Tormented Heir (Bratva Born Prequel)

1. Dimitri

1

DIMITRI

SAN FRANCISCO

Two months ago

The man in front of me is begging. Crying. Snot running down his face. The woman next to him is silent, her eyes dry.

No one can hear his screams and his exhorting me to spare him. We are in the basement underneath my club, and the music from the bars and clubs up and down this street drown it all out. For extra security the place is soundproofed too.

“You see your wife?” I say to the man. “This is how you meet your end with dignity.”

She sucks in a breath, and her lips quiver, but still no sobs. No entreaties to let her live.

They’ve been stealing from us. From my stepfather to be precise.

No one can steal from the head of the Californian arm of the Bratva and expect to walk away unharmed. Jacob Rudenko isn’t here. He leaves the policing of his operation to me, his son. I may not be by blood, but I am by every other measure.

Legally too, as Jacob married my mother and adopted me so we could have a home in this country.

I will do anything for him. He is to me what my biological father never was: a father figure.

The wife lifts her chin and looks right at me. She’s hot. Older than me, maybe in her early forties, and sexy. Her eyes are large and dark, with gold flecks in them the color of the brandy in my glass.

I think it’s her bravery and defiance that have me hard.

“Let me live, and I’ll make sure you don’t regret it,” she says, licking her lips.

I glance at the men next to me, and they smirk.

Her husband’s face turns deep red. “You’re offering yourself to him? You fucking whore!”

She turns her face to stare at him dispassionately. “Why should I die for your sins? I didn’t steal from the Pakhan; you did. Why? To buy furs and jewels for your mistress. I don’t give a fuck what they do to you.” Then, bold as brass, she lets her gaze rake up and down my body. “Anyway, darling.” She smiles at her husband. “It won’t be a hardship. It will be like driving a Ferrari after spending years driving a clapped out old banger.”

Her husband shouts a string of profanities at her, but she doesn’t seem to be listening.

She turns back to me. “Let me live, and I’ll show you the best time.”

Her husband’s face twists into outright hate. Then fear, and then finally, a kind of dismayed defeat. He deflates like a balloon right in front of me, and the red-cheeked anger becomes pale-faced horror.

It’s that horror that makes my mind up. This isn’t usually my kind of thing, but the chance to really screw him up is far too tempting. Plus, it can’t harm my reputation if this gets out. Fuck over the Rudenkos and not only will you probably die, but Dimitri Baranov, their feared enforcer, will fuck your wife too.

I bite back my smile and watch him trying to process the offer his wife has made me.

This man deserves to suffer before he dies. He can’t move. His ankles are tied, and his arms are fastened, wrists behind the chair. He’s a captive audience.

My dick twitches. This is turning out to be way more fun than I’d imagined. I turn to my two guards. “Leave us.”

They frown. “But, boss,” one of them begins.

“Fuck off.” I jerk my chin toward the door.

The guard’s frown deepens, but he shrugs. He’s as wide as the door and must turn sideways to fit through it. His brains are as dense as his body, but he puts the fear of God into people, and that’s what he’s useful for.

The two guards close the door behind them, leaving me alone in the room with the husband and wife.

The husband is shit out of luck. Partly because he stole from us, but also because he reminds me of my previous stepfather. A man I couldn’t stand because of the way he treated Mamma.

Now, with Jacob, she has a good husband. My Italian stepfather was anything but. He screwed around too, the way this piece of shit clearly has. It’s tough luck for him that he’s triggered deep, buried feelings of loathing in me.

His wife smiles at me. She knows I’m considering taking the bait. She probably thinks it’s worth it. Suck the bratva enforcer’s cock, and she gets to live.

Except, I don’t want her to suck my cock.

I don’t want her to do that if she feels she must.

That won’t upset her piece of shit husband enough either. Me making her come, though? Me having her shout my name as she unravels for me while he’s tied to a chair waiting to die?

Now that will fucking eat at him. The way I wish someone could have got to my stepfather and made him suffer.

Casually, I walk to the wife. I tip her chin up and rub my thumb over her full lower lip. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Lizzie.” Her eyes are incredible up close.

I undo her wrists, and her husband struggles in his chair. I then untie her ankles. It’s a risk. This woman could be planning to murder me for all I know. She has no weapons, though, and I’m a trained killer. I can kill a two-hundred-pound man with my bare hands, never mind a petite thing like her.

There’s an old school boom box in the corner of the room, and I press play on it so that rock blares out, near enough to the husband’s ears to be painful.

Taking her hand in mine, I pull the wife, Lizzie, after me to the far end of the room where a small bar is set up. I gesture to the drinks.

“Vodka,” she says. “On the rocks.”

I pour her drink and hand it to her. She drinks it down in one go and licks her lips.

“Another?” I ask.

She nods.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her. I’m a lot of things. Murderer. Torturer. Killer. Fighter. One thing I am not, and will never be, is a rapist.

“I’m going to let you go, irrespective.”

“Why?” she asks.

“My gut tells me you weren’t in on this. Like you pointed out, he had a mistress. And he treated you like shit, I presume. Why should you suffer for his sins? You can walk out of here right now. No need to offer me anything.”

