Andrei: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva) Read online

  I swallow, urging myself to find this ridiculous. What sort of self-important jerk says something like that? But it’s hard to find it ridiculous when my heartbeat is tap-dancing in my chest.

  “Ha-ha,” I say drily. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.”

  “Let me show you how much of a beast I am,” he snarls, lifting his hand to my face.

  Finally, my senses return to me. I take a step back, remembering where we are, remembering the absolute shit storm I’d be in if anybody saw me and Andrei touching. He doesn’t even recoil. He just returns his hand behind his back with a cocky smirk and turns back to the photo.

  “This really is a lovely piece,” he says in a goading tone, as though baiting me into more banter.

  But I’m saved when another man makes his way across the room and whispers something into Andrei’s ear. Andrei turns to me with that easy smile. “It seems your father has finally come to his senses. Enjoy your evening.”

  I watch him go and then—immature, I know—I realize I don’t want him to get the last word. “Don’t enjoy yours!” I call.

  I flush when I realize that a few people have turned to look at me, but thankfully they’re all customers, none of them Family soldiers, so I don’t have to worry about anyone reporting back to Father.

  I do a circuit of the room to get that exchange out of my system. The thing is, I don’t really do men. I mean, very occasionally I do men. But when it comes to passion, relationships, closeness, whatever, I steer clear.

  I had my heart shattered into a million pieces once before. Not because I loved the guy so much and he left—oh no. But because the guy was an abusive prick and it took me way too long to come to my senses. I was a naïve teenager and, at first, I didn’t even realize he was emotionally abusing me, and then, later, physically abusing me. It was horrible, but it taught me a really good lesson.

  Stay away from relationships or anything approaching real emotion.

  No matter how good or enticing something seems, there’s always a darker side to it.

  But, of course, that doesn’t stop Molly’s teasing. She slides up next to me at the champagne table.

  “What the heck was that about?” she laughs.

  “What?” I say, feigning innocence.

  “Oh, nothing, just a big ol’ sexy giant and you almost kissing in the middle of the gallery. No big deal.”

  “It was definitely not that,” I correct. “We were just …”

  I trail off, no idea what to say. What the hell were we doing, me and this stranger, me and this Bratva boss I couldn’t be involved with in a million years?

  “Just … what?” Molly pokes, clearly loving every second of this. “Jamie, you know how your face goes red when you’re embarrassed. Since high school. Don’t act like I don’t know you better than anybody.”

  I groan. “Please tell me you’re fucking with me.”

  “Nope, it’s like somebody’s thrown a bucket of paint at you. You look smitten.”

  “You’re the one who’s gonna look drenched in a sec if you don’t drop this,” I tease, in a joking tone of voice. I raise a champagne glass threateningly. “I mean it. I’ll drown you in champagne!”

  Molly laughs. “Babe, I can think of much worse ways to go than that.”

  2

  Andrei

  Jamie clings to my consciousness a few moments longer than I would like. I have never met her before, and I’m surprised by how attractive she is. Or, rather, how attracted I am to her. A petite bombshell with strands of red hair floating wildly around her freckled face, her sassy lips filling my head with all the things they might do.

  But, of course, I’m a professional. As Timofey and I make our way to Cormac O’Gallagher’s office, I push her from my mind.

  My second-in-command gives me a significant look as we wait outside. His eyes always look bigger in his horn-rimmed glasses. He’s only a few years older than my thirty-one, but sometimes he looks ancient, as though the Bratva life has aged him prematurely.

  In Russian, I say, “You want to tell me to keep my calm in there, brother.”

  He replies in Russian. “It was a power move, Andrei, making us wait like that. It does not bode well for our meeting.”

  “Think of all the hells we have lived through, Timofey. It will take more than a little waiting to test my patience. But if he disrespects us during the meeting, that will be another matter entirely.”

  He nods shortly. “Just listen to my opinion, my friend. That is all I ask.”

  I switch back to English to signify that the private talk is done. I know from experience how nervous it can make the Irish, as though we’re conspiring. “Decent champagne,” I say idly.

