Nikolai
A muffled thump comes from the white sedan’s trunk. Alisa’s a feisty one.
I can’t believe my luck. I’d been looking for an opportunity to sneak into the Morozov compound in Los Angeles when this nondescript car marked Cleaning Service rolled in. I crouched and ran right through the open gate alongside the car, then peeled off and hugged the walled perimeter. Easy.
Too easy.
I push the thought away. Why shouldn’t it be simple and straightforward to kidnap my brother Maxim’s longtime fiancée?
I’ve never met Alisa. Bratva marriages are made the traditional way.
You’re told who and when based on alliances negotiated without your input.
You show up, or you plunge your family into an inter-faction war.
You do your duty, or you risk death.
I, the youngest Orlov son, am sick and tired of being the household laughingstock.
Taking Maxim’s woman isn’t going to win me any points within the family, but I’ll worry about that later.
I have a chance to prove myself every bit as ruthless as my brothers and head off my insufferable eldest brother’s claim by marrying his woman first.
At our father’s funeral this morning, our mother said that leadership of the Orlov family would not be decided by who was the firstborn son, Maxim, who has been dodging his obligation to marry Alisa for years.
Mamushka had hardly finished delivering her decree before he was on the phone ordering his arranged bride to get her ass to Vegas. I’m sure that went over well.
Clearly, Alisa didn’t exactly jump on the next plane.
I did. Went straight to the airport and got a flight to Los Angeles. The Morozov family’s general movements are known to us. We’re longtime allies, mostly. Maxim and Alisa’s wedding was intended to cement the partnership.
The Morozov pakhan rules the West Coast from San Francisco, where they have a front operation working as a tech company. Their technology gives us plausible deniability to the State of Nevada. See? We’re upstanding casino operators with an online crypto gambling arm.
But after the marriage arrangement was struck, Maxim showed no interest in moving forward with the bargain.
Neither did Alisa. She moved to Los Angeles to pursue her acting and modeling careers.
The family dutifully bought her a compound for her personal security, which clearly they don’t take very seriously, or this cleaning service would have had to badge out, too.
Instead, all I did was approach the gate, and the metal barrier lifted without checking who was leaving the premises.
Now, if I could just get through traffic and onto the fucking highway, we can get our asses back to Vegas and get married before midnight. By my calculation, we can make a quick stop at the nearest drive-in chapel and show up at breakfast, thus cementing my control of Orlov Enterprises.
Maxim is going to have an absolute shit fit when he sees I’ve married his arranged bride and wrested authority from his grasp. I grin, picturing it.
My cold brother has no idea how good he could have had it.
Alissa’s long brown waves and dusky skin, those velvety amber eyes and full lips, fuller tits, and that sexy little pooch where the red silk hugged her belly…
I’m trying not to bite my knuckle just thinking about what a complete package she is.
Not to mention those legs. He could have had them wrapped around his waist for years.
Now those pretty ankles are going to be locked around my waist, with my dick buried in her sweet pussy—
The car in front of me slams on the brakes. My premature victory comes to a screeching halt inches from the car’s bumper.
“Where’d you learn to drive, fuckwit?” I slap the steering wheel in frustration.
I can see the source of the problem five cars ahead.
Clocked that idiot weaving through traffic and humping bumpers like a dog a couple of miles back.
Now that stupid asshole is messing up my kidnapping by causing a pile-up during rush hour.
“AAAMMMPPH,” screeches the woman in my trunk. Jesus. Someone’s going to hear her. People are leaning out of their cars to rubberneck at the accident up ahead. Great. Just fucking great.
Impatiently, I force my way into the lane next to us, then over once more. Horns blare. I don’t give a fuck. I’m getting around this traffic jam and taking my stolen bride to Vegas, where we’ll be married tonight, come hell or high water.
Sierra
I’m being kidnapped. He kidnapped me. Oh god I can’t believe this is actually happening—
Fractured thoughts whirl uselessly through my mind.
This poor red dress will be ruined. I should never have put it on.
I had no business pretending I was someone I wasn’t, even for a few minutes.
I just wanted a tiny taste of a lifestyle I’ll never be able to afford.
I couldn’t swim in that beautiful pool, which absolutely had cameras on it, so I tried on Alissa Morozova’s clothes and look where that got me—trapped in the stifling trunk of my own car.
I bet he left my vacuum cleaner in the house, too. Fucking jerk.
I managed to get the heels off pretty quickly, and I’ve been kicking the side of the car every time the vehicle slows down, hoping to attract attention.
Something had to have happened. An accident, maybe?
We’ve been crawling, lurching back and forth like he’s stomping on the gas pedal and then braking hard.
