Stolen by the Sinner (Russian Torpedo Book 1)
Stolen by the Sinner
A Russian Torpedo Novel
Hayley Faiman
Hayley Faiman Books, LLC
Contents
Also by Hayley Faiman
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RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Hayley Faiman
Stolen by the Sinner
Copyright © 2021 by Hayley Faiman
All rights reserved.
Editor: My Brother’s Editor. Ellie McLove. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net
Proofreading: My Brothers Editor. Rosa Sharon. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at: http://hayleyfaiman.com
Created with Vellum
Also by Hayley Faiman
Men of Baseball Series—
Pitching for Amalie
Catching Maggie
Forced Play for Libby
Sweet Spot for Victoria
Russian Bratva Series —
Owned by the Badman
Seducing the Badman
Dancing for the Badman
Living for the Badman
Tempting the Badman
Protected by the Badman
Forever my Badman
Betrothed to the Badman
Chosen by the Badman
Bought by the Badman
Collared by the Badman
Notorious Devils MC —
Rough & Rowdy
Rough & Raw
Rough & Rugged
Rough & Ruthless
Rough & Ready
Rough & Rich
Rough & Real
Cash Bar Series —
Laced with Fear
Chased with Strength
Flamed with Courage
Blended with Pain
Twisted with Chaos
Mixed with trouble
SAVAGE BEAST MC —
UnScrew Me
UnBreak Me
UnChain Me
UnLeash Me
UnTouch Me
UnHinge Me
UnWreck Me
UnCage Me
Unfit Hero Series —
CONVICT
HERO
FRAUD
KILLER
COWBOY
Zanetti Famiglia Series —
Becoming the Boss
Becoming his Mistress
Becoming his Possession
Becoming the Street Boss
Becoming the Hitman
Becoming his Wife
Becoming her Salvation
Prophecy Sisters Series —
Bride of the Traitor
Bride of the Sea
Bride of the Frontier
Bride of the Emperor
Astor Family Series —
Hypocritically Yours
Egotistically Yours
Matrimonially Yours
Occasionally Yours
Nasty Bastards MC —
Ruin My Life
Tame My Life
Start My Life
Dance into My Life
Shake Up My Life
Repair My Life
Sweeten My Life
Russian Torpedo—
Stolen by the Sinner
Bound to the Sinner
Caught by the Sinner
F*cked by the Sinner
Stripped by the Sinner
Rejecting the Sinner
Loved by the Sinner
Offspring Legends—
Between Flaming Stars
Esquire Black Duet Series –
DISCOVERY
APPEAL
Forbidden Love Series —
Personal Foul
Kinetic Energy
Standalone Titles
Royally Relinquished: A Modern Day Fairy Tale
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Stolen kisses are always the sweetest.
Leigh Hunt
RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE
Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.
Sovietnik – Councilor: Adviser and most close 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.
Chapter 1
DANILL
The Pakhan across from me arches his brow, staring at me, waiting for an answer. He curses under his breath, his hand reaching for his tumbler of vodka before he brings it to his lips and takes a long drink. He presses his lips together in a thin line as he stares at me.
He is probably pissed off at me for the amount of money that I’m requesting, but I don’t give much of a fuck. He wants a job done. He wants it done a certain way. He wants it done right. Then he’s going to pay me.
And he of all people knows exactly how much doing a job the right way costs.
“I know you only work directly under one Pakhan and even then, you have no allegiance to anyone other than the Bratva, but you must give me a deal.”
“I must?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
We’re at a restaurant. In fact, the only restaurant where business can and is discussed in open forum. Pozhaluysta is the only place to do such a thing. It’s why most of the men sitting around the tables murmuring among themselves are indeed Bratva and are talking business of some kind.
We may be from different parts of the city, under different Pakhans, and doing completely different business, but we’re all Bratva. We
can all meet here safely and discuss life, jobs, or anything else comfortably.
Which is the exact reason why Fyodor called me here for lunch.
He wants me to kill someone.
Not just anyone.
Not just an enemy or a business associate. He wants me to kill someone that the world would notice went missing. For that reason, and that reason alone, I can’t accept anything less than what I am owed for a job that big. Because he wishes for me to make this look like nothing other than a suicide.
“What is in it for me?”
“Besides money?” he asks, arching a brow as he leans back in his chair with his vodka in his hand.
“Yes, what is in it for me? You see, I am putting my ass on the line, not you. Simply put, money is not enough.”
He hums. “You said there would be no discount, no deal for the job. So, you will get money. Nothing else.”
Shaking my head once, I clear my throat. “The men that I will need to help me in this, I will be cashing in my favors or getting markers for new ones. This puts me in a position to use my personal gathered resources. I want to ensure that I’m compensated properly.”
“Belsky,” he warns, using my last name as if I am a child.
I hold his gaze with my own. Fyodor Davydov does not intimidate me. Nothing about this man does. He may be a Pakhan, but he’s not my Pakhan. He may be powerful, but so am I. He is close enough to the same playing field as I am that I don’t have to dip my chin to him, but I still do out of respect.
“Davydov?” I ask, using his last name as well.
He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine, and then he sighs. That’s when I know that he has relented. He leans forward, sets his vodka down, then throws his hands in the air as if he’s given up. The white flag has been raised. My lips curve up into a small grin as I wait for him to continue, because I know that he has something to say.
“Fine,” he spits. “What do you want?”
Lifting my hands to my face, I steeple my fingers in front of my mouth and chin. I sit across from him, staring at him, watching him, as I wait for him to think of something that I might want. I have nothing to truly ask for, as I don’t know what the terms could be.
So, I wait.
