Betrothed to the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 8) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Russian Bratva Structure

  Contract

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Chosen by the Badman

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  Betrothed to the Badman

  Copyright © 2017 by Hayley Faiman

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: RC Martin, The Green Pen

  Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Russian Bratva Structure

  Contract

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Chosen by the Badman

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  All cultures through all time have constantly been engaged in a dance with new possibilities for life. Change is the one constant in human history.

  Wade Davis

  Russian Bratva Structure

  Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

  Sovietnik – Councilor: Advisor and closest trusted individuals to the Pakhan.

  Obshchak – The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.

  Brigadier – Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.

  Boyevik – Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.

  Kryshas – Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.

  Torpedo – Contract Killers

  Byki – Bulls: Bodyguards

  Shestyorka – Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.

  CLOSING MY EYES, I sink my cock further down her throat. She makes a gagging noise, but I ignore it, not giving a fuck—my only concern, selfishly, being my own release. I need to come if I’m going to be spending the evening with my child fiancée and my insane father.

  I grab the back of her head, twisting my fingers in her hair to hold her still. I start to pump into her, fucking her mouth until I finally find my release. I don’t allow her to escape as I come down her throat. It’s not the first time she’s taken my cum in her mouth, and it won’t be the last, I’m sure.

  Goddamn, she’s fucking awful at giving head—but I need the release, and she’s willing to be a cum dumpster. Camilla is my wedding planner. She’s a raging bitch, but she takes cock anyway I give it. I’ll keep her around until she’s no longer of use to me. I’m aware it makes me an asshole, to fuck my wedding planner, to fuck anybody except my fiancée while I’m engaged—but this situation isn’t normal.

  I’m engaged to Devyn O’Neil, daughter of the Irish Mob’s leader, and a goddamn child. Devyn isn’t even eighteen. In fact, I’ve been engaged to her since she was almost sixteen, contracted for marriage to bring our families together peacefully.

  My wedding to Devyn will take place in five months, on her fucking eighteenth birthday. A child, I have to marry a fucking child.

  To say I’m pissed that my father practically forced this on me to keep peace between the Bratva and the Irish is a fucking understatement.

  “Timmy,” the bitch whines as she stands up.

  I hate that she calls me that. She should not feel comfortable enough to have a pet name for me. If we were that close, I wouldn’t allow that one. I don’t respond, my face impassive as I go about my business.

  “The engagement party is all ready?” I ask, tucking my cock back into my pants. I watch as her eyes widen and a scowl appears on her face.

  “Yes,” she grinds out through gritted teeth.

  “Good. See you around,” I murmur as I walk past her, or at least try.

  Camilla grabs my hand and tugs on me. I stop and turn to face her, shaking myself free of her grasp. “Timmy, you can’t still be going through with all of this,” she whines.

  I chuckle, unable to stop myself. If Camilla thinks that I would ever severe a contract for her, she’s absolutely mistaken.

  Duty is part of me, and I have too much riding on this union to fuck it all up for some little whore. “Do not call me that. Yes, I am marrying Devyn, happily.”

  “What about me?” she practically cries.

  I lift an eyebrow without speaking. No words need to be said, except: what about you? I figure that would make me sound like more of a dick, so I stay silent.

  “Don’t you want more? We’re good together, Timofei, you and me.”

  I’m unable to control myself as I start to laugh. She’s fucking crazy. Turning my back on her, I walk away, still chuckling.

  I don’t miss her growl or the shoe that slams against the wall next to my head. “Watch yourself, Camilla,” I warn without turning around.

  Two hours later, freshly showered, a new pressed black suit, black shirt, and matching black tie on, I look at myself in the mirror. I glance down at my new Cartier watch to check the time, a gift to myself for going through this entire process and maintaining my sanity.

  I look around my crash pad. It’s a place I don’t stay at often. However, now that I’m back in New York, I�
��ll be living here until my wedding. If I’m being honest, I’ll probably stay here awhile after that, too. The princess will just have to deal.

  I already miss Denver; the fresh air and my men, including my Pakhan. Getting married, moving back here, and having to deal with my father—who has officially lost his fucking shit—is going to try my fucking patience. If I’m lucky, I won’t go completely insane like my old man.

  The only good thing about tonight is that I’ll be seeing my sister, Oksana, and my new nephew, Misha. He’s only six weeks old, and I haven’t seen him in two full weeks. It’s driving me crazy. I miss the little man.

