Forever my Badman (Russian Bratva Book 7) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Russian Bratva Structure

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Loved by the Badman

  Betrothed by the Badman

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  Forever My 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 Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Russian Bratva Structure

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Loved by the Badman

  Betrothed by the Badman

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Special Thanks

  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.

  LEANING AGAINST THE WALL, I watch her. Her face is flushed from coming on my cock just a few minutes ago. She smiles, but it’s fake as fuck. The man at her side drops to one knee, slides a blinding diamond engagement ring on her finger, and she nods as her eyes find mine.

  Then I watch, my gut twisting with sickness and rage as he leans down and presses his lips to hers. Lips that were just against mine, lips that should be only mine—never his.

  I smirk at her and her brows furrow. I don’t show her, or anybody else in the room, how I really feel. Having feelings is a weakness; showing feelings is certain death. What I’ve just done? Fucking a Pakhan’s daughter minutes before her announced engagement? That’s a signed death wish.

  Oksana was meant to be mine. I’ve worked my whole life to have a high enough rank to contract a marriage that would give me more stability in the Bratva. Oksana is like a goddamn golden ticket. Her father is the most powerful Pakhan in the United States. I was shocked when her name came up in the database as an option for marriage for me.

  Certain men are given passwords and log ins to a secure website. On that site, you can see the women that are available for a contracted marriage. I’d looked several times throughout my life. Although some of them were very pretty, they weren’t women whose fathers were ever above me in rank—not the way Oksana’s is.

  I submitted my request for Oksana, and just a few months later, I was sequestered to attend a party. It wasn’t a normal selection process. Usually, the men talk and the women have zero choice in who is chosen. Oksana, being the printsessa she is, had her pick.

  I tear my eyes away from her and close them for a second, thinking about her words just a few moments ago, when my dick was buried deep inside of her tight cunt—for probably the last time.

  “I hate him,” she whispers against my mouth.

  “Who?” I ask, needing clarification.

  “My father, Gavril, both of them,” she murmurs on a sigh.

  I push inside of her a little deeper and watch as her breath hitches.

  “Would you, if you could, would you leave it all behind?” I ask stupidly, knowing she couldn’t; knowing she wouldn’t—not in reality.

  “If I could, I would, for you,” she breathes.

  “You’re mine, Sana. Fucking shit, lapochka,” I growl. “Nobody else touches you, nobody else.”

  Pressing my mouth to hers, not wishing to hear her reply, I fuck her against the wall, her pretty dress up around her hips. If anybody walked in right now, they’d shoot me on the spot. This shit right here? It’s against the Bratva rules and code. Oksana is as good as married right now. The contracts have already been signed. The words and the ring? They’re just a formality.

  “You doing all right?” Dominik Markov asks me as he takes a drink of vodka from his highball.

  He’s interrupted my thoughts of Oksana, her warm cunt, and how it could very well get me killed. Even though that ring is on her finger, I’m not sure I can stay away from her.

  “Fuck, no,” I chuckle humorlessly.

  “Not her fault. Not something she chose,” he says, as if I need a goddamn reminder.

  “Yeah, I know,” I grunt.

  “Maybe there’s a reason for it all, huh? Maybe your reason just hasn’t been found yet,” he murmurs.

  He would say that. He figured out how to cancel his contract so that he could marry his wife. There is no way around Oksana not marrying Gavril. Even if I got her pre
gnant, the way Dominik did his wife, I would probably be killed, and they would just tell everybody that it was Gavril’s baby. There’s a deeper reason Pasha has for going against Oksana’s wishes and marrying her off to this fuck. One I intend to find out, as soon as I possibly can.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Timofei, my fellow Brigadier, asks as he storms into our Pakhan, Ziven’s, office.

  I arch my brow at him, curious as to what he’s going on about. We’re equals in rank, but he’s a prince, the son of Pasha Vetrov, and the brother of my beloved Oksana. I’ve considered him a friend, as much of a friend as you can have in the organization. But right now, he looks as though he’s going to murder me on the spot. I stare him down, waiting for an answer.

  We stare silently at each other, waiting for one another to break. I won’t break, though. Not in the slightest. I was taught how to be a Bratva man, how to appear completely unbreakable, by the best.

