Bratva Beast by B.B. Hamel
Mack
Iparked outside of my house and killed the engine. “Home sweet home.”
She chewed her lip and stared at the simple brick row home on a quiet, shady block near the South Street Bridge. “You live here?”
“What did you expect?” I opened the door and stepped out.
“I don’t know. Blood and guts. Do No Enter signs on the door.”
“Yellow police tape?”
“Rolls and rolls of it, yeah.”
I laughed and walked up my stoop. The door was a deep black and the key slid into the lock with a satisfying oiled click. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m much more boring than that. I keep all the corpses in my basement.” I pushed open the door and walked into the cool foyer.
She followed, looking around, and shut the door behind her.
I liked to keep my life simple. It helped with my work—having my mind in the game and not burdened with needless anxiety kept me from making stupid mistakes that might end up getting me killed or thrown in jail.
Which was why my house was hardly furnished.
Minimalism wasn’t only for tech bros and Instagram influencers.
The entry hall was dim with only a single closet, a small table for keys and my wallet, and a peg for hanging stuff, which was currently empty. Stairs led up to the bedrooms, and the hall ended straight ahead in the kitchen. Living room was on the left, no more than a large, comfortable leather couch, a simple rug over the light brown hardwood floors, and a television hung on the wall. There weren’t many decorations, but what I had were real—oil paintings from local artists, photographs framed and signed, that sort of shit. I wasn’t an artsy guy or whatever, but there was something about having the real thing, an actual object that was touched by another living human’s hand.
“Okay, I’m impressed.” She hovered behind the couch and ran her fingers down the distressed leather. “Are you sure you’re a mobster hitman?”
“I didn’t realize that all killers had to live like animals.”
She waved a hand. “Come on, I know mafia guys. My entire world is gangsters and I know what they’re like. None of the men in my family live like this.”
I smiled and led her back to the kitchen. Gleaming stainless steel, pristine granite counter tops, everything perfect and clean.
I barely used the stuff.
She was right though. Most of the guys in the Morozov family were practically troll-like thugs and their homes reflected that, at least the few I’d seen. There were decent men in the family as well, but they were few and far between. The vast majority were like frat boys with guys.
I operated on a completely different level from them. Where the typical midlevel soldier spent his days slinging drugs and getting into the occasional street brawl, I prowled the streets like a panther.
I killed for a living. I was a hunter.
Which meant I didn’t have time for distracting nonsense. I was a grown man, not some child trapped in an adult’s body.
“Want a drink?” I opened a cabinet above the refrigerator and grabbed a whiskey bottle. I poured two glasses without waiting for a response and handed one over.
She considered it. “I’m trying to decide if you’re trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me.”
I smiled slightly, tilted my head. “I don’t think I need to get you drunk for that.”
“You’d be surprised.” A sly little smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the girl was flirting with me.
“We’re going to be living in close quarters together for a little while, so if you can’t handle that, tell me now.”
“I can handle it. Trust me, I think you’re the one that’ll be knocking on my door in the middle of the night.”
“For what? A friendly chat.”
“Sure, something like that.” She tossed back the drink and her cheeks turned red. “God, I hate whiskey.”
I laughed and took a small sip.
She was right, though—I was already thinking about running into her in the hallway while heading to the shower, wearing nothing but a towel.
I bet she’d like it.
At least, based on the way she kissed, and the soaking wet spot between her legs.
“Come on, let me show you to your room.”
She followed me upstairs. I was in the master bedroom, first door on the right, and she was in the guest room, second door on the right. The bathroom was at the end of the hall.
“Bed’s made up. Fresh towels and shit are in the closet.”
She pursed her lips, looking in at the simple queen bed and nightstands. “Do you get a lot of guests?”
“Not really, no.”
“Then why’s it set up already?”
“I like to be prepared.” I hesitated a second. “And it’s been like that for months, honestly.”
She laughed and walked into the room. It was a decent size, though pretty spare.
“Not too bad.”
I leaned up against the doorframe as she sat on the bed and bounced a little. “Bed’s not too bad. Comfortable enough.”
“It’s totally fine.” She hesitated, looked at her feet. “Thanks for not killing me.”
I was taken aback.
I didn’t think she’d actually stoop so low as to thank me.
“You’re welcome.”
“And for bringing me in here. And for offering to help with Connor. I know you don’t need to do any of that stuff and I’m still not really sure why you’re doing it, but thanks anyway.”
“I’m doing it for you.” I didn’t feel the need to overexplain or pretend I had some ulterior motive when all of this was about her.
Her cheeks turned even redder. “I don’t understand why.”
“That first night. You kissed me, you let me get you off, and all of that was very real. I don’t feel that kind of connection very often, and when I do, I’m not going to throw it away.”
Her eyes were like liquid fire and I wanted to stalk across the room, pin her down against the bed, and ravish her. I wanted to worship her down on my knees with my tongue between her legs until her back arched and sweat rolled down her skin and she screamed my name.
Instead, I held myself back.
This was a lot for her, that much was obvious, and if I went too far—I didn’t know if she’d try to run.
I didn’t want to risk that.
“We’re strangers. I mean, you don’t know me at all. And you’re a killer. I don’t… I don’t know what I feel.”
“You don’t have to feel anything. All I know is when I reached down between your legs, you were already dripping wet. That wasn’t some accident. You wanted me to touch you, whether you knew it or not, and you still do. That’s enough for me.”
I heard a sound downstairs. It was subtle, just a door opening and closing softly, but it was enough to alert me.
Fiona hadn’t seemed to notice though.
