Chicago Bratva Books 7-9, page 35
part #1 of Chicago Bratva Series
You’re perfect in the sunlight. You’re perfect in the rain.
Girl, when I find you falling, it’s always me you catch.
You, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you–saved me
Yeah, you, you, you, you, you, you, you saved me from myself
You, you rescued, you rescued, you rescued me-e-e, yeah
* * *
I sing the song directly to Nadia, and she beams back at me the whole time, a few tears leaking from the outer corners of her eyes, but total pleasure in her stance and body.
When I finish, Nadia and her friends from the Kremlin cheer, bouncing up and down with their hands in the air. I hold her gaze an extra moment before I back up to my usual position.
After the set, I hop off the end of the stage to smother her with love. I push her back against the stage and kiss her senseless until Adrian taps on my shoulder.
“Hey, loverboy. A word.”
“Sure.”
He tips his head toward the stage, and we walk out the back door to the parking lot behind Rue’s. Nikolai and Maxim have come with him. The three of them form a semi-circle in front of me.
“In bratva, we get tattoos to mark our crimes,” Adrian says.
I nod. I’d gathered as much considering how much menacing ink they all wear.
“You honored the brotherhood when you took up arms against our enemy. You protected one of ours.”
I swallow, the image of Nadia’s abuser’s blown brains flashing before my eyes. Yeah, I might have nightmares now over that, but I could handle it.
“If you like, you may choose a bratva marking. As honorary member of the brotherhood. You are under our protection now.”
I go still. They’re offering me…some form of membership? In the Russian mafiya? An honorary membership.
As if guessing at my hesitation, Adrian clarifies. “It does not obligate you. It is more honor. Not a true position.”
I draw in a breath. My sister is already closely tied to the Chicago Bratva. I trust her life with them. And Nadia is, too. The girl I’m all in with. The one I plan to spend the rest of my life with. So yeah, why refuse their honor? Especially when it’s offered by Nadia’s brother, the guy who threatened to kill me on multiple occasions.
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
“Good. It is done in ceremony. Next time you are at Kremlin, I will introduce you to Stepan, our tattoo artist, and he will learn your story to come up with the design.”
The three men clap me on my shoulders and back. “Well done, Flynn,” Nikolai says. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m all right. Nadia’s good. That’s all that matters to me.”
Adrian offers me his hand. I realize it’s the first time he’s given me any sign of goodwill. I clasp it, and he squeezes it firmly and looks me in the eye. “Thank you. I won’t forget what you’ve done.”
“I’d do anything for her,” I tell him.
Just then, Nadia pushes open the back door. “Everything all right?”
I reach an arm out and pull her into my side. “All good, Peaches. Your brother finally shook my hand.”
Nadia kisses my cheek. “He finally sees what I know about you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“That you’re the guy for me.”
Satisfaction courses through me with those words. “Say it again.”
“You’re the guy for me.”
“One more time.”
“You’re the guy for me. Now come inside, there’s a guy from a record label talking to Story and the guys.”
Epilogue
Nadia
“One more time, and I think that’s a wrap,” the director calls out.
I dart forward to adjust the collar on Flynn’s de-sleeved suit jacket, and Sasha hands a bright red lipstick to Story. “These costumes are everything,” Sasha says, looking over her shoulder at me. “You are a design genius.”
I flush with pleasure. We’re in a studio in Los Angeles where the Storytellers are shooting several videos with a director Sasha and her actress friend, Kayla, connected us with.
Sasha and Kayla are here, which means their bratva partners, Maxim and Pavel, are here. Oleg came along for Story, of course. The band is wearing the ripped suit design concept I created for them, and they look absolutely perfect.
Sasha and I stand back, and the band starts up again. They look amazing. That scrappy-grungy hometown band look has been replaced with a more professional, already-arrived vibe.
I’d like to think my styling is part of that, but it’s also their confidence level.
After a lot of discussion and advice from Ravil and Maxim, The Storytellers decided not to take the record label deal in favor of remaining indie. Chelle’s public relations firm is handling their publicity. Oleg and I offered our individual savings to fund a huge advertising campaign to launch the next album, but instead they did a Kickstarter and raised over three million dollars in three weeks. Shawn, Story and Flynn’s dad, was a little disappointed they didn’t go with the label at first, but after the Kickstarter, he got on board with them being indie. He’s now over the moon with their burgeoning success.
I take some photos of the band with my phone, zooming in on Flynn to capture the new tattoo on his shoulder. It’s a peach split apart, but arranged like two halves of a heart. At the center is a single bullet.
Flynn’s Tiktok fans ask about it all the time, but obviously, they’ll never get the true story.
I asked about getting a bratva tattoo, but Ravil explained to me that Flynn took the mark on his soul for me, to leave me free of its stain. “You already bear scars, you don’t need to carry even a drop of ink for this crime. Let Flynn have the honor. He gave you that gift.”
He did. He set me free–not just with the bullet but by inviting me into his world. He’s my everything.
“I hope you’re going to post those on your own social media,” Sasha murmurs to me.