Weaving through heavy traffic, presumably.
If another vehicle hits the back of this one, I’ll be crushed.
Awkwardly, I scootch myself as far back as I can.
With my hands zip-tied, I can’t reach the emergency latch even if I could still feel my fingers. My left arm went numb miles ago.
At least I’m sweating enough to get the duct tape loose.
I’ve rubbed my cheek raw on the bleach-scented fabric lining the trunk, trying to get it off.
Now a strand of my hair is stuck to the bit I peeled back, and I taste glue every time I move my lips.
Still an improvement over having my mouth taped shut, but not much of one.
I’m going to kill this asshole as soon as I get out of here.
Whoever he is. He had on one of those creepy spandex masks that cover your entire face when he threw me over his shoulder.
The only description I could give the police is that he was taller than me even when I was wearing five-inch heels, and that he was very muscular.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Tattoos. I remember those, too.
Always liked a man with tattoos.
A peculiar and highly unwelcome zing of heat pinches my lower core. No. Bad pussy. You have terrible taste in men, which is why you are not allowed to meet any of them in person yet.
I’m holding out for marriage and a family. Not a kidnapper with broad, strong shoulders and lots of ink. When my pussy stops swooning over awful men and finds a nice one to settle down with, then she can finally have one of her very own—and not a moment before.
Probably just a physical reaction to the stress of being kidnapped. That’s all.
The car zooms off again, and I roll like a melon that fell out of the grocery bag coming home from the store. Nausea roils my stomach. I taste more glue from the tape stuck over my mouth. Gross.
I will not die here.
Not today. Not this way.
I lapse into a fugue of misery. Conserve your energy, I tell myself.
You’ve watched enough true crime. How do you not know how to escape from a kidnapping situation?
But despite hours of TV-watching, I still don’t have the faintest idea what to expect.
Will he kill me? What was that insanity about a wedding?
Maybe there’s a chance I can talk my way out of this. I’m good at that. Talking.
I feel like I’ve sweated out nearly every drop of moisture in my body when the car decelerates—on top of which, I really need to pee. An unholy combination that shouldn’t be physically possible.
The car halts. My eyes pop open. There’s almost no light inside the trunk. I can’t tell how long we were driving or what time of day it is.
Outside, footsteps crunch on gravel. My heartbeat kicks into a frantic drumbeat. Should I try to run?
Fight?
Scream?
All of the above?
I wiggle around to face the opening. I manage to get my hand on one discarded shoe. Maybe I can throw it at my abductor. The spike heel could do real damage.
What does he look like under that mask?
My final thought before the trunk pops open—after all, I’ll need to describe him to the police when I get free. Fresh air streams in. I inhale deeply and wait for my vision to adjust to the sudden change in light. A man leans over the opening.
“Are you alive, Alisa?”
Finally, I can make out his features. Time stops. My heart skips a beat. Deep in my core, a clenching sensation reminds me that not only does my pussy love a handsome bad boy, she also really needs a toilet.
“Mmph,” I mumble. Even with the tape loose on one side, I still can’t speak. I glare daggers at my captor, wondering what in the hell a man who looks like that is doing kidnapping a woman like me. Any woman, for that matter.
Dark hair and brooding blue eyes beneath a fringe of lashes that don’t belong on a man.
A sharp nose and high cheekbones like a model’s, but he’s clearly no model.
Not with that physique. Tattoos cover the backs of his hands and creep down the sides of his neck into his black shirt collar.
One of his earlobes is adorned with an ebony earring.
Under different circumstances, I’d be very interested in striking up a conversation with this man—like, if he hadn’t kidnapped me. Right. He thinks I’m someone else. A Russian actress living in a swanky part of Los Angeles.
“I’m going to help you out of the trunk now. Are you going to fight me?” he says.
I shake my head. I want nothing so much as to get out of this fucking trunk.
I’m embarrassed at the way I’m shaking, at how one strap of the red gown has slipped down over my shoulder, threatening to expose my entire boob.
With a pang of regret, I loosen my grip on the shiny patent leather heel.
Strong arms scoop me up. I have the oddest impression of safety, when clearly, I am very much in danger.
“Good. If you try to fight me, run away, or scream, you will not like what happens next. Understand?” He sets me on my feet and displays a gun hidden beneath his jacket.
Stunned, I can only stare at the weapon. Then drag my gaze up to his unfairly handsome face. He reaches over and snatches the tape off my face with stinging force. I flinch. The instant my lips are free, I snap, “My name isn’t Alisa, and I really need to pee.”
My captor’s dark lashes flare wide with surprise.