  “What’s going on?” Ziven asks, walking into the office, breaking the silence.

  “This piece of shit fucked my sister,” Timofei growls.

  “Watch yourself,” I grumble.

  “Mika?” Ziven asks, looking confused as fuck.

  “Oksana had accepted my hand. As far as I knew, we were as good as engaged. She changed her fucking mind, or her father did for her, for whatever reason,” I explain.

  “Why’d you fuck her at her own engagement party, then?” Timofei asks. Ziven’s eyes widen as he coughs out his surprise.

  My eyes widen as well, wondering how in the hell he’s found out, and then wondering who else knows. My heart races at the thought.

  “How’d you find out about that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “You don’t want to know,” he growls.

  “No, I think I really do,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  “I watched you go up the stairs, then Sana, with Emiliya and Quinn.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s engaged. She’s getting married in just a month’s time. I won’t even see her until the wedding,” I say.

  “You love my sister?” Timofei asks, arching a brow. “Or was this a way for you to gain some power through my father?”

  “If anybody is trying to gain power, its Gavril. I’m a Brigadier. It’s higher than I ever thought I would be. I don’t need more power. If it’s offered, that’s great, but I don’t crave it like some people do,” I shrug.

  He doesn’t know that I crave stability and safety. Power comes with those things, but I am higher than I’d ever thought possible. Marrying Oksana would just be double insurance on the things I desire.

  “I don’t like Gavril. He’s not right,” Timofei admits. “But I’m not going to do anything about it until I know how you feel.”

  “Thought I was a piece of shit?” I ask, raising my brow.

  “Oh, you are, but I want to know what your intentions are.”

  The room is bathed in silence as both Timofei and Ziven wait for my answer. They’re only getting one response. If they don’t like it, they can fuck themselves. What Oksana and I have is between her and me, not anybody else.

  “Sana knows how I feel for her,” I state.

  “I’m sure she knows what you’ve told her, but I want to know exactly what you feel.”

  “She was meant to be mine. From the moment I saw her, I knew.”

  I don’t offer anything else, but my explanation must be enough for Timofei. He nods once.

  “Consider it taken care of,” Timofei murmurs.

  “How is it taken care of?” I ask.

  “Don’t ask questions that you don’t want to know the answers to,” Timofei says ominously. I want to ask more, but I don’t.

  Time will tell if he’s talking out of his ass or not.

  Regardless of Timofei, I will figure out a way to get my woman back.

  MY FACE HURTS FROM holding my smile. It’s fake as hell, just like this entire wedding. My husband—what a joke—wraps his hand around the back of my neck and digs his fingers into my skin painfully. I try not to grimace from the discomfort, holding my smile in place. It’s my job, as a Bratva girl, especially the daughter of a powerful Pakhan, to know how to fake it until I make it.

  I’m almost twenty-four years old, it’s time that I’m married. Most Bratva girls have been married since before their eighteenth birthdays, I need to just suck it up. I close my eyes for a brief moment and think about my mother, she was married at sixteen and if she can do it, then so can I.

  “The first thing I’m doing tonight is fucking your ass. I hope you like it rough,” my husband chuckles against my ear.

  I hate him. He’s vile. I don’t know how he talked my father into this marriage, but it makes me sick that I am essentially Gavril Zima’s to do with as he wishes. Nobody can say a fucking word, either. His hand moves to my shoulder and his fingers gently caress me. It makes my skin crawl to think that he’s going to use and abuse me as soon as this farce of a reception is over.

  I hear a noise that sounds like a loud pop, then I hear screams as I feel wetness splatter across my face. I look over and see my new husband slumped over the table. A pool of red liquid quickly stains the white cloth.

  “Oh, my god,” I exhale once I realize that it’s blood—his blood.

  “Lapochka,” a familiar voice whispers.

  I turn to see that it’s Mika. He’s standing right behind me, and without another word, he picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I don’t struggle. It’s Mika. I trust him, and I trust that whatever is happening here, he’s going to ensure my safety.