“Should I?” I started my own Instagram and Tiktok channel to post my fashion designs, and now I’m designing burlesque costumes for six other troupes across the country. I continue to design costumes for and perform with Black Velvet Burlesque, which is my personal joy.
“Definitely,” Sasha says. “Ride their success and let them ride yours. Collaboration is everything.”
“Okay.” I post one before I chicken out and caption it, “Sneak peek of The Storytellers new video in my designs!” I don’t have as many followers as Flynn and The Storytellers–Flynn’s is at 2.5 million now!–but I have a decent following. There’s already a lot of cross-over because people know I’m Flynn’s girlfriend.
When they finish the last take, the director calls us over. “Nadia and Flynn, come and take a look at the rough cut we made of ‘Rescued.’”
We go over to look at his phone with him. “Rescued” is the song Flynn wrote for me, so he wanted me in the video. The director wanted to go dark with it because of the lyrics. At first, I resisted–I hate that part of my life. But then I realized this video is like my performances with Black Velvet Burlesque–a taking back of my narrative.
There’s some dark, shadowy shots of cuffs and chains, and me standing in the shadows, but then I emerge. Lots of scenes of me stepping out of the shadows and into the light. Gazing straight into the camera with strength. Overcoming. All of that is spliced with clips of Flynn playing alone in the studio. It’s powerful. Haunting. Artsy and beautiful.
I lean against Flynn—not because I need his support—but to commune with him. To share this moment more fully.
My nightmares are fewer and far between, and I haven’t had a panic attack since the night Flynn and I shot cigar man.
“It’s beautiful.” I brush a stray tear from my eye. “What do you think?”
“It’s perfect. Like you.”
“Like You.”
Bonus Scene
Maykl
Someone’s knocking on the Kremlin doors. Technically, not my problem. The doors are locked—it’s past business hours. It’s approaching nine at night, for fuck’s sake.
But I have the video feed running in my room–because I take security at the Kremlin very seriously, and this one doesn’t look like she’s going away.
She’s hunched against the wind. The full-length woolen jacket wrapped around her is big, but it doesn’t disguise how slender she appears.
She raises her gloved hand and raps on the glass. “Pozhaluysta.” I can’t hear the word, but I see her lips form it.
Blyad’. She’s Russian.
I’m up and out of my chair in a heartbeat, palming a pistol that I tuck in the waistband of my jeans. I shove my feet in a pair of boots and get on the elevator to go down to the front doors.
I see my share of crazy shit here. I saw when that band kid tried to knock the doors down a month ago to get in. I knew he was here for Nadia, and I also knew Adrian wouldn’t approve, so I didn’t even bother answering the door.
As it turned out, Nikolai let the kid in.
I’ve had to field an aggressive visitor for that mudak, too. Chelle, who is now his girlfriend, nearly climbed me like a tree when I tried to throw her out. I guess her brother has a gambling problem that Nikolai helped her out with.
I open the door and stare at the pale-eyed beauty looking up at me. Her eyes are ice blue, and her lashes and brows a light blonde.
She takes in my tattoos and the width of my shoulders and swallows. “I am Russian,” she says in our mother tongue, ducking her head submissively. “I was told I would be welcomed here.”
Fuck.
I grunt and open the door to at least let her in from the cold. “Told by whom?” I demand in Russian.
She gives a name I don’t recognize.
“What do you need?”
She pulls off her winter cap, revealing a head of pale blonde hair that falls in layers to her shoulders. She’s young, but I get the feeling the submissive act is just that–an act. There’s a steely determination behind her eyes that makes me cautious.
“My name is Kira. I just arrived from Russia, and I need a place to stay.”
***
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Be sure to read the next book in the series, The Gatekeeper.
The Gatekeeper
A Dark Bratva Romance
Prologue
Kira, 13 years old
A splintering pounding sounds on our front door.
I’m in my nightshirt, brushing my teeth for bed.
My father has been missing for two days. It’s not unusual. He has his addictions: alcohol. Gambling. Low-level grifting.
But unlike our mother, he’s a decent parent. When he’s home, he laughs and jokes with us. He may break every promise he makes, but at least he gives us attention.
Our mom is shut up in her room, as always at this time of night. She’s a living ghost. She’s emotionally checked out from living with our dad, I guess. She works to pay the rent and put groceries in the refrigerator but, otherwise, barely functions.
I run out to the living room.
“Kira, come here!” My sister, Anya, who is seventeen and more of a mother to me than our own, grabs a butcher knife from the kitchen.
The door bursts open, and our dingy apartment floods with tattooed men.
Bratva. The Russian mafiya. I’ve heard my dad speak of them, but I’ve never seen them before. Still, there’s no doubt in my mind that’s who these men are.
I fly to my sister’s side, behind the protection of her butcher knife. Our mother doesn’t even come out of her room.
“Grigor. Where is he?” one of them demands. They’re looking for our father. I know he does business with the bratva. I’m not sure what kind. Maybe that’s where he gambles.
“Wh–why? What has he done?” I ask.
“He owes us, and we’ve come to collect.”