I want something that is more intriguing than just more money.
So, I hold out.
Then I watch as his eyes widen and so do his lips, they pull up into a huge smile.
“I think I might have something you’d be interested in. You’ll have to take it for yourself. But it’s something I wouldn’t ever suggest anyone else do.”
“I can do that,” I say with a grin. In fact, a challenge sounds like fun to me.
HOLLAND
My father stares at me from across the table. We’re eating dinner. Though I’m not consuming much. It’s obligatory for me and I really don’t want to be here. I’d rather be out shopping, dancing, drinking. Anything except sitting across a table from him and pretending to be… civil.
“You’ll be coming to the holiday party. It is black tie, as always.”
I almost roll my eyes. My father puts on a pretentious holiday party every single year and every single year he makes me come. Not because I want to, not because he necessarily wants me there, but because he wants to show the world what a perfect family we are.
Looks are what matters in my so-called family, nothing else… well, except for money.
My mother even flies in from Paris for the event every year, to play make believe, and pretend to be his perfect wife for all of the paparazzi and the who’s who of Los Angeles. I personally couldn’t give a shit either way.
I’d prefer to stay completely away from the whole thing, stay home in my pajamas and drink a bottle of wine. But he holds my Christmas present hostage if I don’t show. And I love Christmas presents. He also threatens me, telling me that he won’t pay my rent for the year if I don’t appear.
“You know I’ll be there,” I mutter.
“I’d like you to be here for the entire weekend.”
“Why?” I ask immediately.
My heart starts to race in a panic at the thought of spending the whole weekend with not just him, but my mother and him at the same time. We don’t get along. They don’t get along. When we’re actually all together, it’s so toxic that I’m surprised that I don’t glow from the atmosphere.
He never wants me to stay for anything. I usually go home the night of the party, every now and then I’ll crash in the bedroom upstairs, but for the most part, I want out of that environment as soon as possible.
Except now, this year, for whatever reason, he’s asking me to stay? There has to be some kind of reason. There has to be something up his sleeve.
I haven’t trusted my father… well… ever. And I’m not going to start now.
He’s famous, he’s entitled, he thinks he’s untouchable. He thinks that he’s some kind of god and I just have no fucking need for his bullshit.
Ever.
I left home when I was fifteen and have lived in an apartment in Santa Monica, paid for by my father, of course, ever since. So, when he wants me to play nice, I reluctantly do just that. Which is what I’ll do this time because the way he’s looking at me, I can tell that I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.
“I’m having people over for the weekend. A little pre-soiree to speak of. It would be nice if my family could be there too.”
“Are you winning an award or something?” I deadpan.
He smiles again, and that’s when I know that’s exactly what it is. I’ve lost count of the red-carpet events I’ve joined him at. Standing next to him and smiling for the cameras. I have hated every single one of them. I’m not an actress. Pretending to be happy while screaming inside as I stand next to him is exhausting.
The only thing that he’s good for is his name. It gets me anywhere and everywhere I ever want to go or be. There are definitely perks to being a Wanger. I take full advantage of that part, always have. In that way, I’m too much like my mother.
“I am,” he announces as he claps his hands together.
He then goes off on a fifteen-minute tangent about this award and why he’s being awarded whatever it is, and having a huge party to celebrate. So basically, he’s having two huge events in two days and wants to play happy family.
What. Ever.
Sounds like a nightmare to me, but at the same time, I want my bills paid, so like the good selfish daughter, I will be there with a fake smile.
When dinner is finished, I thank him for the food, promise I’ll be there for his parties, dressed to perfection, then I leave.
There are photographers outside of the restaurant because he always picks the fanciest places in town, the ones that are always being hounded by paparazzi. Ones where he knows he’ll be seen and fawned over.
My father wants to be seen, no matter where he is. I don’t blame him really, I kind of like it myself. I am my mother’s attention whore of a daughter, after all. Attention is nice, no matter who it comes from, and to be honest, I’m not getting it anywhere else currently.
Leaving him, I slide into the front seat of my car after the valet brings it to me. I head straight for Santa Monica. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to get to the club where my friends are waiting to meet me, but with traffic, it will take me well over an hour.
That’s fine, nobody wants to be early to a club anyway. They can wait, I’ll make an entrance. Though, don’t I always? I’m famous for being Barry Wanger’s daughter, but I’m also just famous for no particular reason. I’m famous for being seen, I’m famous for partying, smiling, and being anywhere and everywhere there are pretty people.
Maybe because I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen, maybe because my mother ran off to Paris when I was ten. Who the fuck knows. I don’t really care either. I’m going to continue to live this life until I’m ready for something else.
Until it’s time for a change.
I’m not sure when that will be
. I’ve been living it for eight years. Though, I do have to admit that it’s the same thing every day. It’s getting a bit monotonous. There is nothing exciting or new that happens. I’m definitely bored, but I don’t know that I’m bored enough to implement change myself. And what change would I try anyway?
The club comes Into view and I hand my keys to the valet as I slip out of the car. My heels are as high as possible without looking like a newborn baby giraffe when I walk. My skirt short enough that it’s obvious what I have going on, but you can’t see my vagina or my ass cheeks.
I’m classy club girl. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, because I don’t show nearly as much skin as I did when I was fifteen or sixteen. I’m twenty-three now, I’ve grown up a little… not a lot, but a little.
As soon as I step into the loud club, I look up and see Nate standing at our reserved table alone. As soon as his eyes lock on mine, he lifts his hand and waves me over.
I don’t ask him where Marie and Claudia are. I’m sure they’re out on the dance floor, considering they do everything together, which is honestly exactly where I want to be right now.