Cruel Desire

CRUEL DESIRE A Dark Bratva Mafia Romance NESSA GRAYE Reader discretion advised This novel features scenes and themes which some readers may find disturbing or upsetting. Reader discretion is advised. Contents Reader discretion advised Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring the characters from this novel! Also by Nessa Graye 1. Vladimir 2. Kimberly 3. Vladimir 4. Kimberly 5. Vladimir 6. Kimberly 7. Vladimir 8. Kimberly 9. Vladimir 10. Kimberly 11. Vladimir 12. Kimberly 13. Vladimir 14. Kimberly 15. Vladimir 16. Kimberly 17. Vladimir 18. Kimberly 19. Vladimir 20. Kimberly 21. Vladimir 22. Kimberly 23. Vladimir 24. Kimberly 25. Vladimir 26. Kimberly 27. Vladimir 28. Kimberly 29. Vladimir 30. Kimberly 31. Vladimir The story isn’t over yet… Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring the characters from this novel! Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring the characters from this novel! Sign up now: http://eepurl.com/h-KX-v Also by Nessa Graye The Azarov Bratva series Savage Heart Brutal Temptation Sinful Vow Twisted Prince 1 Vladimir One last fight. I know it’s coming. It’s late at night, and I can just barely see the moon glimmering at the edge of my prison cell window. The bars cut the moonlight, segmenting it into vicious little chunks that manage to hide the horrors of this place. I’m set to be released tomorrow. I did my time. I took my fall for the Bratva. My name is Vladimir Azarov—today, I’m a prisoner, but tomorrow, I’ll be a free man. A rich man. A killer, a thug, a murderer—whatever you want to call me. It doesn’t matter. Freedom is all I want. It’s so close I can taste it. But the Lupos won’t have it. If they have their way—I won’t leave this prison alive. I lie on my cot, deathly still, barely breathing. Darkness coats everything. I have a cell to myself. A TV. A few books. A toilet. It’s not a bad deal, all things considered. The cells I remember from my childhood in Russia were a hell of a lot worse. Down the hall, I hear a guard clearing his throat. His footsteps echo as he absents himself from the corridor. The hollow sound of responsibility disappearing from his shoulders. He doesn’t want to be around for this. He doesn’t want to intervene. That’s the understanding here, in this place. The gangs do what they will, and the guards clean up the mess. They don’t want to stick their necks out for murders and thieves, and we don’t want them sticking their noses in our business. I hear cell doors being picked. The clink of metal on metal. Like tiny insects crawling over my flesh. All I can do is wait. I never hide. I could pick the lock to my own cell, try to disappear into the prison’s darkness, and hope I can manage to return to my cot by roll call in the morning. But then they’d come after me somewhere else. In the exercise yard. In the shower. In the dining hall. Yeah, fuck that. I’ll take a fight on my home turf any day. The bruises from the last attack a week ago have finally faded. I don’t know who put the Lupos up to killing me, but they must be getting paid a small fortune to keep coming after me. Or they didn’t like the way I established dominance in the prison as soon as I arrive, putting an end to the prostitution of other prisoners by the Lupos. I’ve cracked skulls, broken jaws, taken out eyes—and they barely lay a hand on me. Tonight is their last chance. I’m sure they’ll throw everything they can at me. I hear their footsteps now, a twisted echo of the guard’s. They’re coming towards me, now. Not marching away from me. Straining my ears, I try to count how many of them there are. Four—five? Six, maybe? There’s not enough room in my cell for that many. If they call try to crowd in at once, they’ll be on top of each other. I can use that to my advantage. I have, in the past. Using one of the bastards as a shield or a cudgel to smash into another. If they’re smart, they’ll send in two or three at a time, to try and wear me down. It won’t work, but that’s the best strategy they have. And who knows? Maybe they’ll get lucky. Finally, the footsteps come to a halt at the entrance to my cell. Six men, their silhouettes outlined in crimson by the sickly red lights that blanket our floor. “You know why we’re here, Azarov,” one of them grunts. “You sons of bitches are really going to miss me that much?” One of the Lupos goes to work on the lock. He’s intent, focused, and I let him work for a second before I leap off my cot, grab his arm, and force it inside, through the bars. The Lupos are cursing, trying to pull their man back, but I’ve already got him in my claws. I have something sinister planned for my friends on this last night. I’ve been working on it, all week. It was an idea I had a while ago, but it took some time to gather the materials. A crude hacksaw, cobbled together from scrap metal, old toothbrushes, and random junk littering the prison. The Lupo screams as I marry the saw edge to his wrist and start to cut. “I’ve had so much fun playing with you motherfuckers,” I growl between gritted teeth. “I decided I wanted to take a piece of you with me.” By now, they realize what’s happening. They all pull, but that only aids my project. The Lupo sobs for his mother as his hand finally comes loose, torn off his arm. He tumbles back, pulled by his compatriots, and they land in a confused, bloody heap. “I’m keeping this,” I