The Bookie E-Book

Rose Renee

• Herausgeber: Renee Rose
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

I BARGAINED WITH THE BRATVA--
MY BROTHER’S LIFE FOR MY OWN.
They offered me a deal: thirty nights for my brother's life.
Thirty nights...with  him. Nikolai Novikov.
The charming but dangerous loanshark.

He’s deceptively smooth. Sinfully handsome.
Addictive, even.

But it's only an illusion.

I vow to give him nothing more than I promised,
Yet he sees right through me.

When it comes to my heart, all bets are off...
And winner takes all.

Leseprobe

The Bookie

A Bratva Romance

Renee Rose

Renee Rose Romance

Copyright © December 2021 The Bookie by Renee Rose and Renee Rose Romance

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the authors. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors' rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published in the United States of America

Wilrose Dream Ventures LLC

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

Created with Vellum

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

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1

Nikolai

There’s just no pleasure in delivering a good beat-down anymore.

As bookie for the Chicago bratva, it’s part of the job, but my heart isn’t into it. Not with this kid.

I bury my fist in Zane’s soft belly and watch as he doubles over, wheezing. We’re in his dorm room at Northwestern. I told his roommate to take a hike unless he wanted me to beat his face in too.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get your money. I promise,” he gasps.

“Nah. We’re past your promises,” I tell him. “This time, I’m here to collect.” It’s not like he hasn’t been warned. The truth is, I probably have gone way too easy on him because I like Zane.

He’s smart. Was a decent addition to my poker table before he got into blow and started acting like a douche.

Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, hauls him back to his feet and holds him up for me to punch again. I tip my head at Adrian, one of our soldiers, to have him deliver the blow.

I don’t get off on violence. Not the way Pavel, the most sadistic in our bratva cell, does. But he moved to Los Angeles to be with his actress girlfriend, who gets off on his sadistic ways. And Oleg, our huge, silent enforcer, is also in love, which has softened him.

The guy was probably always a teddy bear under the huge fearsome exterior, but he pulls punches more often now. Case in point—he’s doing the holding up instead of the punching. Considering one aptly delivered blow from Oleg’s giant fists could end a guy, it doesn’t make sense.

“I’ve given you slack while you get the money together, but you missed last week’s payment. Didn’t answer my texts. So here is what’s going to happen.”

Adrian punches his jaw then delivers a left uppercut to the ribs. Our new cleaner shows promise. Adrian’s new to this country and has known great hardship. He still rides the sharp edge of violence. The rest of us have grown softer living large in America.

“You’re going to give me the keys to your Mustang and sign over the title.”

Zane gapes at me, eyes bugging out. Blood runs from both his nostrils and his lip. “You can’t...I…” I raise my brows, and he finishes with a simple “fuck.”

Adrian hits him again.

“I’m not completely heartless. I’ll deduct the full resale value from what you owe the bratva. It’s a 2018?”

Adrian hits him before he can answer, and Zane drops to his knees. “No more,” he wheezes.

“Get me the title.”

“Here are the keys.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls them out. “The title is at my sister’s place. I’ll bring it to you Friday.”

I take the keys. “Nah. We’ll go get it now—together. I wouldn’t mind meeting Big Sister. What’s her name again? Chelle?”

Zane’s eyes go wild, not missing my intended implication. “Leave my sister out of this. I’ll get you the title right now. Just give me a lift over there.”

“Let’s go.” I spread my hands.

Oleg hauls Zane to his feet, but he stumbles on his way to the door, like he can’t remember how to walk. We flank him as we head down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

I’d scoped the location of the Mustang when we arrived, so I go straight to it now and get behind the wheel. Adrian shoves Zane toward the back seat and takes the front passenger side.

Oleg leaves to drive the SUV we came in.

Zane lunges between the seats and points to the glove box. “There are napkins in there,” he grunts. “Unless you want me to bleed all over your new car.”

“Someone else’s new car,” I say mildly, lifting my chin at the glove box to let Adrian know it’s okay to get them. “You think I want to drive your old set of wheels?”

Adrian’s lip curls when he hands the napkins back, and Zane flinches at the hardness he catches in our soldier’s face.

I drive to Zane’s sister’s place without directions. I’ve already done my homework. My brother Dima, our bratva cell’s hacker, researches all our players. When Zane got in the hole with us, Dima went deeper. I have everything I need on Zane to wring him dry.

I know he and his sister had an upper middle-class upbringing. Their father was a stock broker who shot himself three years ago. They inherited little because it turned out the guy had a gambling problem. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in Zane’s case.

