Bought by the Bratva

  Bought by the Bratva

  Bianca Cole

  Bought by the Bratva Copyright © 2019 Bianca Cole

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  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Book cover design by Hot and Steamy Romance Premades

  Contents

  Blurb

  1. Andrei

  2. Vera

  3. Andrei

  4. Vera

  5. Andrei

  6. Vera

  7. Andrei

  8. Vera

  9. Andrei

  10. Vera

  11. Andrei

  12. Vera

  13. Andrei

  14. Vera

  15. Andrei

  16. Vera

  17. Andrei

  18. Vera

  19. Andrei

  20. Epilogue

  Also by Bianca Cole

  About the Author

  Blurb

  He is going to buy me and fall into my trap.

  They think they’ve broken me. They believe I’ll submit. They think I don’t remember.

  What they don’t know is that I’m stronger than they bargained for.

  The day of the virgin auction has arrived, and I’m up for sale.I’ve planned everything that has happened to the last detail.

  After three years of waiting, I’ll get my revenge. But, when he touches me lines get blurred. He’s not the man I expected him to be.

  I begin to question everything I’ve been told. My heart is at risk with the man I’m supposed to kill.

  If I don’t complete my task, my past will threaten to destroy us both…

  1

  Andrei

  “Sir, it’s time,” Alexi says, sticking his head through the door into my office.

  I give him a nod and he retreats, leaving me alone. The virgin auction is tonight. As pakhan to the New York brotherhood, I’m expected to attend.

  At thirty-two years old, I’m the youngest pakhan any brotherhood has ever had in North America. My lack of age and experience I compensate for with a heavy-fisted approach. The only way to retain power is to rule with an iron fist.

  I was born into this life. A life I wouldn’t choose for myself, but often many aspects of life we have no control over.

  This virgin auction happens every single year. I don’t enjoy attending, as I always make a purchase. It helps feed the image of me as a brutal leader. I buy a virgin every year to fuck and discard, at least, that’s what everyone believes.

  No one is any wiser to the fact this couldn’t be further from the truth. Not even Alexi, my sovietnik, knows the truth. If they don’t want me to fuck them, I don’t.

  The biggest turnoff for me is a woman who doesn’t want me. It makes me sick to think of the men that force themselves on these poor women. Instead, I put them to work in one of my many homes in America. Compared to the treatment they’ve endured over the past twelve months, life with me is a blessing.

  I shut down my computer and stand from my desk chair. The full-length mirror on my office wall draws my attention. As I stare at myself, I don’t recognize the man I am today.

  I smooth down the front of my tailored suit and adjust my tie, making sure I look the part. A strand of my dark hair is out of place, and I slick it back. My beard could do with a trim, but I can’t be assed to fuck around with it right now.

  The heaviness of my position weighs on my soul, crushing what little is left. Bratva life is blood and more blood. We thrive off of hurt, pain, and deceit which has been enough to destroy what I once was. There are remnants of who I was before, but they are in tatters, unrecognizable.

  The auction happens in the city at a high-end club. One of our clubs, Strelka. We shut it down today for the auction—invitation only. The men who run the virgin auctions are the lowest of the low, even though they belong to my brotherhood.

  They love breaking young women’s minds and torturing them for months. Most of the time, the women I buy can’t remember who they are or the lives they led before the slavers captured them.

  I walk out of my office and find Alexi waiting for me. “The car is ready for you, sir.”

  I give him a nod, saying nothing. He falls in step behind me, always ensuring he respects my position as the outright leader. Alexi has been a dutiful and perfect sovietnik to me since I became pakhan on my thirtieth birthday, two years ago.

  “Is everything in order?” I ask, not turning to look at him.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve paid off The NYPD to ensure there will be no disturbance this evening.”

  We have several contacts in the NYPD, and they’re all happy to take bribes and turn a blind eye to our operations. The police are as corrupt as the organized crime groups in this city. More cops than you would expect line their pockets with anything we offer them.

  “Good,” I say, stepping out of my Manhattan town house. Two of my men stand either side of my front door and give me a nod as a show of respect.

  The bustle of people walking along the sidewalk and the drone of engines flood the air. A blacked-out, armored SUV waits in my space, engine running. I open the back door and slide inside, letting my head fall back against the headrest.

  Alexi gets in the passenger’s side. Once he’s buckled in, Yakov, my driver pulls away from the house. Strelka is a ten-minute drive, dependent on traffic, which isn’t too heavy at the moment. I can’t understand why I’m eager to get this over and done with.

  Public appearances aren’t my favorite pastime. There’s always a chance something might go wrong. This virgin auction brings pakhans from other North American brotherhoods of the Bratva. It’s a tense, alpha driven atmosphere. Everyone wants to be on top and prove their dominance.

