Dark Possession (Romanov Bratva)

CHAPTER ONE

Alina

AS FAR AS ideas went, I’d had better.

I hesitate beside the nondescript building before me, apprehension rooting my feet to the sidewalk across the street. It’s raining, a cold drizzle that peppers the back of my neck and plasters my hair against my skull, but that’s a minor inconvenience.

I’m giving myself a minute to steady my nerves, but when that minute is up, I’m going to do something that will make this rain seem like sunshine.

After that minute, I’m going to force myself to cross this street and walk inside that building. I’m going to tell the man behind the bar that Koka sent me and that everything’s supposed to be arranged.

In a minute, I’m going to sell my most precious commodity—myself—because that’s what big sisters do. They protect the young ones, no matter the cost.

I have to be out of my mind.

“ Chyort .” Cursing softly, I step back into the protection of a doorway and pull a pack of cigarettes, purchased impulsively from the gas station this morning, from my pocket. Hand shaking, I roll the flint wheel of my lighter once, twice, a third time until the flame leaps to life, and I light one up.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the brick of the entryway, letting the smoke seep through my tension and smooth it away. I don’t smoke often, but it was either this or alcohol today.

Marina had really fucked things up this time. It was a miracle I’d even gotten the story out of her—the ninny actually thought she was going to handle it somehow.

Work it off, maybe. My blood had iced over when she told me she was planning to go and see if she could work as a maid until the debt was paid. She didn’t seem to comprehend that owing fifty thousand to the Bratva wasn’t something a girl could just ‘work off.’

Especially not as a maid.

And the worst thing? It technically wasn’t even her debt. It was her no-account boyfriend who had convinced her to take on the loan for him.

And where was he now?

In the wind, of course.

Tossing the cigarette down, I grind it beneath the toe of my shoe, wishing it was his penis.

So here I was. Ready to sacrifice myself on the altar of sisterhood, because I knew that there was no way Marina was going to survive any kind of skirmish with the Bratva. Not with this guy, anyway.

Koka.

I’ve heard his name whispered in the café where I work as a waitress, and there’s never anything good said about him. Marina…sweet, na?ve, smart-mouthed little Marina…didn’t stand a chance. And I wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to get herself hurt.

So, I told Mama to rein her in and give me a few days to take care of things. Maybe a week.

Mama had given me the squint, a look that never failed to make me confess every sin she knew of and some she didn’t when I was a child. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just tell Marina not to worry about it, and for God’s sake not to go to Koka. I will handle it.”

Mama shook her head and went back to her ironing, lips pinched. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“Think of it this way. Who do you trust to handle something like this more…Marina or me?”

Finished, she shook out the dress and placed it on a hanger, then hung it carefully on a hook on the kitchen door. Mama did ironing and other small jobs for some of the more well-to-do ladies in our little town and the neighboring ones to earn extra income. “Maybe we could call the politsiya ?”

I shook my head. “No, Mama. You know better. This is the way.”

Eventually, she had agreed.

I’ve stalled long enough. Taking a deep breath, I step back into the rain and cross the street. An unmarked door in a weather-worn red beckons, as described, and after another brief hesitation, I let myself in.

It’s hard to believe they don’t lock the door, but I suppose their security is such that they feel pretty comfortable.

The room I step into is as different from the unassuming exterior as it can be—rich mahogany walls, deep-pile carpeting, and dim, intimate lighting. A mahogany bar runs the length of one wall, a bartender behind it busy polishing glasses already shined to a high gloss.

A few men sit and drink at tables scattered throughout the room, their gazes raking over me in bland but annoyed interest as the door closes behind me.

My nerves rise up once again as I survey my surroundings. Nothing indicates my next move. Where am I supposed to go? Koka just said to enter, and everything would be taken care of. He didn’t say the room would be full of men who looked like they’d just as soon shoot me as speak to me—

“May I help you, Miss?”