“What if I want to?” she asks softly. “What if I want the last thing he sees to be me on my knees for you?”

My cock is so hard, I think it might explode. If I was the sort of person to fall in love, then she might be it; except, we’re both far too jaded, and too jaded people just make a nihilistic mess.

“You hate him that much?” I raise one brow. “You married him.”

“Yes. Twenty years ago. Since then, he destroyed every dream I had. We had no kids. He was unable to, and then he said we couldn’t use a donor. He made me leave my job. Slowly alienated me from my friends. Fucked over your boss.” She shakes her head and purses her lips. “He’s a fucking life-ruiner.”

“Yet, you stayed. How do I know you won’t get overcome with remorse once he’s dead and decide you have to go to the police?”

Her mouth twitches up in a slight smile. “If he’s found dead, unknown causes, then his insurance pays out. If I go to the police, then I won’t get anything. There will be years of investigations, and the insurance could argue he brought it on himself. So, why would I screw myself over that way? You ask why I stayed; well, I stayed because I have nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. The house is mortgaged to the hilt. We have debts. The one thing we still have, and I know because I am the one who does all the finances after he got behind on the bills, is the joint life insurance. It would only pay out enough to clear the mortgage, but I don’t need the house and the memories.”

“You really had no clue he was skimming off the top?” I push, even though my mind is ninety-nine percent made up.

Her face twists into a mask of disgust and anger.

Disgust is one of the most basic human emotions. It’s hard to fake. It’s discernible from a young age. Tiny children can recognize disgust. Her face is drowning in it, and it is real .

“No. I’d have cut off his balls.” She juts her chin.

I laugh. “I still might.”

“I just want to get the house paid off, sell it, and go live near my sister in Alabama. Do you know the kind of house I could buy out in rural Alabama with the money from a three bed, three bath in San Francisco?”

I don’t, but I can guess.

“I’ll kill him and let you go.” I pour her another drink, and she sips at this one. “You don’t have to do the sex thing.” I keep reiterating this, giving her that out, but hoping she doesn’t take it.

“Spoilsport,” she purrs.

“You really do hate him, don’t you?”

Her ability to feel hatred as deep as a well is charming.

“I hate him with every part of my being. He makes me sick. He’s screwed every cheap bit of pussy he can get his hands on. I’ve been faithful all these years because he always said he’d throw me out if I wasn’t. He makes the money, not me. Then he blew it all on hookers.”

Her arms wrap around my neck as she blows hot vodka breath across my cheek. Her gaze isn’t on me but locked on her husband. “I’d love to make him scream before you put him out of his misery.”

I spin us around and lift her onto the makeshift bar. “How about I make you scream? But in the best way.”

Her lips part. “You don’t want me on my knees?”

“No, darling. This will hurt him a lot more; trust me.”

Negotiations done with, I walk over to turn the music down. After all, there’s no point in doing this if word of it isn’t spread far and wide. My men are outside that door. They’ll talk, and what I do now in this room will soon become legend out there on the streets.

Walking leisurely back to Lizzie, I smile as she leans back, her legs parting a little. I lift the hem of her dress slowly, my hands brushing it ever higher. A strangled cry of rage behind me has my lips twitching into a smirk.

Yeah, motherfucker, you just watch. I push Lizzie’s panties to one side, and she sits back propped on her elbows. She gasps when my tongue traces a line right over her slit.

“I’ll fucking kill you, you Russian piece of shit.” He shouts loud enough to be heard in the hallway.

The strangled threats make me laugh softly against Lizzie’s core, and she likes that because she moans. I use my fingers to part her. She’s already wet, and I flick my tongue over her.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers as I work a finger inside.

“There’s no god in here, darling,” I reply, kissing her thigh. “Just us sinners, and the devil sitting on your shoulder.”

“The devil won, and the angel lost.” She doesn’t sound too sad about it.

Her core is clenching in waves, so I add a second finger and work my tongue faster.

“Oh, God. I can’t, not with him looking at me. So close.”

I break off. “I thought you wanted him to see this?”

“I do, but his judgment is putting me off.”

“Close your eyes,” I order the bastard, without even turning around. “Your wife needs to come, and if you do one more thing to mess up her life, I’ll cut your right ball off with the rusty knife in the corner of the bar. Then I’ll leave you tied up to slowly die of tetanus.”

“You’re sick and fucked up. Your momma dropped you on your head.” He throws himself around so hard in the chair I hear it rocking against the floor.

I crook my finger inside Lizzie. “Eyes on me, Lizzie. Don’t look at him; he doesn’t even exist anymore. In a few days, you’re going to be a rich widow.”

“Well, a comfortable one,” she says with a small inhale.

“I’ve decided to give you two hundred thousand dollars to start over with.” I flick my tongue gently against her and keep on pressing inside her.

She whimpers, and I’m not sure if it’s me playing with her or the money I’ve just given her getting her so hot.

“What the fuck? Are you insane? She was part of it. She helped me steal from you. She’s a liar . A femme fatale who has you trapped in her spell,” her husband shouts from behind us.

