The Trap: Bratva Vows Prequel Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Trap: Bratva Vows Prequel

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Trap, A Bratva Vows Prequel

  novella

  Reading order:

  The Trap, A Bratva Vows Prequel

  The Gift: Bratva Vows One

  The Hit: Bratva Vows Two

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used without the written permission of the publisher.

  All events depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to places and persons is coincidental.

  Copyright Skye Jones, writing as SR Jones, 2019

  Thanks go to my editor and proofreader Silla Webb.

  Obeithion cover designs.

  My amazing reader group.

  And all who read this and take a chance on me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Trap

  A Bratva Vows Prequel

  I saw a possible threat; he saw a victim in waiting.

  Violet:

  I had a plan. A naïve and dangerous plan. Get the mob boss to notice me, seduce the mob boss, kill the mob boss. Except the elderly mob boss wasn’t the only one to notice me.

  He did.

  Andrius.

  Beautiful. Cold. Deadly.

  He’s a monster amongst men.

  I crave him. I fear him.

  Then one day...I’m taken and given to him.

  The trap is set.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Violet

  I’m a lamb amongst wolves in this place.

  Fear gives off a scent, one most people don’t notice but predators do. They can smell it on you, see it in the size of your pupils, hear it in the rate of your breathing.

  I’m a lamb amongst wolves, and I must show no fear. I made a vow, and I will do all I can to keep it.

  All around me the restaurant buzzes with activity, and yet the small group of men in the corner call to me, demanding my attention even as I know I must ignore them, act natural.

  I hope and pray I’m not offering myself up to the slaughter, but if I am then please let me take the disgusting old man in the corner with me.

  Glasses clink as couples enjoy a romantic night out. Low lights give the restaurant a warm ambience, and thick tablecloths and wallpaper absorb the noise, unlike many modern places.

  The clientele are mostly middle-aged couples, those with enough money to eat in one of the top restaurants in north England.

  At the far table, though, set in a dim recess, sit the wolves. They surround and protect the object of my hate.

  Allyov.

  The name alone sends a chill down my spine, and so it should. Head of a Russian crime family. Murderer. A gangster wearing the disguise of a jovial grandfather.

  Not wanting to give myself away, to let the fear show, I force my gaze from the corner and carry on serving the wealthy, complacent diners.

  The food here is excellent. We get to eat after our shift, whatever we want from what’s left on the menu. Yesterday I had the best Borscht I’ve ever tasted.

  On the way to the kitchen with a pile of empty plates, I brush by Allyov’s table.

  There’s the usual pair of heavy-set thugs and three older men, distinguished looking. They are drinking vodka and eating steak. The vodka comes in small glasses, no ice, no tonic. They have water in a jug and glasses for that too, but no one touches it.

  “They don’t have enough men to do their dirty work, and it makes them weak,” one of the men says.

  I understand his Russian, even though I have to concentrate hard in order to do so. Not that they know I speak their language. To them I’m simply a young British girl working for their boss. A nobody.

  My nobody status is something I’ve worked hard to keep up for most of my life, encouraged by my father to always keep my head down and stay off the radar. It isn’t exactly difficult. We had few friends when I was growing up, and now, here in North England, where I’m a newcomer, I am a nobody.

  No friends. No family. Only this crappy job. Of course, the job serves a purpose, as does having no friends or anyone close.

  To maintain the air of anonymity, I try to look as ordinary as possible when at work.

  I wear my hair pulled back in a tight bun, with a couple bits hanging loose around my face helping hide it. Those bits I always grease to make it look slightly dirty. A touch of grey eyeshadow to add an unhealthy pallor and dark circles. I drape my figure in loose trousers and a shapeless white shirt, my breasts bound underneath.

  It doesn’t suit my plans to have Allyov notice me ... yet.

  From a young age, I’ve been told I’m beautiful. Teachers used to tell my father he must be proud to have such a beautiful daughter, as if genetic luck is something to take pride in.

  Not that my looks ever got me far. They seemed to alienate quite a few people, and more than once I’ve been told my beauty is cold, aloof. My ex-boyfriend said I might have a rare kind of beauty, but I had no warmth to me and sucked in bed. Which was nice of him. I don’t think I’m cold. Maybe reserved, cautious, but not cold. As for the crap in bed bit, I haven’t tried it with anyone else, so I don’t know.

  I hope I’m not truly terrible in the sack as it might mess up my plans.

  I head into the kitchen, and the noise hits like a tsunami. Chefs shout orders, waitstaff scurry back and forth, and pans spit.

  It’s stiflingly hot tonight. One of those British heatwaves where the night air is hardly any cooler than the day. A humid, oppressive heat without the welcome breeze you often get in less wet climates.

  Wanting a breather, I push through a group of waitresses waiting impatiently for their orders and head out the door. I turn to the right, and my legs fly from under me.

  I’m falling backwards, my heart in my throat, and a moment of awareness this is going to hurt.

  No pain greets me; instead, something halts my fall. A strong grip around my upper arm and I’m wobbling to a standing position, my breath coming in quick gasps.

