Sasha & Andriena #1 (Lovers & Sinners) Page 12

  His master sniffed. “You’re just as deluded as your mother is.”

  Sasha mumbled something.

  “Speak up, I can’t hear you,” the Black Russian said.

  “Fuck you and fuck her.”

  The Black Russian grabbed him by the hair and yanked his face closer. “You’re pushing my tolerance levels, so be careful with what you say next.”

  Sasha spat again, this time in his face. The Black Russian let out a roar and flung Sasha’s head back, hitting it against the floor.

  Andriena screamed at the resounding crack. In an instant she was up on her feet, throwing herself onto the Black Russian’s back, all thought of self-preservation gone, fury and vengeance possessing her mind and body. She clawed at his face, making him yell out. Nikita grabbed her around the waist and ripped her off the Black Russian’s back. She struggled against him, yelling and screaming, trying to claw her way out of Nikita’s hold, Sasha’s unmoving body pushing her over the edge.

  The Black Russian wiped his face, smearing blood across his tattoos, making it look like war paint. “Do you have a fucking death wish?” he boomed.

  “You killed Sasha!”

  “He’s not dead, you stupid pizda.” He bent down and scooped Sasha up. Sasha’s naked body hung limply from his arms, looking like a pagan sacrifice to the gods. “Feel his neck if you need proof.”

  Andriena yanked an arm free from Nikita and placed two fingers to Sasha’s neck, exhaling in relief when she found a pulse.

  The Black Russian narrowed his eyes at her, the scratch marks on his face still bleeding. “I should make you pay for attacking me, but I promised on my sister’s life I’d free you.” His gaze moved to Nikita. “Follow me. I want to show her something before you purge her from my sight.” He stalked away from them, carrying Sasha out of the cell.

  Nikita shoved Andriena after them. “Move.”

  They headed through a passageway, taking to a staircase. They entered another passage, and another, and another, along with many more flights of stairs, the palace reminding her of a labyrinth, one she could easily get lost in.

  Eventually, they exited a doorway that led onto a wide, red carpeted corridor. Nikita closed the door behind them, making it disappear from sight. It was hidden behind a large painting of a man, who was dressed from head to toe in a military uniform, with a sword in a scabbard. More images lined the walls, the people in the pictures resembling the Black Russian, Nikita, and even Sasha. Surprised, Andriena paused to look at a beautiful blond woman, who was the spitting image of Sasha, just twenty or so years older. The only difference was her eyes. Instead of Sasha’s gray they were icy-blue—exactly like the Black Russian’s.

  Andriena pointed at the picture. “She looks like Sasha.”

  “That’s because she’s our mother,” Nikita replied. “Now, move.”

  He gave her a hard shove, almost knocking her over. Andriena stumbled forward, following the Black Russian to a door, where a guard was standing. The guard opened the door, allowing them to enter. She came to a stop in the middle of the room, her gaze going to a huge bed. It was covered with black satin and topped with a canopy. Curtains hung down from it, the heavy material tied back by plaited cords.

  The Black Russian lay Sasha down on the bed and removed some chains from an exquisitely decorated side drawer. Once he’d chained Sasha to the bed, he returned his attention to Andriena. “For the rest of your life, no matter where you are, I will send you videos of what’s happening to Sasha. You will see everything he’s going through, everything he’s suffering, because, cyka, I want you to feel guilty for putting him in this situation.” He flicked a hand at Nikita. “Return her to her sister. She’s now a free woman.”

  Nikita grabbed her arm. She yanked it free. “If you don’t let Sasha go the Donatelli House will come after you.”

  “I highly doubt it, and don’t you think you’re risking your life threatening me?”

  “You promised on your sister’s life you wouldn’t harm me, and even if you broke your promise, my famiglia will take vengeance. The only way you’ll be safe is to let Sasha leave with me.”

  “The only Donatelli that showed any interest in helping you was your sister and she has no power other than to command her boyfriend to lick her pussy.” He flashed his teeth at her. “So, I’m going to politely decline your offer.” He placed a hand on Sasha’s leg.