He’s so wrong. Lizzie is a sexy enough woman, but she’s no femme fatale. I haven’t lost my mind. I’m utterly in control and fucking up this man’s head is so much fun.

“I want you to focus on me.” I look at Lizzie. “Think about your huge new home and starting over with all that money. Think about how much that piece of shit who ruined your life is going to hate it when you come like a fucking train. I want you to scream it out when it hits.”

Her gaze never leaves mine. “That’s a good girl. Just you and me. Christ, you’re gorgeous. So hot.”

She slams her eyes closed and wails. She grips my fingers in wave after wave before her head falls back in spent delight. Let her pathetic husband see that.

He is shouting and crying behind me. He’s wailing almost as much as she did.

I grab some paper towels and gently wipe her, before I put her panties back in place and help her down from the bar.

“You’re dead,” he seethes. He is speaking to her, not me. “You’re a dead bitch. I’ll have someone come and find you and fuck every orifice before cutting you up and putting you in the ground.”

“Wait here,” I instruct Lizzie.

I walk over to her husband and yank his head back, my fingers gripping his hair so tight it will make his scalp bleed. “I don’t like your threats. Lizzie is under my protection now. You have anyone touch her and that person and their entire family is dead; you get me? Anyway, how the fuck will you be issuing orders? You won’t see your phone again before you die.”

I let go of his hair and backhand him hard enough to give him whiplash.

Then I lead Lizzie out of the room by her hand. We pass the two guards who are staring at me bug-eyed. They obviously heard it all. Good. Let them know what happens to people who cross me. I won’t stand for betrayal. I loathe liars. I end those who dare take from us.

“Put an end to him and drag it out,” I tell them, jerking my head in the direction of the room behind me. “Make it look like a street attack. A robbery gone wrong.”

They nod.

“Lizzie and me have some unfinished business.”

“Yes, boss,” they chorus in unison.

As they head into the room, I hear one of them say softly to the other, “Fuck me, did he just screw that guy’s wife in front of him?”

I smirk to myself and lead Lizzie down a long corridor until we hit the bank of elevators. We ride from basement to penthouse, bypassing the club. Once up there, I take Lizzie into my study and write her a check as promised.

She takes it with tears in her shell-shocked, glassy eyes. “Do you want another drink?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Need me to call anyone? He might be a bastard, but he was still your husband.” I use the past tense because best she gets used to it.

She shakes her head again.

“Do you want me to give you a driver to take you to your sister’s?”

Her eyes widen. “Y-y-you’d do that?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d like to have a little time before I go there. I need to pretend that I didn’t know this was going to happen to him. W-w-will your men definitely make it look like an accident?”

I nod. “I’ll make sure he’s found somewhere, and the police will think he was robbed.”

Her shivering is getting worse. She’s reaching the shock stage now. The reality of it hitting her. I don’t fancy being the babysitter for some traumatized widow who hated her husband. It’s a tricky fucker, grief. It can hit even when you loathed the person, and it can sometimes feel strangely absent when you loved them more than anything.

“If you go home, pretend you’re waiting for him to come home after work. Is there someone who can be with you?”

She nods.

“Okay, call them, and I’ll take you home.” I don’t have the time to drive her to her sisters, but I can take her across the city. I tip her chin up and give her my undivided attention. “You can never tell anyone I killed him. That’s the price you pay for living. For the second chance I am giving you.”

“I won’t,” she insists. “I hate him.”

My men can talk because that’s just gossip amongst the streets, and the cops won’t listen. A widow saying I killed her husband, though, is the kind of thing even the cops in our pocket would struggle to ignore.

“I swear,” she whispers.

I don’t expect to see her again, but she turns up at my club three nights later, and she’s no longer shaking, or in shock. She’s had her hair done, and she’s wearing new clothes. She tells me she owes me something, and this time, she’s the one who gets on her knees for me.

We enjoy a few weeks of intense fucking. When she leaves, she tells me if I’m ever stuck, I can go hide out in Alabama. I don’t tell her I’d rather gouge my eyes out than hide out in rural bumfuck nowhere with her. She is fun, but nothing more.

I don’t do love and hearts and flowers and commitment. It’s a promise I made to myself when I found out about my biological father’s weakness and the sickness living in him.

It’s a promise I renewed once I followed Jacob into the Bratva and became his de-facto next in line. I might be the prince to the Bratva throne but I don’t want a future queen by my side. Any woman would simply be a target and I’ve never met any woman I wanted enough to risk that.

I saw firsthand how his own daughter was used against him, and I won’t put a wife or child in that position. If being the heir to the Bratva king means being alone and apart, it’s a price I will pay gladly because I’m too fucked up to be the marrying kind anyway.

My cursed blood is one thing, but my early years are another damn good reason I shouldn’t marry. They weren’t exactly healthy, and I am sure my early upbringing would help ensure I’d be a shitty husband and father. My first stepfather was a cruel man, and he really did a number on my mother and me.

I pour a massive whiskey and sit in my club, looking out over the city.

My mind drifts back. To Lombardy. The beauty of the place, the quiet of the house … the hatefulness of my stepfather, and the fear he inspired in a little boy.