The Bratva’s Locked Up Love by Jagger Cole

11

Maksim

Russia, Ten Years Ago:

I don’t knowhow long I’ve been here. A day. A month. A year. I don’t know anything but the aching, throbbing, all-consuming wish to die.

You don’t just quit heroin. You don’t break up over text message with it. It’s an evil bitch. It comes back, again and again. It visits your work, and creeps in your window at night to sink its claws into your chest until you scream for mercy.

I’ve been doing a lot of that. Screaming, that is. Screaming, and sweating, and begging for death. For the first time in almost seven straight years, I don’t have heroin in my veins. And my body hates that I don’t.

But out here, wherever the fuck here is, no one can hear me scream. Those that do don’t care. The guards—Yuri Volkov’s men—sometimes step into the dark, rough basement of the farmhouse to bring me food and water. But I barely touch anything. Instead, I just writhe on the cot I’m chained too, wishing for death.

Fever visions swim into my vision. But with the poison leaving me, kicking, screaming, and clawing as it goes, I have no idea what is real and what is not. Instead, I live forever in a nightmare. Shadows reach for me, sending me screaming to the far side of the cot. Demons rip at my throat until I’m hoarse.

Then the ghosts come. People I left. People I fucked over. People I killed. They tear at me, biting and snarling as I weep for mercy. I twist until every muscle hurts. I sob until my soul breaks in two.

At some point, even the ghost of Yuri Volkov himself leers over me. I scream at him, telling him to leave me to die.

“I can’t do that.”

I blink through the sweat and tears. His voice is more real than those of the ghosts. His face looms closer, and I realize he’s real. I’m out of the dream, for a second at least. And this man who should have killed me is standing over me, glaring at me.

“Please…” I whisper.

“Please what? What do you beg for, Maksim?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Heroin. Please…”

He laughs coldly. “It would be much faster to put a bullet through your head, no?”

My face tightens as I nod. I know he’s right. And I know it’s what I deserve.

“Please.”

“Please what, Maksim. Heroin, or death. Which will it be?”

He pulls a gun out of his jacket, and my pulse thuds in my ears. I look up into his cool blue eyes.

“Death,” I croak. “I will take death.”

His mouth thins as he twists the gun in his hands. He points it at me and draws back the hammer. But I don’t close my eyes. I stare at the barrel, waiting to embrace death. Waiting to meet the devil in hell.

But it doesn’t come. He smiles thinly as he pulls the gun away.

“No, Maksim. You don’t get out that easy.”

My heart sinks. “Please…”

“No.”

He holsters the gun as the demons begin to reach for me again. The pain comes searing. The agony twists me as I scream, arching from the bed. I crave heroin. I crave death. I crave enough of the first to grant me the second.

Yuri turns to leave.

“Why?!” I choke, sobbing as the withdrawal fevers rip me apart. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, his back to me. Slowly, he half turns. His eyes are closed.

“Because the poison in your veins stole someone from me. It stole her life, and I should have done what I am doing to you, to her.”

“Did you hate her too?” I spit, writhing in agony.

He shakes his head. He turns to look at me. “I don’t hate you, Maksim. But I will not give that devil in your veins another life. I will deprive it of yours, even if it breaks you in half.”

“Please…”

“One day, you will thank me,” he growls quietly. “But until then, believe me…” He sighs. “You are not done begging for death yet.”

Present:

Alone in thedim light of the hole, I sit on the edge of the cot. My body aches—from the wounds from the attacks, from the near-constant workouts I’ve been pushing myself with.

Solitude and boredom are dangerous for an addict. That’s how the demons creep back in. I’m far enough in on my recovery that I know I could look mine right in the face and tell them to fuck off back to hell. But still. It’s the gnawing. It’s the constant tap-tapping at your door.

That’s why I’ve been pushing myself. To ignore the knocking. To ignore the itch that is and always will be there beneath the surface.

But heroin isn’t the only need throbbing beneath my skin. Now, I have a deeper one. A more insistent one, if that was even possible. Now, I have Quinn.

I finger the phone in my hands, turning it as my eyes narrow. Is it a game? Is she entrapping me? Is she the honey pot, getting me to spill my shit to her?

It seems callous and paranoid. But life has taught me to be both of those things. I’m in an underground Guantanamo-esque prison. It’s not an impossibility that that gorgeous young doctor could be part of a ploy to get me to lower my guard. And yet, she’d have to be one fucking great actor to be pulling this off if she is.

Prison jokes about hiding stuff in your ass aside, obviously, that’s not where the phone is being kept. I won’t speak for everyone, but a cellphone sure as fuck is not fitting up mine. But it’s hidden well, in a shallow depression of the metal-work under my cot.

With the hole being an ultra-secure area, they’re not really checking that hard for contraband. Which only means they’re far too trusting of their doctor, or she really is a honeypot lure.

It’s been three days since she gave it to me. I groan, bruised and buzzing from the shock torture I’ve just had. Again, as in earlier this morning. I knew the second she interrupted them before, that it would come again.

I don’t enjoy it, but I’ll live. I’ve had worse. This place might be a terrifying black hole, but it’s got nothing on a true gulag-style work prison. There is a hell. But it’s not below. It’s right here on the surface, and it’s called the Russian Penal System.

