THE SOLDIER

Chapter One

Pavel

I wrap my tattooed fingers under the deadbeat’s jaw and trace a knife blade across his throat. “Don’t make bets you can’t cover,” I tell him. I sharpened the blade before we came, so just the tickle of it cuts his skin and sends a trickle of blood down his fat neck. Enough to scare him if he’s squeamish. We’re not here to maim the guy, just to make him piss his pants.

Nikolai, our bookie, stands close, arms folded over his chest in clear condemnation. Beside him, Oleg, the enormous, silent enforcer, cracks his tattooed knuckles.

He already worked the asshole over pretty well. The guy will be bruised and swollen for a couple weeks, for sure. That’s what happens when you fuck with the Chicago Bratva. 

“Please. I’ll get you the money. I swear.” He’s blubbering now. It didn’t take long to break him, but it was still more time than I wanted to waste here. 

Not that my job is a waste of my time. I’m damn lucky to be part of Ravil’s bratva cell.

It’s just that I have someone else to torture after this. Someone far more delectable and willing. But unfortunately, she lives in a different city, which means I have a flight to catch.

I meet Nikolai’s eye, and he shrugs, leaving the call up to me. 

I clean the blade of my knife on the mudak’s shirt. “You have two weeks. Pay up or we take everything you love. Understand?”

“I understand,” he moans. “I’ll get you the money. I promise.”

“You had the money,” I remind him. “And instead of bringing it to us, you used it to place a new bet with the Tacones.”

The guy hangs his head. “I know,” he moans.

“So I’m telling you—we get paid first.”

“I will—I will pay you first. I promise.”

“Don’t think you’re welcome at my table again,” Nikolai says. He takes it personally when players choose to sit with the Italians instead of us. The Tacones aren’t our enemies; we have a tacit agreement to stick to our own specialties when it comes to organized crime in this city. Which means our poker games shouldn’t overlap.

I lift my chin at Oleg, who takes one last swing at the guy’s face for good measure, and then I cut the ropes tying him to the chair. He starts to scramble up, but I point the blade of my knife at his left eyeball, and he freezes. 

“Sit. Count to four hundred. Then you leave.”

“Four hundred. Got it. Four hundred,” the guy babbles.

I pick up my jacket and pull it on as we leave the abandoned warehouse we chose for our little torture session. Pea gravel crunches underfoot as we walk to Oleg’s SUV.

“Not up to your usual quality,” Nikolai remarks as we walk. “You losing your taste for torture?”

“No.” I don’t tell him my tastes have just changed. I’ve found a far healthier outlet for my sadistic urges. I don’t tell him, but he probably already knows. I live with these guys full time. It’s pretty hard to keep secrets although we just found out Oleg kept a huge one about his past from us.

“Seriously, dude. I almost stepped in to throw a couple punches myself.” Nikolai’s still giving me shit.

I glance at Oleg, because the guy communicates more these days, and he shrugs and makes his fist nod, sign language for yes.

“Da poshel ty.” I tell them to go to hell.

We climb into Oleg’s vehicle, and he starts it up to drive us back. 

“Ravil’s going to replace you if you don’t start pulling your weight.” Nikolai says it lightly, but a prickle on the back of my neck tells me to pay attention. I’m not sure if he’s just trying to get a rise out of me or if he means it. Ravil is our pakhan, the boss of the Chicago bratva. The idea that he might be dissatisfied with my service puts me on edge. I’m lucky as hell to have this position, and I’m ambitious. I definitely hope to solidify my place for as long as I’m here. That way, hopefully, when I go back to Moscow, I’ll have improved my position in the organization there.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snap.

Nikolai twists from the front seat to look at me. “He made a comment this morning about you leaving for the weekend again. Something about you not clearing it with him.”

Blyad’. I hadn’t cleared it with him. But I thought everyone knew I was going to L.A. for the weekend. I’ve gone every weekend since Valentine’s, when Ravil sent me to a BDSM club on business, and I ended up claiming my little slave.

Still, assuming everyone knew I was going isn’t the same thing as asking permission from the boss. I should’ve thought to ask for his leave, but we’re not exactly timeclock employees. Our job descriptions are pretty loose. Basically, I do whatever the fuck Ravil tells me to do—legal or not. 

Ravil owns me, but I’d do anything for him. 

