The Mafia King's Broken Bride

Chapter 16

ASYA’S POV

I put on the pyjamas Pasha bought for me and glance at myself in the bathroom mirror. The top isn’t that bad, maybe a size or two too big, but the bottoms are a different story. I had to roll the waist and cuff the legs more than twice to make sure they’d stay on and I wouldn’t trip while walking. Size medium. I usually wear extra small.

The rest of the clothes lie folded on the long counter. All mediums. Either Pasha has never shopped for women’s clothes, or he has a terrible sense of size. I notice two empty shelves in the cabinet at the other end of the bathroom and put the clothes there. I don’t want to intrude on his space more than I already have. I still can’t believe he’s let me stay.

When I exit the bathroom, Pasha steps out of his closet, wearing dark gray pyjama bottoms and a black T-shirt.

“I’ll leave the door open,” he says. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the room across the hall.”

My body stiffens. I wrap my arms around my middle and nod, heading toward the bed.

“Asya? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I climb in and turn to face the wall, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

The room is silent for a moment, then I hear bare feet approaching.

“What’s wrong?”

I grip the blanket. “Can you sleep here again?”

“Here? In this bed?”

“Please.”

He doesn’t respond. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating myself for asking. He probably thinks I’m pathetic—usurping his life and space, then asking him to stay in bed with me. I open my mouth to say I changed my mind when the bed dips behind me.

I slide my hands under the pillow, hoping it will stop me from turning toward him and snuggling into his chest. This inexplicable pull toward him confuses me, and disgusts me too. I’ve been assaulted, used in the most degrading ways. What I should feel toward any man is fear, loathing, repulsion.

Instead… I’m attracted to him.

And he hasn’t once tried anything. No touch, no suggestion, nothing that could be considered s****l.

“Because you’re filthy,” a voice in my mind whispers. Spoiled goods. Too many men have touched you.

I bury my face in the pillow. Stop!

Pasha’s thick arm wraps around my waist, pulling me into his body until my back presses to his chest.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs into my hair.

A shudder runs through me—not a bad one.

“Why didn’t you call my brother and get rid of me?” I whisper.

“Because I understand the need to deal with your s**t yourself. And because I know how it feels to have people get rid of you.” His arm tightens. “I would never do that to anyone.”

“You’re holed up here with me. Don’t you need to go to work?”

“I had someone fill in. But I’ll have a meeting with the pakhan tomorrow. I won’t be long.”

Panic coils in my stomach. It’s unnatural, this attachment I feel to him, and I can’t shake the dread at the thought of him not being nearby.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Will you reconsider the psychiatrist?”

I press my lips together and shake my head. Talking to anyone other than Pasha makes my stomach turn.

“All right, Mishka. A few more days, then.”

“Does it mean something? Mishka?”

“A bear cub.”

He calls me a bear cub. I turn my head to look at him. “Because I like clinging to you?”

“Yeah.” He lifts his hand, as if to touch my face, then hesitates. “Let’s go to sleep.”

I nod, turning back to the wall, pretending to sleep. But I can’t get over the fact that he said yes when I asked to stay instead of sending me back to my family. I was certain he’d refuse. He didn’t. And he agreed not to tell anyone who I am.

A light touch grazes the back of my head. I’m not sure what it is, but it feels like a kiss.

PAVEL’S POV

“Is that girl still at your place?” Roman asks the moment I enter his office.

“Yes.” I nod and take a seat beside Maxim.

“Good. You need to ask her how she got the drugs. Yuri still can’t locate the guy who supplied the pills, so your girl is our only lead.”

I meet my pakhan’s gaze and shake my head. “No.”

“No?” His eyes widen.

“If she tells me something herself, I’ll let you know. But I’m not making her talk unless she wants to.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Doc hasn’t told you?” I ask.

“Told me what? He said you found the girl, she overdosed, and you took her home.”

“She was sexually abused, Roman. I think the people who had her were running a prostitution ring.”

Roman’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. He snaps the pen in his hands in two. The subject of abused women has always hit a nerve with him.

