Bratva Beast by B.B. Hamel
Fiona
Iwoke up to three missed calls and groaned. I had a splitting headache, my feet hurt from standing all night long, and I could still taste that monster on my lips.
I could still feel his fingers between my legs.
I got up and showered. I didn’t know what the hell I was thinking. My phone buzzed while I cleaned my face—another number I didn’t recognize. I let it go to voicemail.
Growing up in the Doyle family taught me a lot of things. First, never answer right away, always screen your calls. Second, cops won’t tell you they’re cops no matter what, but they are more likely to try to push you into doing illegal shit. Third, family is the most important thing in the world—except for when it’s not.
And most of all, I learned that violence hung beneath everything I did, from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep, and a day without getting killed was a very good day.
Last night, I barely survived.
But his touch left me changed—like a new hunger was lodged in my stomach, gnawing at my bones.
I felt sick and strange and terrified.
I got out of the shower, dried off, and did my hair and make-up as fast as I could.
I didn’t plan on kissing him. I caught his eye a couple times while I was working and thought he was handsome—tall, brown hair, light blue eyes, chiseled jaw line, slightly scruffy with a muscular build and lots of tattoos. He stood out, and also didn’t stand out in a strange way, like he was a gorgeous masculine specimen, but he didn’t want any attention.
Then I saw him again at Six and I thought he might be following me. So I tested him with the drink and all that, then headed home.
When he had my phone, I knew something was wrong.
Except I had no clue how bad.
My family played games. You didn’t grow in the Doyles without getting used to danger. Except I couldn’t have guessed how deep it went this time.
Another phone call. I jumped when my phone started buzzing on the toilet lid. “Shut up,” I muttered. “I’ll be there soon.” I let it go to voicemail.
Someone wanted me gone. That wasn’t exactly new—my father was the second most important man in the Doyle Crime Family, after all, so I was born into this awful world—but it’d never been directed straight at me before.
I’d lost cousins and friends, aunts and uncles, and now it was my turn.
Except he didn’t do it.
Because I kissed him.
It was like I went insane, but I could see something in his eyes—he didn’t want to do it. He could’ve ended me at any second, but he held back. My life was in his hands, my worthless existence beneath his fingers, and he held back.
He hesitated, he looked at me, he touched me, he lured me into a trap.
And he still didn’t pull the trigger.
So I made my move. It was desperate and crazy—
And god, did it work.
I was still alive, and he gave me the best orgasm of my life.
I thought it would be quick. I’d kiss him, maybe bite his tongue or lip, then knee him as hard as I could in the balls and run. That was what I thought, anyway, right up until I tasted him, felt his hands on my body, his fingers between my legs—then my plans changed drastically.
I wanted to knock him off guard, then hurt him and get away.
Instead, I came right there on the street.
God, what the hell was wrong with me?
I was deeply, deeply disturbed.
My phone started buzzing.
“Shut. Up.” I grabbed it, sent the call to voicemail, and stormed into my room. I threw on clothes, pulled on my pair of beat-up gray Vans, shoved my phone into my big black bag, and hurried through my messy apartment—clothes on the couch, empty wine bottles and half-filled glasses on the coffee table, dishes in the sink, receipts and trash on the counter above the trashcan, more clothes on the floor near the front door—and hurried outside.
I caught a cab. “Washington Square, please.”
The cabby grunted at me and drove off.
I stared out the window then squeezed my eyes shut. The cab smelled like smoke and Chinese take-out.
Mack. It sounded like an Irish name. I had a few cousins named Mack. But he definitely wasn’t Irish, and I definitely wasn’t related to him.
I crossed my legs, trying not to think about that orgasm again, and failing miserably. I was wet all over and getting frustrated with myself.
I couldn’t be distracted, not now.
Not with my brother’s life in the balance.
The cab dropped me off. I paid in cash and hurried into the park. It was pretty, with wide paths made up of smooth paver stones. Lots of trees cast shadows. People sat on blankets on the grass and walked their dogs in pairs. I skirted around the wide fountain and hurried toward a group of two benches. A lone man sat on the bench furthest from me, glaring down at a phone.
I slowed as I approached. He looked up, eyes narrowed. “You’re late. I’ve been calling.”
“I know. I’m really sorry.” I hesitated, bit my lip. I could’ve sworn I still felt Mack’s tongue in my mouth. “Can I sit down?”
Renzo grunted at me and gestured assent. He was in his late twenties, probably five years older than me, and worked for the Lionetti Crime Family, or at least what was left of it. His Don was called Park, but they were still in the midst of a violent civil war that had two rival factions duking it out in the street.
It was bloody and it was ugly, and my family wanted to stay far away from the action.
And then there was me, sucked right into the middle.
“What do you have for me?” He looked down at his phone and started tapping away. He wore dark slacks and a white dress shirt, rolled at the elbows.
“I talked to Tully and Ferris last night, but—”
He looked up and interrupted. His dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re about to make some bullshit excuse.”
“I tried,” I said, feeling that desperate creep in my spine—the same desperation I felt last night when I kissed Mack.
Except last night, my desperation was tinged with a very confusing desire.
And this one definitely was not.
“Clearly not hard enough.” His scowl bit me to the core.
“I’m not part of the business. When I ask questions, it only looks really suspicious, and last night they got mad. I pressed really hard, believe me, I tried, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Renzo sighed. “That’s a shame then. I guess I’ll have to go break the bad news to your brother.”
“Wait,” I said quickly. “Give me more time.”