The one thing the dad hadn’t touched was his kid’s college fund, so Zane was still riding his privilege there. The sister is five years older and works for the top publicity firm in town.

I pull up in front of a brownstone building in a transitional neighborhood of Chicago. It is one of those up-and-coming hipster areas where old buildings are being gentrified, but there are still good deals to be found.

Zane gets out and punches a code in at the door, then leads us up three flights of stairs. “You have the key,” he mumbles at me. I hand him his keyring, and he finds the right one and pushes it in the lock.

The apartment is small but nice. Worn oak flooring, walls painted white except for the random accent in muted teal and plum. There are tastefully framed black and white art photos. Everything is relatively neat. I stop and pick up a framed picture of what looks like Zane’s high school graduation. He’s in his cap and gown, a young woman tucked under one arm.

“Is this Chelle?” The woman is much smaller than him, but they share the same facial features—the shape of their nose and mouth, their coloring.

“Leave her out of this,” Zane snarls.

I don’t comment. I have no intention of harming his sister, but I’m not above making him think I will. I learned the art of intimidation from Ravil, our pakhan. I know it’s more what you don’t say, what you merely imply, than what you really do. Let their imaginations run wild. Let them wonder how much we are actually capable of. The truth is, while we may operate on the wrong side of the law for many of our business operations, there’s still a code we live by. Harming innocent women isn’t something we do.

I bring the photo closer to my face to inspect it. Chelle is actually quite lovely. She’s petite—I doubt she’s much taller than five feet and everything about her is diminutive. Her dark brown hair cascades in long waves over her shoulders, and there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose. I can’t tell if it’s just the way the light hits her eyes in the photo, but her irises appear less hazel than Zane’s and more golden.

Zane’s gone to a filing cabinet in the small nook of the living room that she appears to use as an office and is rooting through it. “I mean it. Chelle has nothing to do with this.”

I’m glad Zane isn’t a complete douche. His desire to protect his sister from his foibles scores a few points with me.

“Did you find the title?”

Zane is tearing file folders out, rooting through them, and tossing them on the floor. Eventually, he stands. “Here it is.”

He limps over and thrusts the title under my nose.

“Sign it,” I instruct him.

“It will have to be notarized.”

I smirk. “I’ll take care of that.”

“Can you just keep it and give it back to me when I pay you off?”

“No. I need cash. Consider yourself lucky that I’m willing to handle this transaction for you. Me giving you full value is a fucking gift, so show some appreciation and get me the rest of my money.”

“I will, I will.” Zane picks up a pen and signs it over to me. I hold my palm out for the keys, and he unwinds the car key from the ring. “I’m sorry, man. I will get the rest of it.”

I pocket the key and drop a hand on his shoulder. “You are very smart. I know you can figure this shit out. I’ll expect another payment by next Friday, and if I don’t hear from you, we won’t be so kind as we were today.” I make a point of glancing back at the photo of his sister. “I wouldn’t mind involving Chelle in the next transaction. She looks like a hot one.”

Zane makes a choking sound, but we’re already making our exit.

He can find his own ride back to the dorms.

Chelle

“I need you to work on the media buys for these two new clients,” my boss, Janette, tells me, dropping two file folders on my desk at six o’clock.

There goes tonight’s spin class.

Despite my position as a glorified secretary, I’m grateful to be her assistant. As the founder and head of Image First Publicity, she’s a bad-ass publicist, turning her minority-owned business into a multiple seven-figure enterprise within three years.

That’s why I’m here long past five, when my day is supposed to end. I don’t leave until she does because I’m trying to prove I’m worthy of an assistant publicist position with my own accounts.

I love the job. I find publicity both fascinating and glamorous. I definitely have aspirations of running my own firm someday. But to do that, I have to work from the ground up, which means when Janette snaps, I run. Because this business is highly competitive and there are at least a dozen people at the firm who would kill for my job. So for the moment, I’m resigned to having no social life.

Which is fine since my last three Bumble dates were a total flop. I’m not missing much.

Except for sex.

I definitely miss sex.

A little physical pleasure now and then would be nice.

The problem is, I’m not the kind of person who can separate sex from a relationship. I don’t know how to date just for sex. I try to picture the guys I date in the vision of what I want my future life to be. It’s all very serious, and no one measures up, and I’m left using my fingers and vibrator instead of lowering my standards to have my needs met and then kicking the guy out the door in the morning.

“I will get them all arranged,” I promise Janette, who has stopped to lean her hip against my desk.

It’s a good sign. It means she’s winding down. When she pauses to actually make conversation I know she’ll be leaving soon.