Believe me, these clowns playing GI Joe down here in this place are a pale imitation of the demons that prowl the hallways of places like this in my home country.

But they’re still at it here. And they’re asking a lot of questions: about the Volkov organization. About Yuri. Something isn’t checking out. You don’t go to Guantanamo Bay to be grilled about your involvement in the mob.

I flip open the phone in my hands. My eyes slide to the time at the top of the little LED screen. I smile smugly. I wasn’t that off. I figured it was dinner time, and it’s eleven at night. There’s one number programmed in. For her sake, I hope it’s a burner.

I can conceal this phone. But if it were to be discovered…

I frown and hit the call button on the one number. I’m not hurt. I don’t need a doctor, or to “check in” as she put it. I just want her. I want her voice in my ear.

Like I said, this is all spiraling out of control.

She answers with a muffled voice. “One second,” she blurts secretively, breathlessly.

I scowl. Is she with a guy? A flare of… something burns inside of me. An emotion I’m not familiar with. I glare at the bars until I hear her voice again.

“Is everything okay?”

My jaw grits. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What? No. No, I’m out with a friend.”

My brow furrows. My pulse throbs. “Ahh, I see. Is he still mad I ruined your last date?”

She laughs quietly. “Oh terribly.”

“Should I be worried?” I grin, to cover the scowl.

She sighs dramatically. “You know, maybe. I know you’ve got that whole scary prison guy thing going on. But my friend?” She whistles lowly. “Long hair, has that brooding musician look going on. Tattoos. Skinny. Hot. Plays guitar.”

Jealousy. That’s what I’m feeling. Which is fucked up. And dangerous. Why the hell am I calling this girl anyways?

“Oh and ‘his’ name is ‘June.’” She pauses. “Also, he’s a girl, and my best friend, and I don’t swing that way.”

I want to roll my eyes at myself at the relief that washes over me. The fuck is wrong with me?

I also realize that Quinn is slurring slightly. She’s... drinking? I smile. Why am I relieved that she’s out with a girl friend?

“Yeah, we’re just out having…” She catches herself. “Wait, hang on, are you hurt?!” She blurts suddenly.

I smile. “I’m fine.”

“Why… oh. Good,” she says quickly.

Why are you calling then?

“I…”

Why the fuck am I calling?

“I wanted to make sure the number in this phone for you wasn’t your personal cell phone.”

She giggles. “Spoken like a true criminal. It’s to another flip phone.”

“Good.”

“I’m pretty smart, ya know.”

I grin. “I picked up on that.”

“Hey can you hang on? I’m just gonna tell my friend I’m leaving.”

I wait in silence for a minute. Then another minute. The line is still live. I can hear a muffled murmuring in the background, like she’s holding the phone to her hand or something. The minutes tick by, until I hear her breathless voice, along with the sound of traffic honking.

“Hey!” She says loudly, excitedly. “Sorry about—shit!” She mutters, hissing.

My smile fades as I stand, muscles tensed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…” Quinn giggles. “I banged into something.”

I sit slowly, my brow furrowing.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Yep,” she blurts loudly.

“Didn’t realize you were old enough to.”

I could never get tired of the sound of her giggle.

“Very funny.”

“It was a compliment. I don’t meet many twenty-two-year-old surgeons.”

“I don’t meet many Russian mafia guys.”

“That is probably a good thing.”

She laughs. “Anyways, yes. I had a night off so I went out for some drinks. I do work in a prison for a living. Sometimes I seriously just need to unwind.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

She giggles. “I’ll have one for you.”

“Just have one for yourself,” I chuckle. “But maybe make it a water.”

She snorts. “Well, that’s no fun.”

“That’s me. No fun at all.”

She suddenly swears again under her breath. “Fuck, ouch!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…” she laughs. “Okay maybe water is a good thing. I just banged my freaking shin again.”

I frown. “Where are you?” There’s worry and concern in my voice.

“Home. I’m home now. Just got in.”

“Where’s home?”

She hesitates.

“You’re good. That was tricky.”

I smile. “I wasn’t intending to pry.”

“Trying to take advantage of me in my inebriated state?” she teases.

I growl quietly, my cock throbbing.

Quinn’s breath catches.

“Not… I didn’t mean like—”

“I’m not a good man, Quinn,” I groan quietly. “But I’m not that sort of bad man.”

“I know that.”

“How.”

She takes a breath. “Because you could have hurt me the other day, that day in the medical cell.”

The day I broke out and grabbed her.

“We were alone, and I think you knew there were no cameras in there. You could have…” she swallows heavily.

“Well, I would not have.”

“And that’s how I know.”

We say nothing for a few seconds. Then she clears her throat.

“So, you’re okay?”

“I could use a TV and a basic cable sports package down here.”

She giggles. “You’re funny. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“That was my best one, I promise you.”

“Glad I was here for you hitting your peak, then.”

I chuckle. “Same here.”

“Hey, can you hang on?” she murmurs sleepily. Or maybe that’s just the drinks from her night off making her sound like that.

“I just gotta change into PJs.”

I smile curiously. Here I am, locked in a cage, in a hole in the ground, in a secret prison. And I’m “chit-chatting” for the first time in my life, with a woman.

And it’s the most fun I’ve had in years.