Sociopath's Revenge (5 page)

Pleasure and yearning made me easily forget all my reservations. All my fears and doubts. All the lonely years without him. I almost gave in, when the sound of sirens in the background brought me back to reality.

Sound of sirens.

The sound always brought all the memories of that fateful day back: my father kidnapping me, shooting Damian, Damian falling off the cliff.

Everything.

And just like that, all the desire running through my veins transformed into ice, and my body froze. Damian felt it, stopped any movements, and when I shifted away from him, he let me.

I removed the towel from my hair, allowing the strands to fall freely down my back, and ran my fingers through it so my hands would be busy with something as I paced back and forth.

What was I supposed to do? I used to have all those dreams about him staying alive and us having this amazing life with each other and kids. White picket fence, barbecue Sundays, and attending high school plays together. Those nights were sleepless because I cried all the freaking time over the future that wasn't meant to be. Every time anyone wanted to ask me on a date or my friends tried to introduce me to someone, I refused, because I just couldn't imagine any other man in those dreams. It didn't feel right. Wasn't I supposed to drown in happiness and euphoria at the possibility I could still have all this with Damian or that my future held more than constant memories of him?

"Sapphire!" His commanding tone snapped me out of my stupor, and I stopped abruptly, looked at him, and then the realization hit me hard.

Despite my dreams, I couldn't do it.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

"Damian, I—I don't think I can do this with you," I whispered. He took a step back as though I'd hit him and my heart bled for his pain. I resisted the instinct to go to him and soothe him. "You barge in here in the middle of the night, making demands and proclaiming your wishes. The worst part is that you expect me to listen to them and do as you want." My eyes held his when I said my next words. "I have a life here. I built a life here. My friends, my job, my home, and my child. We are happy, and you want to destroy it."

He shook his head. "No, baby. I want to make us a family and live the dream. I'm not here to destroy your life."

I licked my dry lips, which were still swollen from the kisses, and then took a deep breath. "Five years ago, you promised to save me too. You promised we'd be together and deal with that problem. But you left me alone, shattered, and pregnant. I can't allow you to do it again. It's not about me anymore. I have to think about Kristina." He swallowed and didn't even try to mask the expression of hurt on his face.

"It's different now. We can have—"

I didn't let him finish. "Tell me you aren't planning revenge. Tell me you aren't after S. That you put your past behind and can move on with me and Kristina." Realization and regret in his eyes answered any question I had. "See, you can't do that because we both know what you need to do. You don't need me for revenge, Damian. I love you, but I just can't be with you if that's your plan," I said, a heavy ache in my heart, because everything in me screamed not to hurt the beautiful man I loved, but I had to think about my baby and our life first. His jaw ticked, and his chest rose and fell in what I suspected was barely-contained anger.

"You don't want me to be a part of our daughter's life?" he asked harshly, and my stomach flipped at his accusations, which weren't fair at all.

"No, Damian. That's not what I'm saying. You can tell her you are her dad if you are positive about her safety. She'd be thrilled to have a daddy, and I won't ever keep her away from you. But when you go off chasing bad guys, at least she'll have me here in her safe harbor. Us being together, it's just not possible right now." I hoped he would see the rightness of my decision, the reasoning behind it. I wasn't saying no, I was just saying not right now. Not until he was free of his past.

We stood there for several seconds, and then he conquered the distance between us in three short steps, and his lips landed on mine. The kiss bruised my lips. It was filled with anger, desperation, and pain, and before I could open my mouth to say something else, he let go of me and disappeared into the night, leaving through the terrace door I hadn't even noticed was open.

My finger touched my puffy lips as tears slowly slipped down my cheeks. My knees weakened, and I slid to the floor. I wept with all my might into the sleeves of my robe.

He was gone.

He listened to my words.

He made the right call for our child and me.

Why then did it hurt so freaking much? It hurt more than that day on the cliff.

All those years, I thought he was dead, and oddly enough, I took comfort in his death knowing there was no choice.

But how could I take comfort in shattering my heart once again for a greater good, when the only man I ever loved came back to me, and I sent him away?

Bratva Headquarters, Moscow, Russia

The massive brown, wooden door in the middle of the office opened, and Michael entered first, followed by three American men, two older ones and one around my age. I motioned with my hand for them to sit on the chair—I needed to know who was in charge among them. One of them came forward with a dry smile and sat down comfortably on the leather chair. He had thinning gray hair, a large build, wrinkled hands an aging face, and wore a brown suit. He reeked of money and sleaziness.

Lesha and Serega, the Bratva's byki—my bodyguards—stood on each side of me with crossed arms and practiced scowls. Already, the man was disrespectful by failing to greet me properly. Another older man joined him on the chair next to him and sneered at Michael. This one had shoulder-length bleach-dyed hair, pale skin, and a rather shiny complexion. He wore jeans and a shirt and sat with a relaxed posture. It seemed as though he thought everybody owed him something. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't quite catch what. Had I seen him before with Vasya? The hair on the back of my neck stood up as an unsettling feeling flashed through me.

Sixty seconds.

That was how long it took me to decide that any business with them would be impossible.

My gut never proved me wrong.

"Since when are faggots hired by Bratva?" His voice made everything around me freeze, as an angry fog enclosed me, and all my attention focused on him.

The voice.

Take it like a good boy, toy.

Suck it harder.

Scream in pain, toy.

The voice of my nightmares.

The source of my humiliation and deepest pain.

Richard.