  My nephew is another reason I don’t want to leave Denver. Oksana and her husband, Mika, live in the same building I did. I knew if I wanted to check on her and Misha, all I had to do was jog over to her door. Now, they’re hours away by plane. I fucking hate it.

  I slide into my Bugatti and plug the coordinates of the restaurant, where this party is supposed to take place, into the GPS. It’s being held at a pub called Neary’s, in the city near the Queensboro bridge and the East River.

  Fucking shit, I do not want to leave Brighton Beach, but I don’t have a fucking choice. My new fiancée’s family is throwing the party.

  The wedding, however, is my doing. I want it up to my standards, so I am paying for everything. Luckily, Camilla is better at wedding planning than she is at sucking cock.

  I speed toward my destination. My only thought a cool vodka and seeing Oksana and Misha. The rest of the people and the stupid as fuck party can go fuck itself.

  Once I navigate my way to a parking spot, I look around. My car will surely be vandalized here. With a heavy sigh, I make a call to a Shestyorka, an errand boy, to watch my car for the evening. He assures me that he’ll be at the Bugatti in less than five minutes.

  I shove my hand in my pocket as I make my way to the front of the pub, feeling the weight of the little box in my hand. The box holds the ring that I will slip onto Devyn O’Neil’s finger tonight, officially claiming her as my fiancée for the world to see. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

  Stepping inside of the pub, I try to control my features, making myself look impassive. There are men in suits, much like mine.

  The Russian men lift their chins to me, as a show of respect at my entrance. The others are Irish, and they glare at me—once the enemy, now ally. Ignoring the onlookers, I make my way toward my new father-in-law, Patrick O’Neil.

  “Vetrov,” he grunts as I approach his group, paying no attention to the other men around him.

  “O’Neil,” I reply, holding out my hand to shake his.

  He returns the gesture and lifts his chin somewhere behind me. “Devyn, my darlin’ daughter, come here.”

  I turn my head slightly and my breath escapes my goddamn lungs at the sight of the woman walking toward me. She looks nothing like the picture I’d seen almost three years ago. Her long black hair is big and curled. Her dress, skin fucking tight and shorter than I would like, hitting her at mid-thigh. Her curves—not that of a girl, that’s for damn fucking sure.

  She looks like a woman.

  What she does not look like is the child of seventeen that I was expecting.

  Murmurings fill the air, and I know that he’s here, my fiancé. I have yet to see exactly what he looks like, knowing only that he’s Russian. I met his father not long ago, a man who terrified me to no end just by looking into his soulless dark eyes.

  “Do you think he looks like his father?” my best friend, Shannon, asks.

  “I hope not,” I whisper. She nods and agrees.

  Standing in the crowd of a mix of people I’ve known my entire life and complete strangers, they all eye me like I’m some kind of anomaly—some kind of freak. A man walks up to my father. He’s tall with blond hair and broad shoulders. I can tell he has muscle beneath his fitted suit; except, he’s so tall that his muscle doesn’t look bulky, but rather lean.

  “I can’t believe your sister picked that dress out for you,” Shannon hisses, interrupting my perving on this stranger who is now talking to my father.

  I look down at my dress and cringe. It isn’t me. Nothing about it says Devyn. My sister Brenna picked it out, claiming the sexiness of it would make me look older. I feel like I’m trying too hard to be something I’m not.

  The slip of the dress is a skin tone color with a deep V in front. There is an overlay of black lace fabric, and a thick, black satin belt sewn around my waist. It’s completely backless. It’s also really short, hitting me around mid-thigh, and I feel practically naked.

  Then there are the shoes—Christian Louboutin, black suede pumps with an almost five-inch heel. My feet are killing me, and I’m trying to stand as still as I possibly can. I’m afraid if I attempt to walk that I’m going to fall flat on my face. I hate my sister right now.

  My father lifts his chin toward me and calls out, “Devyn, my darlin’ daughter, come here.” I almost snort at the darlin’ daughter part, but I’m too busy trying to concentrate on not falling as I take my first wobbly step toward my dad.

  “Timofei Vetrov,” my father announces when I’m only a few feet away from them.

  My eyes meet the cool blue ones of the blond man I had been admiring. I freeze as he scowls down at me. Even in my heels, he’s almost an entire foot taller than me.