I scrub a hand over my face. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” Nikolai may come off as a dick, but I know he’s trying to save my ass.

“What is your plan with this girl?” Nikolai asks.

I don’t answer. It’s none of his fucking business.

“You gonna keep this long-distance thing up permanently?”

“Nah,” I say, trying to make it sound casual. Like breaking things off with Kayla is going to be easy for me.

The truth is, it’s not. I know I’m a piece of shit for claiming her and keeping her as mine for the past month. Kayla has a life. A bright future. One that will only be hurt by association with me. And that’s not even taking into consideration the emotional pain I’m going to cause her. Every week I let this go on makes it harder to break things off. 

I should rip off the Band-aid now, before she gets even more bonded to me as her master than she already is.

Yeah, I’ll break things off this weekend. Not when I get there but at the end. After we have enjoyed ourselves. I’ll make sure she has the best orgasms of her life, and then I’ll let her down gently. Blame it on the distance.

Oleg parks in the underground lot beneath the building Ravil owns across from Lake Michigan. The neighborhood calls it the Kremlin because he only lets Russians live and work here. Russians and his American bride. Also now Oleg’s new girlfriend, Story. For a brief moment, the thought of demanding my slave move here to Chicago, of installing her in the Kremlin so I can dominate her twenty-four/seven, flashes through my mind.

But of course, I would never do such a thing. She’s an actress trying to make it in Los Angeles. Convincing her to move—and I’m not certain I could, even as willing as she is to do my bidding—would effectively terminate her dreams. I may be a selfish prick, but I’m not that big of an asshole.

I get out and check my phone. My suitcase is already packed and in my car. If I climb in now and drive straight to the airport, I’ll get there in perfect time. 

But Ravil. The last thing I need is my ass handed to me by the boss. Not after I’ve worked so hard to make myself indispensable.

Blyad.’ I follow Nikolai and Oleg to the elevator and take it up to the top floor, where we all share the boss’ penthouse. He stands at the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the lake, holding Benjamin, his five-month-old baby against his chest. He’s murmuring softly to the baby in Russian. 

Not a good time to interrupt. 

But I don’t have time to spare.

I go stand next to him, remaining quiet and looking out at the lake. 

“What happened?” Ravil almost always speaks to us in English. When I moved here from Russia to join his cell, I didn’t speak a word. This was how he made sure we learned—by forbidding our mother tongue until we were fluent in English.

“Nothing. We took care of it.”

He slides a speculative look my way, but says nothing. Ravil is mild-mannered. Cool-tempered. Smart as hell. Not a man you should ever underestimate or cross. I’m fortunate he gave me a place here when I had to leave Moscow. I’ve tried to learn everything I can from him, emulate his ways. I’m rough around the edges, but growing more sophisticated every day. 

I shove my hands in my pockets. Apologizing doesn’t come easy to me. I can’t think of the last time I did, actually. But I owe Ravil mad respect. “I should have asked your permission to leave town,” I say, my gaze dropping to the face of his cherubic infant as the baby’s eyelids flutter closed.

“Yes,” Ravil agrees.

Fuck. Nikolai was right. I owe him big time for telling me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven.” He says it easily, while still making it clear my transgression required forgiveness. 

I take a breath but can’t think what to say next. Do I ask for belated permission? Maybe I should, but I can’t bring myself to even offer the possibility of me not going. I have a slice of pure heaven waiting for me in California, and I intend to suck all the juice out of it before I break things off. 

I start to tell him this is my last trip, but I can’t make that promise, either. 

“You’re figuring things out.” Ravil speaks for me. 

For some inexplicable reason, my heart starts thudding. Ravil just spoke aloud what I’ve been pretending to myself I had already decided. 

But what is there to sort out? Kayla is in Los Angeles. I’m here. What’s more, I have plans to go back to Russia when things cool down. I’ve saved my money to start my own enterprise there. Not going back isn’t an option—my mother is all alone there. 

But he’s right—I clearly haven’t made my mind up yet, or I wouldn’t be going this weekend. My one-month arrangement with Kayla was over last week.

“Yes,” I agree. 

“Let me know when you do.” He turns and walks away, leaving me sweating.

Fuck.

Another reason to conclude my adventure with Kayla this weekend. 

And yet as I walk out the door to head for the airport, I’m almost certain I won’t.

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