“I have potential clients coming in from Madison next week. I need to wine and dine them—show them what’s special about Chicago. Any ideas on where to take them?”

“You could always do one of the skyrise restaurants overlooking the city.”

Janette wrinkles her nose. “Too stuffy. They’re young. It’s Skate 3—three Youtube skateboard stars who have monetized their popularity with an online store that’s grossing three hundred grand a month. So I need something more lively and hip. What’s new around Chicago for nightlife?”

I nibble the inside of my lip. “Let me think about it, and I’ll make you a list of possible options.”

Janette rewards me with a smile and a quick tap of her manicured fingers on my desk. “That would be great. I knew you’d have some ideas. You’re young and out on the scene more than I am.”

I don’t disabuse her of the notion that I actually have a social life. I mean, I would like to have a social life. I partied a little in college with my roommate Shanna. But after my dad’s suicide, I pretty much packed that side of me up and shoved her in a box.

These days my social life consists of going to happy hour on Wednesdays when Shanna works the bar and seeing my younger brother, Zane, once a week for dinner, except he’s flaked the last couple of weeks. I’m afraid he may be partying too much. His grades last semester were definitely down.

The thought of him ending up like my dad keeps me up at night.

I start straightening my desk, hoping I’ve read the signs right, and it’s okay to leave for the day.

Janette stands. “All right, I’m heading out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I shut down my computer and follow her out of the building, already starting to assemble the list of possible places she could take the clients in my head. By the time I’ve ridden the train home, I have a half-dozen ideas. I text them to myself as I walk the couple blocks to the place I rent.

When I push open the door of my apartment, I catch sight of my brother’s long body crashed out on my couch. Relief at seeing him is quickly replaced by concern.

“Zane? What’s up? Are you sick?”

It’s not completely unusual for him to be here. He comes by sometimes to do his laundry, but something feels off about him being here on a Friday night.

I catch sight of his face in the fading light and shriek. It’s been beaten. It’s swollen, almost unrecognizable.

“Oh my God! What happened to you?”

He groans.

“Zane?” I rush to his side, my heart thundering. “Oh my God. Should I call an ambulance? Who did this?”

The sense of dread coursing through my veins tells me I already suspect what happened. He’s into something bad. Dammit. I feared something like this was coming but kept trying to talk myself out of the worry.

“I ran into a couple guys’ fists.” Zane attempts to sit up, gasping at the effort.

“What. Happened?” I demand. I want the whole story. Whatever it is he’s been hiding from me for the past few months.

My brother is all I have in the world, and he’s my responsibility. I may only be five years older, but after our dad’s death, I became my brother’s guardian and the trustee of his college fund. I’m supposed to be taking care of him, and I’ve obviously screwed up, royally.

Tears burn my eyes. “Zane, tell me what’s going on,” I beg.

He winces as he draws a breath. “I owe some guys money,” he admits.

“What guys? Drug dealers?”

“No.”

It’s a tiny relief. He’s been so off lately that I’ve suspected he’s been using drugs recreationally.

“Bratva.”

“What?”

“They’re Russian mafiya. I got behind on my gambling debts.”

“Fuck, Zane.”

Goddammit. I knew it! I freaking knew it.

I stand up and start pacing. “How much do you owe them?”

“Probably around forty grand now. They took the Mustang today and said they’d wipe the full value off what I owe.”

“I seriously doubt that.” Loan sharks give notoriously bad terms. They aren’t going to give him full value for his car. “Who are these guys?” I repeat, even though he already told me.

“Russian mafiya.”

“Okay, so the forty grand is before or after the value of your car gets knocked off?”

“Before.”

I pace some more. “How did this happen?”

“I’ve been playing poker with them for a while. I used to win big. But… my luck turned,” he says, as if that explains or excuses being forty grand in debt to the Russian mob.

“Your luck turned,” I repeat in disbelief. “When did your luck turn? How long have you been accumulating this debt? I mean, is it one night’s worth, or—”

“A few months. They stopped letting me in a month ago because I was under water. I’ve been working on a plan but—”

I cock my head. “And that plan is?”

Zane doesn’t meet my eye. He gives a half-hearted shrug.

“So you don’t really have a plan?”

“No.”

“And how long did they give you to pay off this debt?”

He shrugs again. “They didn’t say. I guess today was a hurry-up warning.”

“A hurry-up warning.”

I go to the kitchen and wrap an ice pack in a towel and bring it to him. “I can’t believe this.”

He takes the ice pack but doesn’t put it on his swollen face. “I know.”

“I mean, after dad—” My voice cracks.

“I know.”