The bartender’s voice is low but audible, and I turn toward him gratefully. “Koka sent me. He said arrangements would be made—”

“Ah.” He raises a hand with a glass, stopping the flow of words. “This way.”

Setting the glass down, he leads me around the back of the bar and through a half-hidden door, made of mahogany panels like the rest of the wall. It opens to a dim hallway lit by a single dangling lightbulb.

“Through there, last door on the right.”

It’s late to be seized with doubt, but it rears itself nonetheless. “There is…someone…waiting there?”

He frowns. “You are here for the auction, no? Someone will be along to prepare you.”

“I…okay.”

Marina. It’s Marina or you. I force a smile and begin to walk.

“Move along.” A hand in the center of my back shoves me forward, sending me almost to my knees. Almost.

I catch myself, palms slapping against the rough concrete of the narrow corridor’s floor, and push myself back up. I flash the brute behind me a glare and smooth the satiny slip they dressed me in over my hips as I continue to walk.

This is not what I signed up for. Not what I expected.

When Koka told me that I could sign up for an auction and be “sold” to pay off the fifty thousand, I expected something along the lines of Miss Moscow—eye candy for an agreed-upon length of time, a top shelf companion who doesn’t argue and doesn’t talk back—with sex and sexual favors, of course. I’m not so na?ve to think I’d get away with only providing a pretty face and agreeable conversation.

No one is going to pay fifty thousand for the pleasure of a woman’s company and not get laid.

This, though…this is definitely not some high-priced escort auction. Most of these girls are young, in their early teens if I had to guess. They’re fearful and nervous, many with tear tracks lining their faces.

The men are rough and carry guns, but it’s more as if they’re here to keep us from leaving, rather than protect us from any external threat.

One of the girls holds herself very carefully, and even in the dimness of the space we’re in, bruising is visible through the sheer material of the negligee she wears.

I’m struck again by the certainty that Marina would not have fared well here.

The man—Igor?—mutters something, and I hear one of the girls further back in line squeak as he turns his attention to her.

Part of me wants to do something—help her, help all of these girls being herded down this dim, cold hall like so much cattle—but the other, more practical part knows there’s nothing I can do. I can’t fight the bratva.

Whatever brought these other girls here is obviously very different from what brought me here. I just hope I haven’t inadvertently gotten myself into something I can’t get out of.

Fear grips me suddenly. What if Koka doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain and ensure that I’m released after whatever length of time is agreed upon with my buyer? What is he even going to negotiate on my behalf?

Nausea curdles my stomach, and I press a fist against it. It didn’t even occur to me to press him for details like that. I just assumed… Holy Mary, I’m an idiot! Koka could do anything! What if he sells me to some South American cartel, and I never see my family again? What if—

The line stumbles to a halt as we draw close to a set of stairs, and my heart gives a hard thump. At the bottom of the stairs, another man corrals the girls into a small foyer. I look around, but there’s nothing much to see. Something about it, though, some sense of oppression—makes me think we’re underground.

We line up along the wall single file as several men, including Igor, stride back and forth, inspecting us. They lift a chin here, twitch a neckline down there…tuck a strand of hair behind an ear. Their gaze is critical.

Even if I hadn’t known from Marina’s tearful confession yesterday, there would be no mistaking them.

Bratva have a certain look. It’s not necessarily size or a gun or the tattoos, although those things tend to follow. It’s a certain hardness about the features and a deadness behind the eyes. It’s the calculation in their gaze and the way they miss nothing around them.

Normal men—ordinary, everyday-Joe-kind-of-men—aren’t like that. They’re more relaxed. The girl next to me shivers uncontrollably and sags back against the railing. The Bratva who had been behind me is a few girls down, prodding his gun between the legs of another girl in a similar state.

I elbow my neighbor. “Stand up,” I whisper. “And dry your tears.”

With a quick glance down the line, the girl draws herself up until the tremble of her chin is the only sign of her distress.

“In a moment,” one of the men says, “this door will open, and we will send each of you out onto the stage.”