  “Yes,” Timofey says. “It really hit the spot.”

  Finally, Cormac’s second-in-command, Rafferty Walsh, opens the door. Rafferty nods shortly to each of us in turn—he has always been more respectful than his boss. Timofey and I head inside.

  Cormac is sitting behind his giant desk, chewing on a cigar, a glass of whiskey on the desk in front of him. He is a thin man with sharp features and a strip of red-gray hair around the side of his head. It makes him look both capable and somehow pathetic. The Irish don’t carry themselves like the Russians.

  Cormac wears a sports zip-up jacket open at the chest, revealing a few hairs. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, fellas,” he says. “Cigar? Whiskey?”

  “Whiskey, please,” Timofey says, a little too eagerly for my liking.

  I incline my head, and Rafferty pours two whiskeys before silently retreating into the background. I find myself wishing we were dealing with him today, instead of Cormac. I prefer the direct approach.

  “So, what’d you think of my Jamie’s little hobby, eh?” He grins. “Keeps her busy enough. I’ve told her she can dabble all she wants, you know, because the last thing a man in my position needs is a daughter getting restless. Restless women are dangerous, are they not?”

  I hold his gaze and say nothing at first. I did not like being kept waiting, despite what I said to Timofey. I will not slip so quickly into idle chatter with this Irishman as if everything has gone swimmingly in this little rendezvous.

  “I admire her work,” I say after a long, pregnant pause. “It’s skillful and meaningful.”

  Cormac flinches. The implication is clear: I’ve noticed your daughter. What the fuck are you going to do about it, old man?

  “Well,” Timofey interrupts hurriedly. “Shall we get down to business?”

  “Of course,” Cormac growls, but he’s still looking at me. Then, abruptly, he laughs, thumping the table with his fist. “Andrei fuckin’ Bakhtin! You’ve got one hell of a sense of humor. Skillful and meaningful. A photography critic now, eh? A bunch of homeless thugs with animals they’re abusing, is what it looks like to me. But each man has his own view of the world, doesn’t he? Anyway, yes, let’s get down to business.”

  “When is the shipment arriving?” I ask pointedly.

  “One week from today,” Rafferty mutters from the shadows.

  I nod. Good. “And everything is going according to plan?”

  Cormac grunts and raises one bony finger. “Actually, there have been some complications.”

  “What sort of complications?” I ask.

  “Our shipping costs have increased by twenty percent,” he says. Raising his hands innocently, he goes on, “It’s out of our hands, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you understand that we can’t shoulder this burden alone. We have proposed a very fair deal: split the increase equally between us. Ten percent from you, ten percent from us. Easy.”

  I feel a pulsing in my temples. Osip, the man who raised me after my parents’ deaths, often told me I had to learn to use my temper. I was an irritable kid, an angry teenager, and a furious young man. But I’ve learned in recent years to be a calmer negotiator.

  This, though? This is fucking insulting.

  “Tell me more about this increase in costs,” I say, turning to Rafferty.


  The chubby man flinches, clearly not expecting me to be addressing him instead of his boss. He takes a beat too long to answer, and he won’t look me in the eye.

  They’re fucking lying.

  “Change of leadership with the Albanians,” Cormac says quickly, before Rafferty can talk. “This new boss, he’s demanding more money. The fuck are you gonna do, eh? Albanians!”

  He’s trying to fuck me for an extra ten percent.

  “A change of leadership is always difficult,” Timofey mutters.

  I glance at him, annoyed, wondering if he’s really buying this. I want to ask him privately in Russian, but that would only make things awkward. It would show dissent between us. Not ideal.

  “I haven’t heard about any change in leadership,” I say. I’m gripping the arms of the chair a little too hard. Plus, the chair is absurdly small, a child’s toy compared with Cormac’s throne. A purposeful choice, I know, a childish play at dominance. Which makes it all the more infuriating how much it’s pissing me off right now.

  “How is it possible we would not have gotten word about that?”