  There’s something so debase and unrefined about the traditions of the Bratva. When my father died, I wanted to change things. However, my men advised against it.

  A leader who shows mercy and disgust for our own ways, the ways we’ve run things for years, is a leader another person can easily overthrow.

  Instead, my closest brothers advised me to be brutal and fierce. Despite myself, I took the advice, knowing it to be the truth. I’m thankful I no longer live in Russia, the last time I was there, I vowed I’d never return. It is even more reliant on the Bratva ways of life. The brutality a step beyond what we experience here in America.

  It was a blessing when the Moscow Elite drove me and my father away from our homeland. A place I don’t recognize anymore. America is my home now. I’ve been here since I was twenty-two years old.

  We thrived here and the current leadership of the Russian Bratva couldn’t stand it. It’s the reason my they assasinated my father two years ago, while driving down this same street.

  Bratva members from our home country had been trying to kill us ever since they drove us away. Two years ago, they succeeded.

  * * *

  I remember that day as if it were yesterday. The day I didn’t go with him to a meeting because I was sick with fever. A minute after he left the house, I felt the blast. His car had been blown up a hundred meters down the road.

  It was the worst day of my life. My father may have been the feared and powerful pakhan of our outfit, but he was just Dad to me. A man who had looked after me since my mother abandoned the both of us early in my life.

  His death only reasserted the truth he had tried to drill into me for years. An iron fists keeps control, not a soft one. His death was a defining moment for me. One that made me the man I am today. Ruthless on the outside no matter what.

  My father had a weakness, and that weakness was me. People observed how he treated me, noticing that he had a soft side. It’s something I’ve concealed about myself, no matter the costs.

  “We’re here, sir,” Yakov announces, pulling up in front of Strelka. I nod my head and get out, smoothing down my suit as I step onto the sidewalk.

  Alexi is by my side in a flash, giving me an uneasy look. He’s always worried about me. It’s why he makes the perfect sovietnik. I had no siblings, but he’s the closest thing I have to a family in this world.

  “Let’s try not to piss off any of the other pakhans this time,” he warns.

  I give him a short nod but promise nothing. The run in at last year’s virgin auction wasn’t my fault. An asshole called Georgy Veselov, pakhan of the Miami brotherhood, picked a fight with me.

  I beat him and that was that. He’s a power-hungry idiot who thought he could beat me in a bare-knuckle fight. I’ve not yet met a man alive who can.

  The place is heaving, as I step through the doors. I despise how many people show up to spend fortunes on slavery. Most of the virgins are tourist snatched from the airport. It makes it easier for the slavers to cover their tracks. The American govern
ment can’t trace foreign girls.

  Rykov, the man who runs the auction, is lingering nearby. The moment he sees me, he rushes over.

  I can’t stand the guy, but he’s part of my outfit. “Sir, I’m so glad you could make it.” He bows his head.

  “What are the pickings like this year?” I ask, trying to sound interested.

  He smiles a vindictive smirk. “There are a couple I think you will love, including a stunning redhead.” He shifts a little closer and lowers his voice. “Although, she is a feisty one who my men haven’t been able to break, so she may be more hassle than it’s worth. I’d be happy to offer you a sneak preview before the auction starts.” He straightens up and clears his throat, noticing Luka Romanov glaring at us.

  * * *

  “Perfect, lead the way.” I nod my head toward the stairs that lead into the basement, ignoring the Los Angeles pakhan’s glares.

  He scurries ahead of me into the basement.

  Alexi turns to me once he’s out of earshot. “Rykov is such a weasel.”

  “Tell me about it.” I shake my head. “I’ve never liked him.”

  “See you after the preview.” He claps me on the shoulder.

  I descend into the desolate, damp basement, which will have been home to these girls for months. Subjected to the thumping bass of the club every night for God knows how long.

  It’s a disgrace. These women have as many rights as any of us, but I know the brotherhood slavers don’t distinguish. The same thing happens to men they capture. Slavery runs rife in the Bratva, and I had always longed to change that within my brotherhood.

  I wait at the entrance, watching the row of fifteen women standing naked and chained together.

  Rykov is speaking to the trembling, petrified women. The flash of fiery red hair captures my attention.

  A need to interrupt his pointless speech and walk toward her hits me. I want to discover more about this fiesty redhead Rykov’s men haven’t been able to break. Instead, I grit my teeth and wait.

  One girl urinates out of fear, and he flogs her. I keep my expression neutral. It grates on me witnessing one of my own brothers treat women this way.