Somebody moans, and a slap resonates through the space.

“There will be no pussy tears,” the man continues. “You will smile! Be happy! Show your new masters how happy you are to be their new toy.”

I roll my eyes. Is he for real? Does he truly expect these young women, whom he has presumably trafficked and terrorized, to pretend to be thrilled?

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

The speaker has come to stand before me while I’m inwardly scoffing. I lift my gaze, allowing myself to assess him as he is doing me, and raise my chin a fraction.

He stands around five-feet-nine inches, so I don’t have to look too far to meet his eyes, a fact I’m sure maddens him. He has the customary short haircut and nice suit—silk on a pig.

I smile. I refuse to cower before these men. They can posture and grab futilely for power where they can—but they’re taking nothing that I’m not giving.

“No problem,” I reply. “I can’t wait to get out there.”

“Is that so?”

I broaden my smile, and if it trembles at the edges, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Onward and upward, right?”

He walks a few feet away and points to one of the girls. “You. At the door.” Hand pressed to her throat, she obeys.

He flicks two fingers at another. “And you.” The girl stifles a sob and moves. “You.”

He moves to stand in front of me once again. “Yours is the sister who owes Koka money, isn’t she?”

My mouth goes dry. “Not anymore.”

At his side, his fingers work some complicated dance against his trousers. He reaches up and runs a finger across my bottom lip. “Not unless someone buys you. Settles the debt. If no one buys you… If no one likes this smart mouth or this old pussy—“ Sliding his hand down, he cups my vagina and squeezes painfully. “Then you still owe. Little sister still owes.”

I don’t have a response; terror and rage course through every vein in my body in equal measure. He pats my cheek, the gesture more like a slap. “Line up.”

Numb, I step behind the other girls. The door creaks open, and directional stage lights placed on the floor pour in, blinding me momentarily.

“Move.”

We move, the first girl walking forward to stand on a mark on the stage while the rest of us wait just out of sight behind her. The announcer makes a few remarks, and the bidding begins almost immediately.

Within minutes, she’s purchased. She walks off stage in the direction opposite from where we entered, and the next girl takes her place. I step closer, deliberately keeping my expression calm and vaguely disinterested. The last thing I want to show is fear.

As my eyes adjust, I’m able to make out the hazy outline of our surroundings. We stand on a platform in a dim, black-shrouded room. The girl on stage is illuminated by a dedicated spotlight. The audience before us is cloaked in shadows, no single face discernible. The sound of low voices, the clink of ice in glasses, and murmured conversation filters back.

The girl next to me hiccups, and a furtive glance reveals her crying.

For a moment—a single, desperate moment—I want to join her. The lights flare and swim into starburst patterns, and the dull hum of noise that surrounds us suddenly seems deafening.

This was a terrible idea. Anyone could purchase me. A sadist. Someone who wants a body to break, to maim, to torture.

My hands curl into fists. That’s exactly why I’m here, though. Better me than Marina.

“—next girl.”

With a start, I realize the auctioneer is referring to me. I step forward into the light, until the auctioneer stands beside me, holding a tiny microphone in his hand.

“A bit older at twenty-three, Alina is nonetheless healthy and remarkably beautiful. No blemishes, no illnesses, no health concerns. I’m told she’s quite intelligent. This one, gentlemen, has real potential beyond the bedroom. Let your imagination run wild. We’ll start the bidding at twenty-thousand. Do I hear twenty-thousand?”

I give him a disbelieving look. Twenty-thousand? That won’t help at all.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them. I look out beyond the lights, and I smile. Nothing big or toothy—that would come across as mental. Just the hint of an upward curve.

Placing a hand on my hip the way I’ve seen the runway models on television do, I push my shoulders back and stand as tall as my five feet five inches will allow. The satiny material of the lingerie slides against my skin, raising goosebumps and pebbling my nipples.

I don’t hunch or try to cover myself. Let them look. Let them see what their money is purchasing.

I stare beyond the lights, and I smile.