  “Not the Albanians in the city,” Cormac explains, seeming flustered by my questions. “The proper Albanians in Albania, the ones we’re buying the goods from.”

  “You have contacts in Durrës?” I ask.

  Cormac flinches. “We have contacts in Albania.”

  “Durrës is a port city in Albania.”

  “That’s where they are, then!” Cormac laughs wildly. When I don’t laugh with him, he chews furiously on his cigar, and then makes a grunting noise. “Tell me this, Bakhtin: since when is it acceptable to disrespect a man in his own office? I tell you about something out of our control, and you—what?—you insinuate I’m a liar.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what he meant, Cormac,” Timofey puts in. “He’s just trying to get the story straight.”

  “The story is the fucking truth,” Cormac growls.

  “I’ll need to meet with your contact before I make any commitments,” I tell him.

  “What?” Cormac seems gobsmacked. “You’re joking, Russian.”

  In Russian, Timofey mutters, “Careful, Andrei. Careful.”

  “What the fuck did you say?” Cormac snaps, wheeling on Timofey. “English, please.”

  I turn to Rafferty. “We are not agreeing to any increase in price until we know, for an absolute fact, that costs have increased on your side.”

  “Stop looking at him!” Cormac snaps petulantly. Clearly, he has had too much whiskey. “I’m in charge here. Look at me, you bastard.”

  Sighing, I turn back to him. “It does not matter who’s in charge,” I tell him, standing up. “When you’re ready to give us proof, we can talk. Otherwise, we’ll find another buyer. Have a pleasant evening, Cormac.” I head for the door, nodding to Rafferty. “And you, Rafferty.”

  “You think I’ll be disrespected on my own turf?!” Cormac is roaring as I make my way downstairs. I am resisting—barely—the urge to charge up there and snap his desk in half for taking me for a fool. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me, Russian!”

  I take the back exit, leaning against the car as I wait for Timofey to join me. I’m guessing that my second is trying to smooth things over with Cormac and Rafferty, so I don’t mind waiting too much. Even if I’m angry with them, Timofey is just doing his job: making sure relations aren’t completely severed. The good cop to my bad. When he finally emerges, he grimaces tightly at me.

  “I managed to calm him down,” he says in Russian. “But he is not happy, Andrei.”

  I climb into the car and he climbs into the passenger seat. “Did you believe that story?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Timofey mutters. “But we have politics to consider.”

  “Politics,” I mutter in disgust.

  “Your father was famous for his political skill,” Timofey says.

  I grunt noncommittally, since I can’t comment on that either way. Even though I’m aware of my father’s reputation, I remember my parents through a boy’s eyes. They died when I was young and I was adopted by my father’s second-in-command, Osip. Osip is dead now, too. It’s just me—a year into my thirties and already boss of the Bratva—and yet I’ve proven myself capable and loyal and reliable and fierce. But I know that even Osip would agree with Timofey on the importance of politics.

  “We might have to just eat that cost,” Timofey mutters. “To avoid war.”

  “War with the Irish?” I growl. “Let them try.”

  Timofey turns to the night without replying, resting his forehead against the glass. It’s an unseasonably cool late April, and the city seems dark and foreboding. Or perhaps I’m just projecting.

  Timofey disappears soon after we arrive at the club. I assume he’s sulking about the meeting. Fine by me; let him cool off.

  I retire to the private booth at the top of the club, which overlooks the dance floor, and sit there nursing a whiskey I hardly touch. Harem girls come and go. They’re too intent on pleasing me, too easy. Fruit so low-hanging as to not be worth it.

  I think, briefly, of Jamie O’Gallagher. She would not come so easily as these women. She would fight me every step of the way.

  I’m glad when Egor, my most senior lieutenant apart from Timofey, takes a seat next to me. Egor is not quite as tall as me, but he’s close, a giant bear of a man with sharp eyes and a quick tongue. People think he’s stupid because of his size, but he’s anything but.

  “I heard there were some complications earlier,” he says in Russian.