  I look down to see someone has thrown the ice from the freezer out by the door. Stupid idiot!

  “You ought to be more careful, you could have broken your back.”

  The deep, thickly accented voice jolts me from my contemplation of the ice.

  I’d recognize the voice anywhere.

  I slowly turn to look at my savior. Oh, Lord.

  Andrius.

  A monster among men.

  Those men inside, sat around the table, might not scare me too much, not even Allyov himself. This man though ... he terrifies me. I do all I can to avoid him, and it sucks he was the one to catch me.

  I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

  He’s looking at me too intently for my liking. Those ghostly grey eyes of his don’t miss anything.

  Whenever he comes here to eat, I avoid him. I try not to serve his table, and if he’s with Allyov, I take a break from my loitering and spying.

  I do all I can to stay off his radar because every single sense I possess tells me he’s a malicious and dangerous man. He’s also devastatingly attractive, the combination of which is all a bit too much for me to deal with. I can’t deny I have a strange infatuation with him.

  He scares me but fascinates me. When he’s not looking, I find my eyes flicking his way, and the odd occasion he glances up and our gazes lock, my legs go weak. Like something out of a bad novel. Yep, the man is dangerous to my health. Avoidance is by far the best tactic. Yet here I am in front of him, his sharp gaze
upon me.

  “Someone threw ice out right by the door,” I say as a way to make conversation and explain my clumsiness.

  His gaze hardens as he looks at it. “Stupid. Allyov leaves this way; he could hurt himself.”

  Oh, great. I might have given one of the kitchen staff a death sentence with my big mouth.

  I only know about Andrius what my senses tell me and the rumors I’ve heard. Whispers here, mutterings there. But what I’ve heard is terrifying.

  He’s impossibly handsome, beautiful even, but it hides a dark heart. The sharp suits, expensive car, the designer watch, he gets all these things from killing people. From taking fathers and brothers from their loved ones.

  The rumors say he doesn’t touch women and children. People whisper this reverentially, as if it makes him a hero. Some hero.

  I want to scrub at my arm where he grabbed me, his touch burning through the cotton of my blouse.

  The door opens behind me, and Andrius turns. I sag in relief to have his searching gaze taken away.

  “Andrius, you beast!” One of Allyov’s henchmen staggers out into the warm night air, obviously worse for wear.

  “Watch where you’re going,” I tell him, before I can question the wisdom of having anymore interaction with these people.

  I might want Allyov to notice me one day, maybe one day soon. When it suits my purposes. However, it doesn’t pay to be on their radar before the day comes to put my plans into action.

  Allyov didn’t hire me, the restaurant’s senior manager did. She’s a nice, middle-aged woman, and I wonder if she knows she works for a Russian mob boss? She must know something is amiss with Allyov and his crew, but if she doesn’t speak the language then she won’t necessarily know what.

  Me? I listen. I spy on them. I play my dangerous and increasingly terrifying game as I try to gain as much information as I can about my target.

  One day, I hope and pray I, the lamb, will become the hunter.

  Until that day, the moment when opportunity will present itself, I lurk and linger and learn.

  I hover around their table when they are in the restaurant, hiding myself behind the huge plants nearby, or simply lingering on my way to the kitchen. They don’t notice me. The kind of women they like are glamorous, tall, stacked.

  All except Allyov himself. He prefers women like me. Or, I should say, the real me, the one I am when I am not hiding away under clothing that’s too big and keeping my hair slicked back and greasy. He likes petite blondes.

  I’m a five-feet-two petite woman who, with my baggy trousers and flattened breasts, has the figure of a slim boy.

  I look drab. I know enough about men to understand when I make the effort, I can turn heads. One day, when his latest mistress is done with and he’s casting around for a new companion, I hope to turn Allyov’s head.

  Until then, I try to stay invisible. Now, two of these bastards are looking at me. The big lug who is nearly always at Allyov’s side takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers one to Andrius, who shakes his head.

  “Go and get someone to clean this mess,” the thug orders me with a jerk of his chin toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir,” I say with relief.

  His eyes don’t linger on me at all. Like I thought, these men like their women busty, glamorous, and dripping in makeup, perfume, and jewelry.

  I head inside without turning, but I swear Andrius’ eyes burn a hole in my back as I go. It’s a relief when the door snaps shut behind me.

  “Can anyone spare a moment to clean up the ice outside the back door?” I ask one of the chefs.

  He snorts and ignores me.

  Crap. I go to one of the senior waitresses I know a little.

  “Can you get one of the kitchen boys to clean up the ice outside the back door?” I ask her.

  She turns to me, but then her order is slammed down on the serving hatch, and she flashes me an apologetic smile with a shake of her head.

  “Excuse me.” I turn to one of the other chefs who gives me a look of utter disdain. “Can you send someone out to clean the ice near the back door?”

  “No. Why is it your concern anyway? You’re needed back out there; orders will be ready, and you aren’t there to take them. You slack like this and you’ll be getting the sack before too long.”

  “But—”

  “It’s a hot night; it will melt,” the fat chef tells me.