“That was just a stupid accident,” she whispered.
“Accident or not, that’s why I’m here.” Another sound. Footsteps down the hallway. “Why don’t you stay up here for a bit and get comfortable? I’ve got to take care of something downstairs.”
She frowned a little. “I don’t have any of my stuff here.”
“Stay here. Get comfortable.”
Not a request. A command.
She seemed to get it and sank back onto her elbow, then grimaced as she rubbed the massive bruise. “Yeah, okay fine.”
“I’ll be right back.” I shut the door behind me and headed back down the steps, my hand on the gun I had tucked in the small of my back.
I didn’t need it though—German sat in my kitchen, frowning at the two glasses of whiskey.
“You got company?” he asked without looking over.
That was good. He hadn’t heard Fiona talking.
“Might’ve brought home a date.”
“Sorry to interrupt then.” He poured some whiskey into Fiona’s glass and sipped it.
“You shouldn’t have come into my house like this.”
“You shouldn’t have killed Boris. I guess we’re even.”
He turned, but I was faster. I had the gun up and aimed at his face before he could bring his own around at me.
“Relax,” I said, staring at him steadily. If I had to end German, I would, although I didn’t want to. I liked German.
“You killed one of our guys. That’s usually a death sentence.”
“I didn’t realize it was Boris until it was too late. I thought he was someone else attacking her.”
“And you stepped in to help?” He gently placed his gun down on the counter and leaned up against it with his arms cross over his chest. “I get that Boris was a piece of shit and maybe the stupidest man to ever live, but you still shouldn’t have killed him.”
“Like I said, I didn’t realize who it was until after I cracked his skull.” I lowered the gun slightly, but didn’t put it away. “I saw the girl getting attacked, and you know how I am. Nobody takes a kill from me. So I stepped in and stopped it.”
“I find all that hard to believe.”
“What do you think happened then?” I kept my voice perfectly steady. If I showed any sign of weakness, or indicated in any way that I was lying, German would notice it. That bastard was clever and observant, and I couldn’t bluff my way out of this if I weren’t perfect.
“I think half your story’s right. You can’t stand when people take your kills, we all know it. Except you knew it was Boris trying to take the girl out, and you still stepped in and ended him.”
That was good. He believed half my story at least. The other half didn’t matter, so long as he didn’t think I was trying to protect her.
And he didn’t realize she was in the house.
“Doesn’t matter what you think. Someone tried to step between me and a kill, and I don’t let that happen. Boris should’ve known better.”
“We didn’t tell him that you were already assigned to take her out.”
I sighed and tilted my head. “That explains his methods.”
“Boris was dumb, like I said.” German rubbed his face, which was about as much emotion as he ever showed. The man perpetually frowned. “I can sell this to the Pakhan. I think he’ll let you off the hook, but he’s going to send someone else to finish the girl.”
“Tell him that would be a big mistake.”
“Your pride’s going to get you killed.”
“My pride’s what keeps me relevant.” I stepped forward and lowered the gun further. German didn’t even flinch. He continued to watch me coolly, like I wasn’t the one with the gun and the advantage here.
He knew me, knew what kind of man I was, and knew that if I wanted him dead, then he’d be dead.
“I can’t promise the Pakhan will back down, but I’ll tell him what you said, for whatever it’s worth. But Mack, we want that girl dead, and we want it to happen soon. No more delays.”
“I’ll take her when I’m ready.”
“I bet you will.” German raised his hands. “I’m taking my gun and leaving now. You going to shoot me?”
“No, I’m not. Move slow.”
He obeyed, picked up his gun gently, and pushed it back into his waistband. The barrel never drifted in my direction. When the gun was put away, he slipped past me and headed back down the hall.
“Remember what I said. Kill the girl and end this stupid farce.”
“When I’m ready.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “Oh, and German? If you come into my house without knocking first again, I will shoot you next time.”
German only nodded once and shut the door behind him.
I locked the top bolt then looked over at the stairs.
“You can come down now.”
Fiona poked her head around the corner, her eyes wide. “How’d you know I was there?”
“You breathe too loud. You’re lucky German thought I had a guest here already.”
She padded down the steps in her bare feet. “Why do they want me dead so badly?” she asked. “I don’t understand what I did to the Morozov family.”
“I don’t either, but I have some guesses. Could be related to your brother, or maybe the Pakhan’s going to move against the Doyles.”
“I thought there was a citywide truce? I mean, I know the Lionettis are having their little civil war, but still?”
“Truces only matter if the people involved aren’t a bunch of power-hungry, blood-thirsty psychopaths.” I sighed and finally put my gun away. “Come on, I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You cook?” She blinked rapidly and shook her head.
“Only for you, princess.” I put my hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the kitchen. “I hope you like traditional Russian beet stew.”
She made a face. “Are you serious?”
“Of course not. Sit down, I’ll make you some pasta.”
She sighed, but she listened, and kicked her feet up on the chair next to her. She watched as I bustled around the kitchen, rustling up a meal from my meager groceries. I’d have to go shopping soon.
It was strange, feeling this domestic urge to take care of her. I’d never experienced this before in all my time living here. Women came and went, but I never gave a shit if they were hungry or tired or whatever, so long as I got what I wanted from them and they left without a fight.
With Fiona though, it was different.
I wanted to spoil her. I wanted to dote on her like a love-obsessed puppy.
It felt good, and it was disgusting.
But at least I knew she’d give me what I wanted, sooner or later—no matter how much she pretended, how much she resisted, her lips told me the truth, and her pussy was all the convincing I needed.
She was mine. Only she didn’t realize it yet.