  “Are things ever simple with the Irish, my friend?” I sip my whiskey. “How is your sister?”

  Egor beams, and I remind myself that, despite our life of violence and criminality, there is good in this world. Egor’s sister was dangerously close to being trafficked to Eastern Europe as a sex slave before Egor and I rescued her. Egor likes to give me all the credit, but that’s not fair. The blood on both our hands that night was the same.

  “Excellent, Andrei. She is studying to be a doctor now, thank God. I told her to only date Americans from now on. So far, she is obliging.”

  I chuckle, raising my glass. “To your sister, friend.”

  We clink glasses and then Egor turns serious. “I heard the Irishman disrespected you,” he mutters.

  “It was nothing serious,” I say easily. I fill him in on the meeting quickly. “You see? He’s just trying to make more money.”

  “By fleecing us,” Egor growls. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  I turn to Egor, looking him in the face. “Tell me something, brother. If the Bratva went to war with the Irish, if our men had to put their lives on the line to defend our honor and our territory and our livelihood, what would you make of that?”

  “Are you joking?” Egor laughs. “Andrei, you don’t have to ask me this!”

  “I need to hear it,” I admit. “You know what Cormac O’Gallagher is like. He might overreact, even after Timofey tried to smooth things over.”

  Egor places his drink down with surprising intensity and rests his elbows slowly on the table. Egor and I have saved each other’s lives more times than I can count. In truth, if Osip had not selected Timofey as my second before his death—Osip and Timofey were related in some obscure way—Egor would be my highest-ranked lieutenant. He has proven himself worthy of the role; that much is certain.

  “Andrei, you are the Bratva. I know I have said that before, but it’s how I feel, and how many of the men feel. Andrei Bakhtin, the last surviving member of the Bakhtin family name … a lot of the older men remember your father, and their loyalty to him stays true. But more than that, you have led us well, even when men doubted you. So when I say Bratva, I hear your name, and when I say your name, I hear Bratva. We will follow you wherever you choose to lead us, because you have never led us wrong, even when times were hard, especially when times were hard. Now …” He grins. “Can I stop this sentimental shit, please? I’m scared I’m going to
start crying.”

  We both laugh, knowing that hell would freeze over and Satan would grow tits before Egor started to weep. “That was a nice speech, by the way,” I tease.

  He nods his head with mock somberness. “I’ve been practicing it all night. You’re forever needing me to stroke your ego.”

  I finally toss back my drink. “I ought to smash this over your head,” I chuckle, hefting the whiskey glass.

  We both laugh and then Egor nods at the bottle, asking if I want another. I slide him the glass and he pours. It’s good to know that Egor is loyal. Not that I needed reminding, but it’s good to hear sometimes.

  Because this life of mine can be so full of hidden traps.

  Strangely enough, I find myself thinking again of Jamie as the night wears on. I’ve never had many meetings at The Clover, so I haven’t had a chance to run into her. But I’ve heard the stories: photographer, red-headed, wild. Not a part of the Life, though. I’ve never given it much consideration, neither her art nor the Irish side of the city.

  I only care about the Irish—and the Italians and Albanians and any non-Russians, for that matter—insofar as they can do something for us.

  But there was something different about her. Women in my world fall all over me. They whimper and quiver at my quietest command. Somehow, I doubt that Jamie would be the same.

  Part of me relishes the challenge.

  This is just frivolous daydreaming, though. She’s Irish; I’m Russian. Our people don’t mix idly. Even just fucking her on the side would be dangerous. If Cormac found out, it’d be war … if it isn’t going to be war already, that is.

  I move my forefinger around the edge of the whiskey glass. I’m a little buzzed, but nowhere near drunk. Egor leans away from the harem girl he’s currently entangled with and gives me a significant look. “Are you all right, Andrei?” he asks. “You don’t wanna partake?”

  I look at the harem girls circling. One of them looks at me with a question in her eyes, asking if I desire her company. I wonder if this is what predators locked up in zoos feel like when their meat is just tossed to them without a fight.