  “Stop touching him, you pervert!”

  “Oh, I’m definitely a pervert, but I have no desire to fuck Sasha now.” He glanced at him. “Instead, since he likes to fight so much, I think I’ll put him into my fighting arena. He’ll entertain me much better there.” He stroked Sasha’s leg. “I’ll send you some videos of his fights. The gladiators tend to get quite nasty, especially since they often fight to the death.”

  “No!” She went for him, all logic flying out of the window.

  Nikita grabbed her before she could get even close. He lifted her off her feet and carried her out of the room. She struggled against him, screaming at the bastard, “How could you abandon Sasha! He’s your brother! I’d die for my famiglia.”

  Nikita slammed her face first into the passage wall, making her cry out. He pressed up against her body, silencing her, fear swallowing up her rage. “The only brother I would die for is dead, and your fucking family killed him. So, shut the fuck up before I kill you, Donatelli pizda,” he growled out, calling her a cunt.

  “You can’t kill me,” she blurted out, “the Black Russian swore on his sister’s life.”

  “He swore, I didn’t, and I’m sure he won’t give a shit if I decide to kill you, like I’m going to kill all the men in your pathetic family for murdering my baby brother.”

  “They didn’t do anything to Yuri, the ones responsible are dead themselves.”

  “Yet my grief hasn’t died with them. Do you know why?”

  “Because Yuri is gone.”

  “Da, plus his murderers’ spirits live on through your family. In fact, I should fucking annihilate all of them, men and women alike.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I can, but I think I’ll let you live, because living is worse than death when your loved ones die around you.”

  “Sasha will die if you don’t help him. Don’t you love him?”

  He went silent.

  “It sounds like you do. So, kill the Black Russian to save your brother.”

  “I’d rather die than harm my father.”

  Andriena’s eyes widened. “The Black Russian’s your father?”

  “Da.”

  “But that would make Sasha his son!”

  “No, his nephew.”

  Sasha & Andriena #2

  Coming soon...

  A Special Note from the Author:

  Thank you for reading SASHA & ANDRIENA #1!

  I would like to ask if you could review this story along with any of my other books that you’ve read, regardless of whether you’ve loved or hated them, because every review counts.

  As you may have read on my Facebook page, reviews are hard to come by, which is why, as the reader, you have the power to make my books successful. If this happens, I’ll be able to continue writing about your favorite characters.

  Here’s the link to my Amazon author page, where you can find all of my books:

  http://www.amazon.com/Marita-A.-Hansen/e/B005H5W79K/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  I look forward to hearing your views,

  Marita A. Hansen.

  *

  A Sample of

  My Masters’ Nightmare, Season 1, Episode 1.

  (Please note that My Masters’ Nightmare, as a whole, is considerably darker than Lovers & Sinners. Also, it takes place before Sasha & Andriena #1).

  *

  1

  RITA

  I walked into the hotel bar knowing there was a strong chance that I would be drugged and kidnapped by the end of the night. Which was exactly why I was there. And why I’d slipped on the little black dress with
two slits up the side, anything to encourage it to happen. I paused to look around the room, aware I was being watched by more than just the men in the bar. Four surveillance cameras were positioned at strategic points, my co-workers watching from outside of the New York hotel, where only the rich and infamous stayed.

  A blond man pushed off a barstool and headed for me, his cream-colored Versace suit suggesting he was a cut above the rest of the patrons. He looked familiar, possibly a movie star from one of the many films I didn’t have time to see, my job as a FBI agent all-consuming, which was the way I preferred it, so I didn’t have time to think about my husband. I held up my hand before the man could get a word out, showing him the wedding ring I refused to remove, the diamond encrusted band lovingly designed by my husband, who’d been killed by the very people I was going to take down.