“Is the girl okay?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“She’s better.”

“Good. Don’t ask her anything.” He nods, turning his attention to Maxim. “What’s the issue with the Albanians you wanted to discuss?”

Maxim removes his glasses, crossing his arms. “It seems they’ve suddenly come into a large sum of money. One of Anton’s men reported seeing Dushku’s son-in-law spending tens of thousands per night at one of the Cosa Nostra casinos. Several nights in a row.”

“Julian’s an i***t who’s never earned a cent himself,” Roman says. “He’s been milking Dushku for years.”

“Well, now it looks like he has more than he can spend,” Maxim continues. “Could he be involved in this new drug situation?”

“He better not be. If anyone from the Albanian organization dares to bring drugs into my territory, they won’t like the consequences. I made that very clear to Dushku months ago, after the fuckup with the Irish.”

“What happened with the Irish?” I ask. I mostly focus on running the clubs, so some of the broader business issues aren’t on my radar. The last I remember, they tried to wipe out the Bratva a few years back and almost killed Kostya. Sergei eliminated their leader and several top-tier men, and Roman threw the rest out of Chicago.

“They’ve set up base in New York,” Roman says. “Don Ajello sent me a message months ago. Dushku started collaborating with the Irish and delivered a large shipment of guns to them. He did this knowing full well my stance on the Irish.”

“Was it just one shipment, or is Dushku still working with them?”

“Just one. Shortly after, Ajello dealt with the Irish himself because the i***t Fitzgerald kidnapped his wife. He went ballistic.”

“He killed Fitzgerald?”

“Filleted him with a knife himself,” Roman grins. “I don’t know the man, but I like him already.”

“What do you plan on doing with the Albanians?” Maxim asks.

“Do we have anyone inside who can keep an eye on them? We need to know where that money came from.”

“One of the Baykal waitresses visits Dushku regularly,” I offer. “Maybe she can persuade him to talk about his business.”

“Let’s try that for now.” Roman nods. “But if it turns out Dushku is behind this, I’m going to gut him myself.”

As I step out of my car, I notice a familiar vehicle parked near the entrance. Yuri sits behind the wheel of his white SUV, waving me over.

“What’s going on?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat.

He leans on the wheel, fixing me with a sharp gaze. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Nothing. Why?”

He shakes his head and looks past the windshield toward the street.

“I’ve known you for ten years, Pasha, so don’t give me this s**t. Are you planning to leave the Bratva?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You let Kostya take over your clubs. You’ve practically lived at Ural, and you wouldn’t let anyone cover for you, ever. When I tried convincing you to take a break a few months ago, you said you can’t function unless you’re working.”

“Well, I’ve decided to take that break now.”

“So, you’re coming back?”

I slump back in the seat, my eyes tracing the windows of my building. Three hours have passed since my meeting with Roman, but I’ve spent every second thinking about Asya. Is she okay? Has she eaten? What if she’s scared being alone? What if I come home and she’s gone?

“I’ll come back, Yuri. Don’t worry.”

“When?”

“When she leaves,” I say, eyes fixed on the third-floor windows. The blinds are drawn, hiding any light from inside. My chest tightens at the thought of her being alone.

“She? The girl you have at your place?”

“Yes.”

“Are you two… in a relationship?”

“No.”

He frowns, jaw tight, concern in his eyes. At sixty-five, Yuri is the oldest in the Bratva’s inner circle. A father figure to many, fiercely protective of the men under his command, yet somehow able to care more about them than some do their own families.

“Have you ever met someone who feels like a missing piece of you?” I ask. “A piece you didn’t even know was missing until they stumbled into your life?”

“No, not really. You think that girl is yours?”

“I’ve known her for a week.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll be leaving soon anyway.” I grab the door handle. “I’m coming back to work as soon as she does.”

“Maybe she won’t want to leave.”

“Yeah, sure.” I push the door open and step out, my mind already running ahead to her, to the thought of making sure she’s safe.