“Well, he’s not here,” Anya says.
One of them advances. His upper lip curls. I don’t like the way he’s looking at my bare legs. At my sister’s breasts. “Where?”
“We don’t know!” Anya spits. “He’s been gone for two days.”
“Take the older one,” a man says quietly. He must be the leader because the men surge forward to obey.
One of them puts a gun to my forehead, but he speaks to my sister. “Come nicely or your little sister’s brains will cover the floor.”
Anya, shocked into submission, lets another man take the knife from her hand and grasp her firmly by the upper arm.
“You can’t take her!” I’m not begging, I’m shouting. As if I have any power to persuade them.
“Shut her up,” the leader says, and the man with the gun slams the side of it against my head. Everything goes black.
When I wake, Anya is gone.
Maykl, 13 years old
I stand, pistol shaking in my sweaty hand. My breath rasps in and out in harsh measures. I used this pistol four days ago to kill my own father. It was kill or be killed, but I’m still sick over it. I’m still in shock. I’ve barely slept in the nights since.
I’m grateful the bratva took care of everything. Got rid of the body. Gave me a place to stay. Put money in my pocket. It was Peter, one of the lower leaders, who gave me the gun in the first place.
“For protection,” he said when they were at my father’s auto shop, and he saw the bruises on my face.
Now, though–what he’s asking of me is too much.
“This is how you prove your loyalty, Maykl. Do you want to join the brotherhood?”
I stare down at the beaten man at my feet. Sweat beads along his greasy blond hairline. His light blue eyes bulge with terror. Breath rasps in and out at a rapid rate. “Nyet…nyet,” he pleads.
I do want to join the brotherhood. Rather desperately. I assumed I was already in. I won't survive without them. I’ll go to prison for killing my father.
“Take my daughter again! Use her,” the man pleads.
“We already tired of her,” Peter says.
“The younger one, then.”
“It’s easy,” Peter murmurs behind me. “Just pull the trigger. This guy would sell his own daughters. He is scum.”
I stop thinking. I have no other choice. I squeeze the trigger…
And miss.
“Again, Maykl.” Peter’s patient. “Right between the eyes. You can do it.”
The second time, I don’t miss. Clean shot in the head.
He dies immediately.
Grigor Koslov. I memorize his name as the ink is pressed into my skin to memorialize the crime.
My first murder on behalf of the bratva.
First of far too many.
1
Sixteen Years Later
Kira
I stand in the Cook County morgue and stare down at the wasted body of my sister. A wave of nausea rolls through me, even though I prepared myself for this sight. She’s skin and bones, reduced to a skeleton long before the final overdose took her. Her arms are covered in needle tracks.
This is the conclusion to yet another life ruined by the bratva. The second family member I’ve lost at their hands.
I barely slept on the plane from Russia, but seeing Anya’s horrific form instantly clears the fog from my brain and brings on an urgent sense of purpose: I need to find my nephew. I came to bring him home with me. It’s what I should have done years ago.
I was still in school when Anya left with Mika, but I begged her to leave him with me. I already knew the bright future she fantasized about for them here wouldn’t happen.
“That’s her,” I tell the morgue attendant. I started learning English the day she left with Aleksi, her client. Or boyfriend. Or whatever you call the bratva thug who pays you for sex and treats you like shit.
I suppose I always knew this day would come. I’m grateful now that I can understand and speak English well enough to get by.
“What do you want to do with the body?” The attendant at the morgue asks.
“I…I don’t know yet.”
“You have twenty-four hours to make arrangements. I’m sorry to rush you, but she’s already been here three days, and we need the space here,” the sharp-nosed attendant tells me. He’s nice enough. He tries to warn me off actually viewing the body and just identify her through a photograph, but I refuse.
I push back the mountain of grief that threatens to crush me. Now is not the time to mourn Anya. I don’t have the luxury to grieve yet. And dealing with Anya’s body is the least of my worries right now. “Okay. I’ll figure it out. Thank you.”
My next visit is to the police station to meet with the officer who signed the paperwork when Anya was brought in.
“I’m a police officer, too,” I tell him in hopes he’ll be more helpful than the one who called me in Russia. I produce my Politsiya Rossii identification to show him. “You have no idea where her son might be?”
The graying cop, Officer Green, shakes his head. “The 9-1-1 call came from another female junkie in the crack house where she was living. We haven’t investigated, as the cause of death was obviously an overdose.”
“May I have the address of the crack house, please?”
“Of course. You say she has a son? How old?”
The emotion that was absent from seeing my dead sister suddenly floods me at grief for the loss of Mika. My sweet nephew. The boy I bounced, fed, and taught to walk. The child I raised when I was just a teenager.
“He’d be… fifteen now.”
“And the father?”
I shake my head. Who knows which bratva mudak actually sired Mika. It could have been any one of them who passed her around as payment for our father’s debt.
“No father.”
A junkie mother. And this kid on his own, living in a foreign land. It’s horrible. I’ve been trying to find both of them since I lost contact with Anya over four years ago, but even with my police ties, I found nothing.