  To my surprise the man bowed, then returned to his seat, allowing me to get back to my work. My gaze moved to the end of the bar, where I hoped Jagger D’Angelo was still sitting—my predator, my target, the bait for unsuspecting women. And he was the perfect bait, the man so beautiful he could’ve stepped right out of a Versace catalogue, the suit looking even better on him than the actor who’d approached me, the light material covering him a tease to the senses. The mob certainly had picked well, because Jagger was a work of art.

  I frowned as a woman sashayed up to him. She was drop-dead gorgeous like Jagger, but blonde instead of raven-haired. I wondered whether she was his target for the night. She glanced over her shoulder, giving me a better view of her stunning face, which answered my question. She was too old, mid-thirties at a guess, and from all the data I’d read on the case the missing women were in their early twenties. I didn’t fit the profile either, but only on the birth certificate the orphanage gave me. I was twenty-nine, yet looked like I’d just walked out of my teens, the parents I never knew leaving me with good genes and nothing else.

  My frown deepened as Jagger’s hand slipped around to the woman’s behind, giving it a squeeze. Was he out with a lover? But he couldn’t be, because he was supposed to be working tonight, our informant telling us that another woman was going to be snatched, no one in particular, the only criteria being that she was beautiful and within the right age range, although from the intel gathered Jagger tended to prefer blondes, his wayward hand confirmation of this, which was another strike against me, considering I was a brunette.

  I touched my bracelet, hoping that my minders could hear everything clearly through the microphones in the baubles, then headed for Jagger, easing myself between the tables. More men turned to look at me, one of them getting a slap across the back of his head courtesy of the woman sitting next to him. The makeup artist had certainly done a brilliant job on me, the black kohl and gray eye-shadow around my eyes creating an exotic look. One of the male agents had made a wisecrack that I would fit right into a harem, but I wasn’t dealing with the Middle East here, the Italian Mafia was my target.

  A hand touched my behind. I turned and glared at the perpetrator, or should I say pervert with the way the sixty-something man was leering at me. He was handsome, his silver hair and laugh lines not diminishing his looks, but the glint in his eyes told me there was more than one predator working the room. I could read people well, and right now this man gave off the vibe of Hannibal Lecter. Note to self: get one of my co-workers to follow him.

  “Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you,” I said.

  “I would be a fool not to,” he replied. “You have such a stunning body.”

  I knew that, and I wasn’t being arrogant either. I was in the best shape I’d ever been. Over the past six months, I’d become addicted to exercise, working out until I was past exhaustion, to the point that I could barely remember my own name let alone my husband’s. But Matt’s sweet face always came back to haunt me, someone I would never see again, no matter how much I cried for him, and it was all because of one person: Frano D’Angelo – Jagger’s cousin.

  The silver-haired man smiled wider, probably because I hadn’t moved, although if he could read faces as well as I could, he would know not to mess with me, because right now I wanted to kill.

  “What is your name?” I asked for my fellow agents’ benefit.

  “Simon Harper.”

  “I’m sure I will be seeing you again,” I said, that one line relaying to my co-workers that I wanted him followed, because he was definitely a sex offender—no doubt about it.

  Not wanting to waste any more time on him, I headed for a barstool two seats down from Frano’s cousin. Jagger turned to look at me. Relieved that he had noticed me, I sat down on the stool and waved at the bartender, who instantly came over. He reminded me of Captain America with his slicked-to-the-side blond hair, square jaw, and muscles. He just needed the star-spangled banner suit and he was ready to go.

  “What would you like, gorgeous?” he asked.

  “My namesake,” I answered, hoping that Jagger was listening in.

  “And what’s that?”

  “A margarita.”

  The bartender leaned on the bar, his rolled up shirt exposing muscular forearms. “I bet you taste better than the drink.”

  I wiggled my ring finger in front of him.

  “Damn,” he said, looking disappointed.

  “I agree with that, which is why I intend on spending the night with as many margaritas as I can handle, or should I say, cannot handle.”

  “Why?”

  “I caught my husband in the arms of a cliché.”

  “A cliché?”

  “His secretary.”

  He shook his head. “What kind of crazy man would cheat on you?”