  Mika throws me in the back of an SUV, and it takes off down the road. I can’t see anything, the sheer size of my dress hiding my vision. Mika doesn’t speak, and my mind starts to race, wondering what’s just happened. A man died next to me. Died. Then Mika grabbed me and ran.

  What the fuck is happening here?

  The car comes to a stop. Mika opens my door, yanking me out before he tugs me toward an airplane. Everything happens so fast, I don’t take a breath until I’m seated. My eyes widen when I see who is across from me.

  I stare at the man drinking champagne, wearing an expensive suit. Prada, if I’m correct. I haven’t seen him in a while, and I didn’t expect to see him here, with a woman kneeling at his side. She’s wearing only a bra, panties, and a collar, with a pretty silver chain that’s dangling from his fingertips.

  “You’ve got blood on you,” he says in accented English.

  I jerk at his words and look down, my eyes widening at the sight. My husband Gavril’s blood is, indeed, all over me.

  “Uncle Sergei,” I whisper, looking from him, to the woman on the floor, and then back to Mika. “What’s happening here?” I ask.

  “Take that ridiculous dress off, clean up, and I’ll tell you. Bathroom is in the back; so is a small bedroom,” Sergei murmurs.

  Mika stands, wrapping his hand around mine, and tugs me toward the back of the plane. My dress rustles loudly with each step I take. Once Mika literally shoves me into the small bedroom, I turn around to face him. The plane jars me as it takes off, and I fall onto the bed, my ass crashing roughly against the soft mattress.

  “You’ll have to wear my undershirt. You got a bra on under that monstrosity?” Mika asks as he tugs his white button-up shirt from his pants.

  I lick my bottom lip as I watch him, catching a glimpse of his toned stomach as he pulls on his shirt. Then he unbuttons the collared garment, and I swear I almost whimper. I’ve only seen his bare chest once. The weekend he came for his party—when I chose him. I was stupid, and we slept together. It was the best weekend of my entire life.

  Then my father forced me to marry Gavril, taking my choices away without explanation, even though I had very much picked Mika. We were together the night my engagement was officially announced, as well; but it was quick, and neither of us really undressed.

  “Sana,” he murmurs, his voice rich and deep.

  My ey
es snap up to his, and he’s grinning at me as he pulls his undershirt off. I whimper this time, for certain.

  “Bra, lapochka?”

  “Oh, yeah, strapless,” I say.

  I watch as he walks into the bathroom and returns with a wet cloth. To my amazement, he then tenderly wipes my face, my neck, and my chest with the cloth.

  “You’re taking my makeup off. I don’t have any to touch up,” I complain on a whisper.

  “You don’t need it,” he states.

  “You lie,” I gasp.

  “Lapochka, you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You don’t need it,” he grunts. It takes my breath away.

  I’ve had men tell me that I’m sexy and beautiful, but they’re usually saying it when I have my nighttime, thick and heavy makeup on; when I’m dressed to perfection.

  Never do they say I don’t need makeup—not even my papa. In fact, papa makes sure to tell me when I’m not wearing enough, or when it’s not perfect enough.

  “I hate this fucking dress,” Mika announces.

  My eyes widen when he pulls a switchblade out of his pocket, flipping it open with the push of a button. He reaches out with his opposite hand and wraps it around my dress, at the center of my chest. He yanks it away from my skin before he reaches over with the knife and cuts the dress in half. Cuts. My. Wedding. Dress. In. Half.

  My one-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding dress.

  “Mika,” I whisper.

  The material falls to the side, and I’m sitting in my white bustier and white silk panties. My white garter belt holds up my thigh highs and my feet are tucked into blue high heels, my Gianvito Rossi blue python heels. I love the shoes. I love them more than anything else about my wedding. With the way Mika treated my dress, I’m afraid my shoes are his next victim.

  “As soon as we touch down in Russia, I’m burning everything you’re wearing,” he grunts.

  “Not my shoes,” I whimper.

  “Sana,” he snaps. I stand, taking a step toward him and plastering my body against his.

  “Mika, these shoes, you don’t understand. I love these shoes. Please, don’t make me get rid of them. They were the only thing I picked out for the entire day. I didn’t even get to pick out my own underwear,” I practically screech.