“How much time do you think your brother has?” He looked down at his phone and started typing again. “Your cousins have a shipment coming in a week and I want to know where. Figure it out for me, and I won’t cut off your brother’s hand. You keep fucking up and failing and your brother will come back to you shoved into a hundred tiny boxes.”
A lump worked its way up my throat like a beetle trying to escape. I felt like I might be sick and had to press my hands against the bench to keep from falling over.
Nobody knew. Nobody knew but me.
I don’t know when it happened. Two weeks earlier, I was at work, doing my usual thing, keeping my distance from the family and just trying to get through this shitty world when Renzo approached me. At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on—
Until he showed me a picture of Connor tied up in some basement with black eyes and blood leaking from his mouth.
Instantly, I thought of my father kicking Connor’s door open when we were still just kids.
I thought of the sound a belt makes over bare skin.
Renzo said nobody knew they had Connor. Renzo said everyone thought he was dead.
And he was right. When I got home, my father broke the news—Connor died in a shootout with a Lionetti crew.
Which wasn’t true, but Renzo made me swear that if I told anyone, he’d finish my little brother off.
All I had to do was bring him information. Spy on my own family for him, and eventually he’d send Connor home.
That night, he let me speak to my brother on the phone. Connor begged me not to listen to them, not to do what they asked—
But of course I agreed. Connor was eighteen and only just started working in earnest for the Doyle Family. I couldn’t leave him to rot and die in some safe house basement.
Not when I owed my brother my life. Not when I failed him, over and over again, every night my father got drunk and stormed into my brother’s room with a thick brown leather belt stained with dark red spots where it bit too deep.
I’d sit with Connor afterward and clean the bloody wounds with cotton balls and isopropyl alcohol, the stuff in that big brown bottle. He’d wince and dry his tears and try to make jokes, and I’d smile back and laugh at them—
All the while hating myself.
Because I never tried to stop it. I never said a word.
I hid in my closet and cried while my little baby brother took his beatings.
Years and years went by and Connor hardened.
So did the scars on his back.
I never forgave myself.
Now, Renzo owned me because I’d do anything to try to fix the past.
Which was why I had to find out about the drug shipment.
“Let me talk to him,” I asked softly, pleading. “Just to make sure he’s okay.”
Renzo snorted, not looking up. “Why would I do that? You failed me, Fiona. You don’t get rewards for failure.”
“Please, I just want to hear his voice, make sure he’s alive.”
Renzo stopped typing and sighed. He dialed a number and held it to his ear, glaring at me. “Yeah, it’s me. Get the kid and put him on.” Renzo waited while I sat there, heart racing. An older couple walked past with little yapping white dogs on leashes. I had to pull away from one as it growled and lunged at my ankle.
Renzo held out the phone. I tried to take it, but he shook his head. I pressed my head to the receiver. “Connor? Connor, it’s Fiona, tell me you’re okay—”
“Fi, don’t help them.” It was him, definitely him, but he sounded bad and distant. “Don’t do it, Fi. I’m okay, I’m—”
Renzo pulled the phone away and hung up. He sighed and rubbed his temples as I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to cry.
“Find out where the shipment’s going to be or I’ll cut off his right hand and shove it through your mail slot.” He stood up and looked down at me with his lips curled up in disgust. “And don’t be late to a meeting again.” He walked off, leaving me there alone.
I waited until he was gone before I buried my face in my hands and cried.
God, what a mess. I was sobbing alone on a bench in a public park. I let myself indulge for ten seconds before I forced myself to get in control again.
I was good at getting control over my emotions.
I had to be, living in the Doyle family.
I couldn’t afford a breakdown, not with Connor’s life on the line. I wiped my face, smearing my eyeliner, and stood up to leave. A guy in a business suit with a laptop open next to him frowned at me and looked like he wanted to say something, but my stare must’ve scared him off.
I scared a lot of people lately.
Except for Mack.
I began to walk back to the street.
Who wanted me dead? It couldn’t be the Lionettis—they still wanted to use me for information. Maybe my own family, but I doubted they knew I was a traitor and a spy, not yet at least. They’d figure it out eventually if I weren’t careful, and my family did not go easy on enemies within the ranks.
That left the Morozov family, the last big crime syndicate. But why would the Russians in particular want to kill me, of all people?
Unless they knew the Lionettis flipped me.
It made sense. Mack did look vaguely European.
I paused beside the black fence that ringed the park. I scanned the street—
And felt my heart leap into my throat.
There he was, leaning up against a storefront across the street, watching me. His arms were over his chest and he had this handsome, maddening smile on his lips. He nodded at me, then turned and started away—
I ran after him. He disappeared around the corner, and I went sprinting through traffic. “Hey, Mack!” I shouted and ignored the Subaru that nearly flattened me into pulp. I hit the corner and turned, expecting to see him ahead.
But there was nothing.
I searched the block, even went into the stores, and nothing.
Mack was gone.
If that was him at all.
I was losing my mind. A hitman was sent to kill me, and all I could do was think about his lips against mine, his hand between my legs—all while my brother was dying in some basement because I wasn’t good at getting information from my very stupid cousins.
I leaned up against a stoplight and took deep breaths.
Connor didn’t deserve this. He believed in the family like everyone else did, but he was still just a kid. He wanted to make our father proud where I wanted nothing to do with any of it, and he didn’t deserve to get his body mutilated by some asshole Italian mobster.
I couldn’t let myself get murdered, and I wouldn’t let Connor end up dead.
That was why I’d never leave Philadelphia. The moment I tried to run was the moment the Lionettis tossed my brother’s body in the river.
I was stuck.
And Mack was still on my tail.