  I’m torn between pushing it with the chef, which might get me the sack, or denying an order from one of Allyov’s henchmen. I decide the henchman is scarier.

  “It’s not safe,” I press.

  “Says who?” the chef scoffs at me.

  “Says me.” The deep voice behind me has me whipping my head around.

  Andrius stands there calm and cool as a glacier.

  The chef straightens and flushes.

  “The lady here nearly fell, and if Allyov decides to go out the back door, he could slip; then where would you be?”

  “I’ll get on it right away, sir.” The chef turns and shouts to a lad washing the pots, ordering him to go out and sluice the ice away.

  “Thank you.” I dip my head at Andrius who says nothing; he simply watches me with those scary eyes of his.

  Eyes of a wolf, not a man.

  He’s the real predator. Those other men may be hard, they may even be evil, but this one here? He’s the dangerous one. The one to avoid.

  “I better get back to work,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply, simply watches me walk away, and I feel his eyes on me all the way to the door out into the dining area.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The rest of my shift passes uneventfully. Andrius takes a seat at Allyov’s table, where he refuses food but takes a glass of vodka. Unlike the others, he doesn’t have it in a small glass, neat, but in a heavy tumbler with ice. He sips at it and leans back in his chair, watching the restaurant around him.

  I’m paranoid and ultra-aware of his presence, but after a bit, I relax. Every time I risk a glance his way, he’s not looking anywhere near me. By the end of my shift, my legs are aching, but it’s been a great night so far as what I want, which is information on Allyov.

  I overhear one of the local girls, the ones who hang around in the bar area hoping to catch a mobster’s eye, talking. It turns out the old pervert might be getting fed up of his mistress, what with her being all of twenty-five.

  He likes his women young and innocent. He is married, of course, and his wife is ten years younger than him. His current mistress, at mid-twenties, is less than half his age. He apparently plucked her from a state foster home when she was sixteen, set her up in a flat, and didn’t touch her until she reached nineteen. Then he used her for these last few years. Same as the girl before her. Although, she only held his interest for two years before he let her go with a nice payoff. Mistress/whore, it’s a hard distinction to make. It seems he likes serial monogamy, though, so far as any affairs go. Doesn’t like to fuck around with lots of different women, and I think I know why.

  The man is a germaphobe. I once saw a waitress in tears after he sent his cutlery back twice for being dirty, when it was spotless. He always uses a hand gel whenever he sits at the table, and I’ve seen him inspect his glass carefully before drinking from it, holding it up to the light and turning it around and around.

  Maybe that is why he likes virgins.

  I can be a virgin for him.

  I practically am. I’ve only had sex twice with my childhood sweetheart, the one who told me I sucked, before life went to shit. I gave up sex along with everything else. What with tampons and the vigorous sports young girls do today, virgins don’t always bleed. Allyov won’t have any reason to believe I’m not untouched, even if we get that far, which if I have my way, we won’t. I’ll hopefully get what I need before sex has to happen.

  I go to my locker and take out my bag. It’s a simple rucksack, nothing fancy. I don’t have the money to own designer bags or the finer things in life, w
hich is fine by me. Those things are nice, but they aren’t a necessity. Right now, my life is all about necessity and getting the task done. The one I set for myself after my father died.

  “Hey, Violet, I hear the mysterious Andrius had words with you tonight?”

  I turn to see Martha, who is one of the few people here I chat to. She’s pretty, with a wicked sense of humor, and a taste in clothes I wish I could get away with. She’s about five-feet-nine with a lean, toned physique that lends itself to her biker chick look.

  Me, I don’t know what my look is. Between growing up with a paranoid father who kept me hidden away, then losing dad, losing the house, and struggling to survive; I’ve kind of missed those years when you experiment with fashion and sex. Nightlife, drinking, and drugs. It’s all passed me by.

  “Yeah, barely two words,” I laugh as I speak. I don’t want to let on to her how much my short interaction with him bothered me.

  “God, I wish he’d say two words to me; he’s gorgeous.”

  He is, but he’s far scarier than he is hot. Any semblance of sexiness is wiped out by the cold look in those cool eyes of his, and the knowledge of what he does with his hands.

  “I’d give anything for him to give me a glance. I bet he’s an animal in bed; he’s got that thing about him, you know?”

  I don’t, and I look at her, intrigued. “What thing?”

  “An attitude, one which only a few men exude. A quiet confidence that tells the whole world he’s hard as fuck, can take on all comers, and is hot like a thousand burning suns. He’s got a big dick; you can tell.”

  “You are obsessed,” I tell her.

  “I’ve not mentioned him before,” she pouts.

  I laugh. “No, I mean with sex. You need to get laid.”

  “I do; it’s been a long dry spell.”

  I can’t imagine why. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is cropped close to her head, and the only makeup she seems to wear is a hot pink lipstick, which looks amazing against her ebony skin. Right now, she’s pulling on a black t-shirt with a glitter skull on the front, with dark skinny jeans, and her biker boots. Her waitress uniform of a white shirt and black skirt is stashed in her locker.

  “You ought to go to a rough dive and find a biker to have sex with,” I tell her.