The Gift Read online

  THE GIFT

  Bratva Vows Book One

  by SR Jones

  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.

  You are all stars, and I am so grateful!

  BLURB

  Keep your friends close, and your enemies in your bed....

  VIOLET

  Taken,

  Kidnapped,

  The innocent waitress

  nobody would miss,

  Nobody would care about.

  Given to him,

  A cold-blooded, unforgiving hitman,

  With sexy eyes and an irresistible body.

  But he doesn't know who I am,

  Or what secrets I hide.

  ANDRIUS

  A gift—mine,

  To own, to keep.

  To do with as I please.

  But she's so much more,

  More than I ever imagined.

  And I vow to get to the bottom of this...

  This beautiful, mysterious, and broken gift.

  Because now she belongs to me.

  BLURB

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Andrius

  I wipe the blood from my hands with a monogrammed handkerchief and ignore the pulpy mess in front of me that was once a face. I sigh as I see the splatters on my seven hundred-pound Ferragamo shoes. Trust me to wear brown on the day I get the order to come and teach one of Sergei Allyov’s franchisees a lesson.

  The man has been skimming the profits for over a year, the second idiot to have done this. I’ve seen the proof. I always ask to see the proof, and maybe that’s above my station as hired muscle, but as the most stone-cold and efficient killer in Allyov’s arsenal, I’m not about to back down and start acting like a pussy.

  Still, there are rules to be followed. I may have my moral code, but I don’t push my luck too far. I’ve worked for a variety of organizations as a hired killer, but these days I find myself more and more entwined with Sergei Allyov and his operation. Which suits me fine because he’s an important part of my plan.

  I unroll my sleeves and fasten my Boss jacket. They say clothes maketh the man, and if so, I’m a walking, talking billboard for wealth.

  “We done?” My right-hand man in today’s little adventure, Johnny, smirks.

  He’s unusual in these circles as he’s a native Brit, but he’s come up through the most violent street gangs and earned a rep that caught the eye of the Eastern European families running organized crime syndicates, as well as the old-school Italian mob, and some of the Turkish groups.

  I work with him on jobs like this. Jobs where the score is to teach a painful and ugly lesson. One other people will see for weeks to come on Leon’s battered face. The other jobs, the ones where the mark doesn’t get to live to show the world their mistakes, those jobs I only do with two long-time trusted colleagues.

  “Yes, we’re done.” I put my handkerchief in my top pocket, folded so the blood is on the inside.

  This idiot is lucky the amounts taken were small, and Allyov was in a generous mood after having me kill another thief only a few days ago.

  We step outside into the night air. It’s cooler this evening, which I prefer. It’s hard work giving someone a lesson in manners, and I hate getting sweaty.

  “Right, I’ll be off. See you soon maybe.” Johnny turns up his collar and heads down the street.

  He’s known as The Pain-giver. Seriously. That’s his nickname. I think he came up with it himself and spread it around.

  I don’t have a nickname. My given name is enough to strike the fear of God in anyone. You get put on my shit list for a beating, and I’ll leave you a memento—your battered face—as a reminder of what not to do. If you dare talk to anyone in law enforcement about why your face resembles a rotten banana, I’ll put you on my second list.

  You make it to my second list, and you’re gone; there’ll be nothing to associate you to me. No calling card or stupid nickname to tie me to my crimes. One stupid fuck called himself The Assassin and left a business card at each kill. Spread the name far and wide, and then wondered why he went down for life. Easiest conviction the Crown’s had in years, I’d bet.

  Allyov has the best criminal lawyers in Britain on retainer, and I scare people so badly most of the ones I give a hiding to will never talk. They’re grateful to be alive.

  I shove my hands deep into my pockets and head for home. There are a few rowdy people on the streets already, although the night is only young. I want nothing more than to go home and ease the knots in my muscles with a long, hot shower and a glass of Scotch and then to immerse myself in a good book, but I have a party. One Allyov organized at my house. Talk about taking the fucking piss, as the Brits would say. Apparently, it’s a sort of welcome to the family thing, although I keep telling the pushy fucker I’m not going to be an honorary member of the family.

  I’ve told my housekeeper, Justina, to hire extra help for the night and to bring caterers in. Not that I know who to expect. It might be the men and their wives, in which case it will be lots of gossip, hearty food, and good old-fashioned bonhomie. Or it might be the men alone, in which case I’m going to be pissed because I don’t want drugs or whores in my house, and I expect the night to degenerate to the point where both are on the menu. I don’t do drugs, I don’t pay for sex, and other than the odd glass of Scotch or Vodka, I don’t drink.

  After walking a few blocks, I take a right and enter the car park for the local supermarket and head toward my Mercedes. As I pass under the stark white street lamp lighting the lot, a young brunette heads past me juggling five bags. One splits, and the contents roll out onto the ground. She gives a small cry of dismay and struggles to place the other bags on the ground without spilling their contents too. I turn and take two steps back, bending down to help her pick up her spilled groceries.

