Paying The Bratva’s Debt

They’re the NBA. You don’t play ball without their say-so, or the tithing they take. The media likes to portray me as this underworld king. While it’s true that I make most of my own shots and calls, there’s still the power of the Brava Council above me.
But the Bratva is also family. The Bratva took me in when I was an angry young hothead. They saw potential under my “live fast, die young” bravado, and they helped me mold myself into the man I am today. This empire I run is my empire. But the world it exists in is that of the Bratva. And I have no qualms about this.
My eyes dance over the other tattoos—these ones Bratva through and through. These are the marks of rank—of sacrifice. They mark my loyalty and affiliations. They brand me as a criminal to some eyes, and as brother to others.
I stand, grunting as my muscles burn. But it’s a good ache. I like keeping my body a well-oiled machine. But I also recognize that my physique these days is a luxury. I can remember my life before, when I was back on the streets in my old country. You don’t get muscles like this when you’re scrounging the gutters for food. You don’t build biceps when your day-to-day existence is simply finding enough calories to keep living. But now that I have this luxury and these means, I’ve vowed to keep myself hard.
I won’t be soft. I won’t get fat and complacent. This empire I’ve built rests on my shoulders. And I won’t ever let them weaken.
I stride through my lavish home, still shirtless. I glance up the stairs towards the wing of the house where Fiona is staying. I growl to myself, feeling my cock thicken. Part of me dwells on the idea of going up there—of knocking her door down and ripping whatever clothes she’s wearing from her soft body. My blood is roaring with testosterone and endorphins. It’s bringing out a caveman need to claim this girl as my own.
My jaw grinds as I suddenly act. I storm up the stairs and down the halls. My blood boils in my veins, like fuel. My cock surges harder as I approach her door. I don’t knock. It’s my own home, after all. I swing the door wide and bluster inside.
But her room is empty. She’s not in the bathroom, the bedroom, her small living area. None of it.
I swear to myself, deflating a little. I didn’t have a plan in coming up here. But what was I thinking that I was going to do? Pin her to the bed and take her forcefully? I scowl, shaking my head. No. When I take Fiona—and I will be taking her—it will be when she begs me for it. I’ll have her in my bed when she’s whimpering for more. Not like a savage maniac forcing myself on her.
My mood is sour, but my lust is still thudding inside when I march back downstairs. I head to the back of the house to take a post-workout swim in my pool. I’m still muttering to myself as I storm into the backyard, kick my shoes off, and dive in.
I push myself hard, lap after grueling lap. I don’t slow or even look up until my body is screaming for mercy. Then and only then do I push for one last lap and then finally stop. I suck in air as I place my elbows on the edge of the pool.
I look up, and suddenly startle when I see her. But when my eyes focus on Fiona, my jaw clenches. She’s sitting in a pool lounger not six feet from me with a book open. And she’s wearing nothing but a black bikini.
“I—” she blushes. “I was sitting here when you came out. I didn’t know if I should leave, or—”
“Stay,” I growl.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t.” My lips curl. “You did, actually. But it was a good startle.”
Fiona smiles. My eyes shamelessly travel down over her chest, down her stomach to her hips, and then up and down each smooth, toned leg. The black bikini fits her perfectly, highlighting her porcelain skin, her freckles, and her gorgeous red hair. Beneath the water, my cock surges at the thought of peeling her bottoms off with my fucking teeth…
She creates a war inside of me. One side wants to climb out of this pool, walk over there, and do just that. That side of me wants to simply take her—to fuck her right here and now, because it’s what I want. That side of me reminds me that this girl is my prisoner—she’s mine. A debt is owed, and if it is not paid, she’ll be my prize to collect instead.
But the other side of me resists. There’s a goodness to this girl—an innocence. And I’m a storm cloud of chaos to that goodness. With me comes violence and destruction. Taking her would mar and blemish her. And besides that, I’m not going to just take her like a goddamn savage. I’m not that man. I want her, yes. But a man who simply takes a woman because he desires her, heedless of what she wants, isn’t a man at all.
I scowl as I think back to my past. There was a time when I was new in the game where I was running a strip club in the South Side. A customer got handsy and wouldn’t take no as an answer from one of the girls. After his second warning, we kicked him out. But later that night when we closed, he was waiting for her out in the parking lot. Luckily, I was still at the club and heard her screams. We stopped him from doing what he’d intended to do, but a message was sent.
I gelded him myself with a kitchen knife and had him dropped weeping in front of a hospital with his severed