  Now that I’m right in front of him, he’s bigger than he seemed from a distance—his shoulders wider. He has a short blond beard, and I wonder what it will be like to kiss him with the facial hair.

  I’ve only kissed a few boys, and they were just that. Boys. None were old enough to really grow facial hair, and none looked at me with almost disgust the way my new fiancé is looking at me.

  “Devochka,” he murmurs, his voice deeper and raspier than I anticipated. I don’t know what he’s said, but it isn’t my name.

  Sucking in a breath, I respond, “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand to shake his.

  He looks at my hand, then lifts his eyes to mine. His lips twitch as he wraps his fingers around my wrist and tugs me into his side. I gasp as I fall against him, and his hand wraps around my waist, holding me close to his tall, warm body. I hear my father grunt; but when I look up to him, he’s turning away and talking to someone else.

  “Timofei,” a sweet voice calls out.

  I watch as his head pops up and turns toward a woman who is walking in our direction. She’s absolutely beautiful, tall and curvy with long blonde hair and a kind smile, carrying a baby.

  “Oksana,” he murmurs. I can clearly hear the affection in his voice.

  I watch as he reaches for the infant in her arms, releasing me to cradle the baby. I’m forgotten off to the side as he gives all of his attention to the newborn.

  The woman turns to me and grins. “I’m Oksana, Timofei’s sister. In a few months, your sister as well,” she states as she walks right up to me and wraps her arms around me.

  “Don’t teach him any bad habits,” a loud voice booms before I can utter a word to Oksana.

  I look, and my eyes widen as a man with darker hair walks up to us. He’s big, like Timofei, and his face is frowning as he reaches for the baby. Timofei reluctantly hands him over to the man. “That’s my husband, Mika, and our baby, Misha,” Oksana explains. I nod, unsure of what to say, and feeling extremely uncomfortable.

  “I’m Devyn,” I mutter. She smiles kindly with a wink.

  “How can I teach him bad habits? I’m his dyadya. I would only teach him the things you would refuse,” Timofei chuckles.

  “Uncle or not, you will not teach him anything, Timofei. I can’t imagine having him turn into the hellion you were as a child,” Oksana snorts.

  I smile, looking between them, seeing so much of my older siblings’ relationship in theirs. Unfortunately, I’m so much younger than my siblings that I never have had a close relationship with any of them, not the way they obviously do.

  I stay at Timofei’s side the entire evening, mainly because
his hand on my lower back or my waist demands it so. He completely ignores me, though. He hasn’t introduced me to anybody else that he’s conversed with.

  Frankly, I’m irritated and bored. My gaze keeps drifting off to Shannon, who is looking at me with pity. I hate it, but I feel it for myself too, so I’m not upset with her.

  I decide that I need to take a breather and head to the restroom after about an hour of being his side statue. I turn and take a step away from him, but his grip on my waist tightens before he dips his head to look down at me in question.

  “Powder room,” I whisper. He lifts his chin and releases me, but doesn’t say anything.

  I walk away from him, toward the hallway where I know the bathroom is. Once I’m inside, I finally let out a breath. After I’ve used the restroom, I wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror. I hate the amount of makeup I have on, but I do look older, just like Brenna said I would. I fix my face powder, then my lipstick, taking far too long with both tasks until I can’t dally any longer. Then I make my way out of the room.

  I don’t get far, maybe one step, before someone wraps a hand around my wrist and tugs me to the side, spinning me so that my back is slammed against the wall. I open my mouth to scream when the man in front of me registers as my fiancé.

  “Timofei?” I breathe.

  “Devochka,” he rasps.

  Then he presses his lips to mine. They’re soft but firm, and I gasp in surprise. His tongue slips into my mouth as one of his hands wraps around my waist, and the other around the back of my thigh, just under the hem of my dress. My eyes flutter closed as I relax in his arms, my heart racing, and my belly flip-flopping inside of my stomach.

  I lift my arms and wrap them around his neck as I arch my back and press my chest against his, needing to feel his body against mine. He nibbles my lips and rests his forehead against mine, his fingers squeezing my waist and my thigh simultaneously before he releases me and takes a step back.

  “Clean up and I’ll meet you out there in five minutes. Time to wear my ring,” he murmurs