Most of the times when he requested me on his service, he wore a mask to enhance the whole master-slave play. On the rare occasions without it, I tried to block my mind from what he was doing to my body, so I barely focused on his face. The only things vivid in my mind about him were his striking, cold green eyes and a snarling smile. Right then, though, they were pitch-black, probably from lenses, but his voice was unmistakable. Somehow, he seemed more dangerous when I kneeled in front of him begging for mercy, but at that moment, only my self-control stopped me from taking out my gun and pulling the trigger right against his forehead.

Michael cleared his throat, snapping me back to reality. I realized everyone watched me—my guests with interest and my men with worry. The deep fury from within me must have shown in my face. There was no way to mask it. I knew everyone was ready to attack the newcomers, but I couldn't allow them to do it.

Not when my brother spent his whole life looking for them.

Not when Damian's revenge became my revenge.

Just like that, the rules of the game changed, and with it, my plan. However, I was the Pakhan, so his insult at my man wouldn't be tolerated.

"I suggest you choose your words wisely next time you address members of my brotherhood. Don't forget whose territory you are in."

My cold and detached voice made his eyes widen, but the stubborn expression on his face didn't allow him to let go. His mouth opened in protest, but he was stopped with a hand on his shoulder by a younger man behind him. Only now, my attention shifted to him as my eyes scanned him from head to toe. He wore navy blue jeans and a shirt, showcasing his bulky figure. Various tattoos covered his neck, and I suspected his chest, while his cold green eyes studied the men in front of him. Bold with tanned skin, something about him seemed familiar, but I couldn't make the connection, and that irritated me even more. What the fuck was wrong with my eyes?

"Dad, come on. You know why we're here. Uncle?"

Richard tensed at those words, but nodded and then pointed his hand at us, yet looked at his brother.

S.

All those years spent in the cell with my twin brother washed over me—those brothers raped us and did whatever the hell they wanted, crushing our spirits in the process. Each of them had their favorite. S favored Damian, so at some point, he fucked him exclusively, while Richard did the same with me. Truth be told, I wouldn't have even recognized S had it not been for Richard. He fucked me in the early years of our captivity when we were about seven years old, and I had very vague memories of it.

S sat more comfortably on the chair, lit up his cigar, and exhaled a smoky breath
.
"My name is Benjamin, and that's my brother, Richard, along with Robert, his son. We came to you with a proposition." The fuckers didn't even suspect who they were talking to. His fucking voice unnerved me, but I grabbed the arm of the chair and squeezed it with all my might.

Name. We had his real name; a task that had seemed almost impossible throughout all those years.

Show no emotion.

The words were like a fucking mantra in my head.

"And you think I'll find it interesting because…?" My voice was firm and steady, giving nothing away of my inner turmoil.

"We have something you want." His words brought a chilled and humorless laugh from me.

"Really?" My brow rose, and I leaned forward. "Name it." We held each other's stare, S and I, for a few seconds, and then he took something from the inside pocket of his jacket and threw it on the table.

The picture showed a beautiful young girl, barely legal I would say, with silky, dusky hair and the deepest brown eyes I'd ever seen, and they were filled with so much pain. Everything inside me shouted to reach out to her and soothe it. At the same time, though, my body hardened at the unexpected image in my head of her spread on my bed to do as I pleased, while her skin glowed from the candlelight. The unfamiliar emotions that ran through me were unnerving because I'd never fantasized about anyone. Plus, it made me sick considering how young she probably was.

"Her name is Rosalinda Giovanni. She's the only daughter of Emmanuelle Giovanni, the center of his universe." The surprise at this information was so huge it was impossible to mask my reaction from the men.

Emmanuelle Giovanni, aka Don, was the head of the most powerful Italian Mafia in the United States. He controlled the drug and gun dealerships, and everyone had to ask his permission to enter New York where his main headquarters were located. No mafia, be it Russian or Irish, wanted to cross the man. Fifteen years ago, he had lost his beloved wife when one of his business associates hit her with a car on the sidewalk. She died instantly, and Don lost it. By himself, he destroyed an entire organization for her, by torturing, killing, and then ripping the bodies apart, piece-by-piece, as a form of revenge. He was a lethal motherfucker who had no mercy for those who betrayed or didn't obey him.

Emmanuelle had only one weakness: his daughter. She seemed almost like a ghost because no one had ever seen her. Mafia usually didn't touch family, one of the sacred Cosa Nostra rules, but Don simply had too many enemies and too few allies to ensure the safety of Rosalinda. Lately, however, Emmanuelle almost never attended the meetings. Enrique, his second-in-command, handled the majority of his business. Not that any man was stupid enough to ask where the Don was or why he hadn't shown up.

Rosalinda
. I slowly said her name in my mind and ignored the pleasure that spread through me. "She was kidnapped a few years ago, right from her Catholic school." His lips lifted in a smile that always made my stomach flip during my childhood; S shared it with his brother. "And she was delivered to us."

His words stopped me cold, but he hadn't noticed my reaction, and continued, "I had plans to marry her off to my son, Erik. Giovanni blocked my major business and didn't want to deal or be persuaded to join in anything I had to offer." Considering what kind of business he liked, it didn't surprise me. Don had one golden rule. Nothing was off limits except kids and unwilling women.

"So you traded her for money?" I barely contained my impulse to grab his collar and choke the life out of him. S shook his head and again exhaled a heavy stream of smoke.

"Erik was supposed to fuck her so she would lose her virginity. Giovanni, you see, is a big traditionalist. Virginity is sacred to good Sicilian girls and their fathers." Michael's eyes widened in horror at those words, and he swallowed loudly.