hold my breath, mesmerized by her voice, the way she talks, even the way her fingers grip around the book in her hand. I imagine what it would be like to have those hands splayed over my body or pinned in one hand while I fisted her gorgeous hair in the other. I’d fuck her right against that bookshelf until she screamed for mercy… until she knew the difference between fiction and reality and never again fell for a goddamn book boyfriend when she belonged to me.

“This looks tame, doesn’t it? A poor school teacher on holiday in the wild Scottish moors. A single father, mourning the loss of his wife while navigating the world alone…” Her voice drops. “Only this guy’s in the mafia, and he’ll stop at nothing …” Her voice drops even lower. “ Nothing to claim her.”

She shakes her head. I hold my breath. She fingers the golden edges, and my dick comes to life.

“When I tell you there’s no line this man won’t cross for her…” She shakes her head as if completely overcome with emotion. “Chases her in the woods… kidnaps her in the back of his car… fucks her blindfolded in an abandoned warehouse while suspending her from?—”

She covers her mouth as if she’s said too much.

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

My mouth is dry. This woman is completely unaware of what she’s playing with. She doesn’t realize the line she’s walking—romanticizing the very thing that could destroy her.

“Careful what you wish for,” I mutter under my breath before I down the rest of my bourbon.

The bartender slides me another without being asked. I raise the glass in silent thanks before my gaze flicks back to my mark, the reason I’m here.

Still busy with the blonde, still oblivious.

All I have to do tonight is case him and confirm he’s cheating on his wife before I blackmail the fuck out of him and extort him for ten times what he owes us.

Easy.

I exhale and stare back at my phone as if rewarding myself for a job well done. My mouth dry, I click the follow button at the top of the page.

I check the messages that have been buzzing in my pocket like an angry swarm of bees. There’s a new notification in our group chat.

text

Rafail: I don’t know what stupid nonsense you’re spending your time watching, but if you don’t do what I fucking tell you, I’ll show you exactly where I’ll shove your goddamn phone

Rafail is impatient on a good day. Sleep-deprived, daddy of a newborn Rafail is a fucking animal.

Well, he can get mad at us all he wants. The reality is, he is happily married while Semyon nurses his wounds and plans for option B, and I’m thinking of?—

No. I am thinking nothing.

I slip my phone in my pocket. I can’t afford distractions, least of all ones wrapped in unrealistic, staged internet fantasies. This is my job, my duty, and?—

My phone buzzes.

With a growl of annoyance, I pull it out again. My heart flips over.

It’s a notification. I follow exactly one person online, and here she is, and—oh my god. She’s in her pajamas.

I swallow hard.

She’s in bed , a bed with a sturdy headboard and a thick comforter while she playfully bites her lip while holding a paperback book.

She’s so damn cute. If only she knew how far-removed real life was from her stories. Princes don’t exist in our world—only wolves and their prey.

Still, my fingers hover over the screen. A stupid idea creeps into my mind, one that Rafail would probably punch me for.

What if I… I polish off my drink and look around. Dim lighting. It’s perfect.

I open my camera, position the phone to catch the glint of my pistol holster under my suit jacket, and hit record.

The video’s quick—just enough to show the weapon and a flash of stubble and a smirk. I add a caption:

Careful what you wish for, @dreammafiaqueen.

It’s a reckless, dangerous game. One that could unravel everything. But as the video uploads, I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge, daring her to follow.

And yet, as I hit post and slide the phone away, I can’t help the laugh that rumbles in my chest. Self-deprecating, bitter, but amused all the same. She likes Bratva? I’ll call her bluff.

“I am going to regret that,” I mutter.

I don’t do distractions. Not when blood is on the line. But as I slip through the crowd, heading back to the hotel, my hand brushes the cold steel of the knife strapped to my hip, and I find myself wondering.

What would a woman like her taste like—innocence or fire?

And what would she do if she really met her fantasy man in real life?

My phone dings with a notification. I frown at the screen then click it as a slow, wicked grin spreads across my face.

Reply from @dreammafiaqueen