  This kind of brutality is lower than low. None of these women deserve this treatment, but it’s the Bratva way. That’s often the excuse everyone uses in these situations.

  Rykov stop in front of the redhead, speaking to her and it irritates me.

  “Keep your heads down. One of our most prestigious guests is here for a preview,” he instructs, breaking me from my thoughts.

  I walk into the room and straight for the redhead without invitation. “Thank you, Rykov,” I say.

  “Sir,” he replies.

  I’m being drawn to her like a moth to the flame. My eyes drop over her curvy, naked form. Her hourglass shape so fucking perfect and breasts that I would long to suck and grope all night long.

  Beautiful.

  That’s the only way to describe her figure. As I come to a stop in front of her, I so desperately want to see her face. “Look at me,” I command.

  The woman shakes in front of me, before lifting her chin to gaze at me. She doesn’t make eye contact, because it’s how they’ve been taught. She’s the most radiant woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are a bright emerald green, which complements her red hair. There’s no emotion in them, though, no hatred or anger.

  “I want you to look me in the eye,” I command.

  She hesitates for a moment, before forcing her eyes to meet mine.

  “Krasivaya,” I utter.

  Her eyes widen, as if she understands the word, which is unusual as the virgins rarely come from Russia.

  I’m forgetting where I am right now. I’ve forgotten my own damn name. Krasivaya is the perfect word to describe her. She is the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen.

  The only reaction I get is the blush in her cheeks, which speak down her neck at my opinion on her looks. She understands Russian.

  All the blood in my body has rushed south, and I’ve lost control for a moment. Something that never happens to me.

  Rykov clears his throat, breaking me from the daze I’m in.

  I had been staring at her for far too long, considering I’m supposed to keep up appearances. “Return your gaze to the ground,” I instruct, keeping my voice cold, despite the inferno raging inside of me.

  She does as I say in an instance, and I walk away, despite not wanting to. A wild part of me wants to claim her as mine now, offer Rykov whatever money he wants for her.

  It would be frowned upon for a pakhan to behave that way. Rykov has given me a sneak preview which is bad enough. There’s never any buying allowed before the auction. All pakhans get a fair chance at any of the virgins on offer tonight.

  I regard the other women with mild interest, despite being unable to get my mind off of the redhead. None of them stir my interest like she does. Once finished, I walk toward the stairs to ascend back to the main room.

  “I’ll see you out there, sir?” Rykov asks, walking after me.

  I turn and narrow my eyes at him. “Yes.”

  I can feel him watch after me, as I walk up the stairs and into the viewing area.

  There’s no doubt I’m leaving with a virgin tonight, and it will be the redhead beauty. I don’t care what the price is, I have to have her.

  2

  Vera

  There is a ray of brilliant sunshine beaming at the end of the dark, torturous tunnel I’ve been trapped inside. It’s been three years since I left Saint-Petersburg and came to America with the sole intention of being captured and sold at this auction. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  Tonight, is the night. Two years of training and one year of slavery has led me to the prestigious New York virgin auction. They allow only the high ranking brotherhood members from around the country to participate.

  A guard standing nearby clears his throat, but I keep my eyes on the ground. They have taught us to keep our eyes to the ground, unless someone speaks to us.

  “Look at me, suka,” he spits, insulting me in Russian.

  I raise my gaze to his face, but I don’t make eye contact. If I looked him in the eye, it would lead to a punishment. When I first arrived at the virgin camp, it took a lot of beatings to instill this discipline in me.

  “Are you ready to be sold tonight?” He sneers, leering over me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my head bowed.

  He does not understand how ready I am for tonight. Revenge is within my grasp, and as long as my uncle’s suspicions are correct, he will buy me.

  The man I need to buy me has a weakness for redheads, and I’m the only one at this auction thanks to my uncle. It gives me an upper hand. If he doesn’t buy me, then everything I’ve worked for goes to waste, and I’d have to find another way.

  “I’m sure you are, you slut. You are probably gagging for a master to take your virginity.”

  I ignore his words as that is all they are—empty, pointless words. All the guards take joy in degrading us with insults or pain. I learned to delight in it. Part of my training before I arrived here with Uncle Igor was learning to endure unbelievable amounts of pain.

  He chuckles and then grabs hold of my throat. “I’d love to fuck you,” he says, blowing his stinking breath in my face. The remnants of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol, making me sick to the stomach.

  This guard hates that I never show fear, no matter what he does to me. I can’t breathe, as he tightens his grip on my throat. I keep calm. It helps that I don’t fear death, anyway.

  He won’t kill me. It’s been annoying every guard that runs this place that no matter what they do to me, I don’t break down. Not once have I cried in their presence or shouted for them to stop.