  She looks up, meets my gaze, and flushes as she smiles. Handing her the lemons and limes rolling all over the ground, I clock the moment she sees the broken skin on my knuckles and the splashes of blood. She licks her lips; nerves not arousal, I know the difference well. Grabbing her stuff, she shoves it into the broken bag. She clutches the bags tighter in her grasp and takes off away from me quickly, shooting me a thank you.

  Doesn’t bother me; I’m used to the reaction. Some women fear me, others want to roll around in the sack with me, but they all react to the violence within. They judge me by it and find me wanting … tempting. But none of them want me, the real me; never him. They only see the thug in a designer suit they either want to take a walk on the wild side with or get far away from.

  I have two female friends with benefits with, and the rest of the time I’m a fucking monk. I don’t need the hassle of a ghoulish violence-lover wanting to hear all the dirty details of what goes on when I have a job to do. I don’t talk about work, ever, but it doesn’t stop them from asking. I could slake my thirst with some of the girls at the strip clubs
Allyov runs, but I don’t shit on my own doorstep. That sort of crap always gets messy. I don’t need a stripper getting the hurt, wide eyes because I never called. Or the girls talking about me.

  Sinking into the soft leather driver's seat, I finally relax. Then I remember the party and get all pissed off again.

  My drive home takes me past one of Allyov’s legitimate businesses, a restaurant he owns, a place I’ve been finding myself more and more drawn to lately. My gaze flicks to the windows, and I know who I’m hoping to see a glimpse of.

  Violet.

  Petite, blonde. Totally off limits as she works for Allyov, and she is also something of an enigma. Enough of one that I followed her the other day, to see if she was up to anything nefarious, such as spying on Allyov to report back to law enforcement.

  She didn’t seem to be, and I had a good poke around her small and stuffy flat too, but it doesn’t pay to be too careful. Something about the girl doesn’t add up. The way she always wore make-up to actually try and appear less attractive than she is, until recently when she started to make more of an effort. The way she hangs around Allyov’s table when he’s there, thinking she’s being subtle when she’s anything but.

  I shake my head and focus on the road.

  By the time I arrive home, my head is splitting, and I’m beyond tired.

  Sighing, I head on up the drive to my seven-bedroom, four bathroom home, where I live alone with my housekeeper. I slam the door as I climb out of the car. No valet parking for me, so I plan on coming out in a while and putting the beast away in one of the three detached garages. I love the wealth and power this place denotes. I love it more that I live among bankers, financiers, and lawyers who would all be horrified to know a hitman for hire to the mob hides in plain sight in their rarefied part of town. But I’m simply a more honest form of criminal. They ruin lives with the press of a button on a keyboard; at least my marks deserve it.

  As I open the door, pressing the combo on my fancy security system, I call out to Justina. She comes scuttling out of the kitchen, a spatula in her hand. “Oh, Lord. They are coming tonight for the party.” Her face is flushed. “I was working with the caterers, thinking food would be nice. I haven’t seen Donna for so long.”

  She refers to Sergei’s wife. “But then Donna calls and tells me she’s sorry, but tonight only the men are attending.”

  She looks nervous. As well she should. The men are animals when they get on their own in a group. The last time they came around, one groped Justina so hard he left a bruise.

  “When you’re done organizing with the caterers for the food, put it on one side covered so people can help themselves. Then go out for the night. Go see a film or a friend. I’ll call you when they are gone. Send the caterers home too.”

  She gives me a grateful smile but shakes her head. “Donna said Sergei claims tonight is going to be a quiet one. I’ll stay, but if it gets out of hand, I’ll make myself scarce.”

  She lives here, in a room upstairs, and not in a bullshit servants’ quarters. Justina is pretty much my only real friend and the only one who knows half of the truth about me.

  Weary now, the adrenaline all gone, and my mood soured by the unwanted party, I plod up the stairs to get changed. Half an hour later, I’m showered, my hair is gelled back, and I have on more casual clothing. Still expensive as fuck, but not my usual suit.

  The jarring jangle of the doorbell has me checking my appearance one last time, and putting my watch on before heading down the stairs. Being smart is all part of the game, part of the character I’ve built. I don’t give a fuck about the clothes, only about the mystique they help build. I spent half my time in the Spetsnaz living in the same stinking clothes for weeks on end.

  Justina greets the men at the door, letting them in and guiding them into the lounge where she pours drinks. She’ll make them comfortable, and then she’ll make herself scarce; only appearing to answer the door and get any new guests drinks.

  At some point in the evening the girls will arrive, and the drugs will already be here. I don’t need this fucking shit. I hope Donna is right and tonight is going to be quieter than usual.

  “Andrius, my good man.” Gregory, one of the older family members, walks in, his fat stomach preceding him. He wears gold rings on both pinkie fingers, and his greying hair is swept into an ice-cream whip style.