  “Someone with a taste for blonde bimbos.” I shot a pretend glare at the blonde woman for effect, happy to find that Jagger was now openly staring at me. “So, I’m here to drown my sorrows.”

  “I can certainly help you with that.” The bartender winked, then moved away to get my drink. I swiveled around on the barstool, pretending to survey the room, though unsuccessfully, because Jagger’s stare drew me straight to him. The blonde glanced behind her, giving me the evil eye, then took a hold of Jagger’s chin, trying to get his attention. He yanked free, snapping “Vai via!” which I knew was ‘Go away’ in Italian, or with his tone ‘Beat it’. The woman started talking in rapid-fire Italian, begging him to ignore me, that she would pleasure him until he came in all her holes. I refrained from screwing up my face at her vulgarity, because there was no way I wanted him to know I spoke his mother tongue. I had learned it from my foster parents, plus my skills at picking up languages was now legendary in the FBI, one of the reasons why I was put on assignments relating to foreigners. I could speak French, Russian, Arabic, and of course Italian, as well as Spanish and German, only the Asian languages proving more difficult to master.

  Jagger continued to stare, his intensity telling me he wanted to fuck me ... no, he was going to fuck me. When my boss had asked me to take the assignment, I had said yes without hesitation, my need to make Jagger’s cousin pay all-consuming, but when I was told I was to become a sex slave to my husband’s murderer, for the first time I was left speechless, blinking like a stupid airhead as my boss continued to outline my role. After his long spiel, he’d made me go home to consider every aspect of the assignment, telling me I had forty-eight hours to decide. Then on D-day, he’d brought in two families, forcing me to sit and listen to the parents and husbands of the stolen women, all of them begging for their loved one to be returned. Up to that point I was going to say no, the thought of Frano touching me making me feel sick, but after I saw a battle-hardened father break down, crumbling before my eyes, I knew I had to take the assignment—no matter how much it repulsed me.

  The bartender returned with my drink, planting his elbows on the bar again. “What does your husband look like?” he asked, probably assessing whether he had a chance with me.

  “An arrogant ass of an Italian with black hair and striking hazel eyes, far too gorgeous for my o
wn good.”

  He frowned, then glanced at Jagger, my description a perfect reflection of the man.

  I refrained from looking, Jagger no doubt listening in. Instead, I pointed to a customer further down the bar, the man trying to attract the bartender’s attention. “Looks like you have an order.”

  “Yes, but it’s for you,” the bartender smiled. “One tall blond who’s getting off at—”

  “Sorry, darling, I’ll take the drink but not the man,” I said, smiling at his pun.

  “I taste better.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I’m likely to take my rage out on the next man who touches me.”

  Looking amused, he straightened, no doubt thinking I was no match for his brawn, but my black belt said differently, although I wouldn’t tell him that, nor Jagger, that talent needed to remain hidden for the time being.

  I pointed at the customer again. “You really should serve him.”

  The bartender sighed, then headed for the man, finally getting the picture I was so clearly drawing for him.

  “Jagger! Stop ignoring me!” the blonde woman yelled.

  I looked to the side. Jagger was still blatantly staring at me. The blonde moved in front of him, blocking his view. He placed a hand on her hip and gave her a hard shove, repeating “Vai via.” The woman stumbled into another man, then spun around, giving Jagger a slap across his face. Jagger shot up out of his stool, making the woman shriek, his glare promising violence.

  “I’m sorry, Jagger,” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.

  He slapped her hand away, cutting her down in Italian. The blonde started begging for his forgiveness. I glanced at her hand, noticing the wedding band, probably the reason why he was with her, the man obviously having an obsession with things he shouldn’t have.

  “Basta!” he snapped enough.

  She pulled a face. “Please, Jagger, you don’t need her, I’ll be all you want tonight.”

  He sniffed. “Leave now or I tell Alberto what a puttana you are.”

  “I’m not a whore, I’m your lover, and he’d kill you if you tell him such a thing.”