A Treacherous Killer-Dark Bratva Romance

thirteen

Maks

I don't know why I find satisfaction out of taunting Nadia. It's not that I enjoy bullying her to see her break, it's more of the thrill of pushing her to see how hard she pushes back. In the process,
I had inadvertently made her into an enemy just because I couldn't contain my perverse tendencies.

I don't know why I followed her up to that balcony. Maybe my subconscious was screaming at me to make sure she was okay. She did tend to get herself into trouble when she was alone.

I had fully anticipated finding her on the balcony in the presence of Emil. After their intimate dance I figured they had snuck away to find some alone time, but I had found her all alone in that blood colored dress.

I couldn't deny her soft beauty under the pale moonlight. She looked like she had escaped from a eighteenth century oil painting. Dark hair that fell in luscious waves, evergreen eyes that seemed to encapsulate light, and those damned blood red lips that were begging for a good biting.

I had to compose myself before I alerted her to my presence. I was acting like an inexperienced school boy. I had never felt anything other than despite for the princess. Why the hell was I imagining biting her lips?

It was the debt she owed me hanging over our heads like a fucking storm cloud. I had saved her and my subconscious was trying to replace Inessa with Nadia. That could never happen. I couldn't protect Inessa and it's not my responsibility to protect Nadia. She has a family for that.

I need to get even with her. That way my devious thoughts will subside and I will stop thinking about what it would be like to push Nadia up against a balcony railing and trail a finger up that dangerously high slit in her dress.

Nadia and I were destined to loathe one another. I knew it from the moment our eyes had first met.

Three Years Ago

I had been working for the Bratva under Caine for a few weeks. I had never known what it felt like to be apart of something bigger than life. The Bratva was more than an organization, it was a brotherhood. Men who fought by your side diligently and were willing to a take bullet for you.

I had quickly grown accustomed to the life of organized crime. Caine and the others had welcomed me with open arms. Just tonight he'd asked me to have dinner at his manor with the Mirsky's, he and his father's closet friends.

I was sitting at the dining table making idle conversation with Caine and Leo when the front door swings open and the Mirsky family waltzes in.

I had met Sergey and Simon Mirsky before, but I hadn't met his wife and daughter. Anya struts into the dining room and disregards everyone completely, before pouring herself a glass of champagne. The daughter, Nadia comes bounding through the door but stops in her tracks when her gaze locks on me.

She audibly gasps. No one else in the room seemed to notice but I did. Her full red lips were parted in shock or horror, I couldn't discern one from the other. I narrow my eyes at her and she quickly averts her gaze, taking the seat closest to her mother.

I catch her staring at me several times throughout dinner. Every time I feel her eyes on me I can't help but look her way. She quickly averts her gaze and stares down at her food, her cheeks painted almost the same color as her lips.

I was used to people staring at me. My scar had earned me a few odd glances over the years but none of them had ever seemed to bother me until now. Something about her gaze felt assessing with a hint of curiosity. It unsettled me.

After dinner the conversation floats to the garden. The men talk near the hedge rows and Nadia and her mother take a walk down the cobblestone pathway.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and make my way back into the house and down the hall to the guest bathroom. As I round the corner something or rather someone, slams into my chest. I instinctively reach out and steady whoever it is. I glance down and lock gazes with a pair of evergreen eyes.

"I'm sorry," she breathes out. She looks up at me and immediately takes a meaningful step back.

"Is there something on my face?" I snap at her. Her eyes furrow with confusion before she shakes her head lightly.

"What?" She stammers.

"You've been staring at me since you first arrived. Either you find me really interesting or I have something on my face that draws your attention."

"I haven't been staring," she scoffs.

"I beg to differ."

"Well aren't you egotistical. I don't find anything about you interesting," she spats. I cross my arms over my chest and give her a look of loathing.

A princess. That's what Nadia was. Born into a life of wealth and privilege. She will never have to work for anything or know what it's like to scrape pennies. I've just met the girl and she's already digging her way under my skin faster than most people.

"Ask me about it," I say in a low voice.

"Excuse me?" She says incredulously.

"The scar. That's what you've been staring at all night after all."

"I didn't even notice." The blush crawling up her neck and cheeks tell a different story.

"It's from a broken piece of glass," I bite.  She glances back up and studies the scar, trying to envision a piece of glass doing all that damage. "I almost lost vision in my eye." 

"I'm sorry," she says, empathy seeping into her words. "Were you in a accident?"

"That's all you need to know. Now keep your eyes in your own head and off of me princess," I snap. I brush past her and leave her standing in the hallway.
***
I've just walked into the door of my penthouse. The place is dark so I feel around until I flip the light on above the sink. I shed my clothes, undressing down to my underwear and go into one of my rooms turned at home gym.

My punching bag is suspended from the ceiling in the center of the room. I don't ever bother wearing gloves because you can't wear gloves in the ring. I do tape my knuckles in the event that I get carried away.

I'm about to lay into the bag when my phone dings. A cold sweat instantly breaks out on the back of my neck.

Another fucking message.

It's been a few days since I had received any new messages. I had stupidly hoped that whoever was sending them had grown bored of tormenting me and moved on but it appears I was wrong.

I go over to the bench press and retrieve my phone from the seat. Sure enough a message from unknown appears on the screen. When I open the text, my phone slips from my hands.

It's not a picture of some woman tied and beaten in some dark space. No. It's a picture of a lonely woman leaning on a balcony wearing a blood red dress.