  Later this evening some bitch will be sucking his stubby cock in a corner.

  Every damn time they bring girls to one of their parties, I get a ton of shit for not partaking. The no drugs, not much drink rules they seem to accept, but there’s a strong streak of homophobia running through these guys. Any hint you’re not a red-blooded male freaks them out.

  Luckily, I’m so fucking deadly, they don’t openly challenge me on it, but I’m filled with dread at the thought one of these days I will have to partake. I have personal reasons for not wanting to use the women brought to these events.

  A rule … more than that—a vow.

  One made in blood and sealed in death.

  No harm to women, no harm to children—not ever.

  That includes having sex with women who don’t want it. I made the promise a long time before the state turned me into a killer, and now I think my bit of moral code is the only thing that stops me from becoming a full-blown animal. I stick to it so strictly because I honestly don’t know if I have any integral moral fiber left. I’m a killer for hire, a man with so many bodies on his conscience I doubt there’s anything that would shock me.

  So yeah, my promise and my code matter to me. Because they mattered to her, the woman I whispered them to in the dark so many years ago.

  Three hours later and the night is in full swing. Things are quiet, as Donna promised, although Sergei has yet to arrive. There are a few girls, but not as many as usual, and most of them seem to be more of the mistress end of the spectrum than the bought in hooker variety. There are a few couples getting frisky, but none of the outright public sex that usually occurs. The drugs haven’t been in evidence, either. It’s good in one way, but it’s making my spidey senses tingle.

  Sergei has been watching me all week with a little Mona Lisa fucking smirk on his face, and I’ve wondered what he is contemplating. The bastard has been after me to work for him exclusively for a long time, and I’ve given in to his pushy pleading. For now.

  After all, it serves my purposes too. When it comes down to it, I might work for these people, but I follow my own plan. Right now, my plan seems to be converging with Sergei Allyov’s desire to have me all to himself. To be truthful, he wants me in the family, almost an adopted son, but I refuse that level of commitment. Partly, because I don’t need the shit it will bring with his real son, Roman. More importantly, because I don’t want to be enmeshed with the fuckers. I’ve told him I’ll go exclusive for them here in the U.K. and nothing more.

  Right now, I want to know where the cunt is and what he’s playing at. I hear the doorbell, and I’m so antsy I almost get up to answer it myself, but I won’t show any of what’s going on inside. I stay sat, body relaxed, drink in hand.

  There is the low hum of voices coming from the entryway where Justina has welcomed the guest, and I brace myself for Allyov’s entrance, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he’s headed on into the kitchen first to load himself a plate of food.

  After what seems like an inordinate amount of time, the double doors to the living area are swept open and Allyov walks in as if this is his house and not mine.

  “Gentlemen,” Sergei claps his hands.

  He walks into the room only for my gaze to be snagged by the sight behind him. The waitress, the hot one with the nice tits and the weird personality, is being held by the arms between Alexei and Misha.

  Violet.

  The waitress I’ve been looking into because of her weird behavior is here in my house. The girl who tried to hide how beautiful she is with artful makeup to give her dark circles and too-pale skin. The girl I was so fucking suspicious about I
followed her one day and checked out her apartment. The new waitress at the restaurant who no one knew and who has no friends. She pinged my radar, and she clearly pinged Allyov’s.

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

  She looks … wrong. Her eyes are fucked, dilated and hazed, and I think they’ve drugged her.

  For once, I’m so shocked something must show on my face, and I try to smooth out my expression.

  What the ever-loving fuck is this?

  “Andrius. You’re a valuable member of our … company. And we all wanted to welcome you properly now that you’re not going to be working for anyone else here in the United Kingdom. This is an auspicious day, the start of a beautiful partnership.”

  I wait for him to go on. To let me know what the hell this girl is doing drugged and dressed up like a bride on her wedding night in my damn home.

  “We wanted to get you something truly wonderful to celebrate this moment. A gift you’d never forget. A bottle of scotch simply wouldn’t do.” He pauses, and there’s nervous laughter from some men in the room as their eyes flicker between me and Allyov. They are right to be nervous; I could fucking strangle Allyov right now as what’s happening becomes clear.

  He smiles as the trap closes around me. “You don’t like fucking around with the whores; we all realize this.” He sweeps his arms around the room, including all the men in it. Some of whom I am sure have had conversations about my sexuality. “You are a part of us now, and a good man needs a good woman behind him. You’ve been taking your time on that score. I decided to help, and instead of alcohol, I got you this instead.”

  His minders throw Violet forward, and she lands at my feet on her hands and knees. The men in the room burst out laughing, and a sour burning scolds my stomach. I have to lock myself down not to stand and kill Allyov right now, but that would sign my death warrant. Even I can’t take out the number of men here. It would also place Justina in massive danger and wouldn’t do anything to help little Violet here either.