I can’t help it, the tears start falling. I snatch the ice pack from his hands and hold it to his bruised cheekbone, but he jerks away. “Zane, I can’t take this. It’s too much, okay? I couldn’t deal if something happened to you too.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he tries to placate me. “These guys aren’t that bad. I’m going to figure out how to get them the rest of their money, and I won’t play again. Okay?”

I sniff. “How?”

“I don’t know. Is there any way we could use the trust?”

“No,” I snap. I knew he’d ask me for that. “It’s for education expenses only. Do you know how lucky you are Dad left that intact when he died?”

“Okay, okay. Just checking.” He tries to get to his feet and falls to his knees instead.

“Fuck, Zane!” I lurch forward and catch his arm. “Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

2

Nikolai

The game is in full swing by eleven. We have a suite in a posh hotel where I have one table, seven players. I’m satisfied—the house has already made thirty grand, and I have a buyer lined up for Zane’s Mustang.

A knock sounds at the door, and I shoot a glance at my twin, Dima, who’s in town for the weekend, as I go to open it. Oleg flanks me, as my muscle. Dima reaches for the pistol in his waistband. We’re all more cautious since the incident with the Feds last month. Getting shot at one of my games isn’t the way I want to go. Dying young has been a possibility since the day my brother and I joined the bratva, but I’d rather go out in glory than from a pot-shot taken by a trigger-happy kid.

I crack the door to peer out.

“I’m here to see Nikolai,” a female voice announces.

“Oh, hell no,” I say, when I take in the small but mighty female standing outside. I recognize her from the photo at her apartment—Zane’s sister.

She preemptively thrusts her hand through the crack in the door before I can close it.

I may be a dick, but I’d never smash a woman’s fingers. I’m also not about to let her into the hotel suite to kill the vibe. I open the door enough to step outside, forcing her to back up into the hallway.

She’s adorably angry—all five foot two of her. Her chestnut hair is pulled up into a high, thick ponytail, and her golden eyes spark with fire. Bronze freckles dot her nose and cheekbones, matching the reddish lights in her hair.

Oleg looms in the doorway behind me, drawing her gaze, which I dislike for some reason.

“I’ve got this,” I murmur to him in Russian, leaving her in the dark about what I said, and Oleg retreats and shuts the door.

She puts her hands on her hips and raises her brows. “I’m Chelle Goldberg. Sister of the guy you put in the hospital today?”

“I know who you are,” I say mildly, advancing on her, just to see if she’ll retreat or hold her ground.

She holds her ground, which I find even more adorable.

“Tell me Zane did not give you the location for this game because that kid does not need another ass-kicking from me right now.”

“No,” she snaps, thrusting her chin up. “I saw the text message on his phone. While he was lying on a hospital bed.”

I roll my eyes. “Zane did not require a trip to the hospital, Freckles. The only thing the ER would do for him would be to hand out some pain meds, which a guy with substance abuse issues doesn’t need.”

That steals her thunder and her breath. She blinks at me, like my words gave her an unpleasant shock. A twinge of sympathy niggles in.

Does she seriously not know her brother has a drug problem?

Maybe she’s been in denial, and my saying it out loud made it real.

“Go home. Take the pain pills away from him. See if he’ll smarten up and get his shit together.”

“I came here to talk about Zane’s debt.” She’s lost some of her bluster. She meets my gaze but can’t hold it anymore.

I fold my arms across my chest. “So talk.”

She makes a show out of looking around. “Out here in the hallway?”

It’s comfortable as far as hallways go. Wallpaper and artwork and side tables with heavy pottery sitting on top.

“You’re not coming in here, doll. Not unless you brought cash.”

She clutches her purse tighter, like I’m about to rip it from her arm. “I came to find out exactly how much he owes. And to see if we could come to some kind of arrangement.”

Oh, Freckles, yes. I would definitely like to come to an arrangement with you.

The naked-tied-to-my-bed kind.

I let my interest show in my slow perusal of her body. She’s not curvy—in fact, she’s a bit on the angular side, but I find the whole package to be alluring. Something about her interested me the moment I saw her photo at her apartment. “What kind of arrangement?” My low rumble holds a seductive edge to it, and her body responds, her nipples protruding through her thin sweater.

She firms her jaw. “May I come in?”

Fuck. I definitely don’t want her in the suite. But for some reason, I’m finding it hard to deny her.

Against my better judgement, I open the door and usher her in.

Oleg immediately moves in to search her purse and pat her down, and I have to stifle the sharp rebuke that rises in my throat. He’s doing his job. Protecting me from getting shot again. I just don’t like his hands all over her.

She steals a quick glance at the game going on then produces a fat envelope from her purse after Oleg gives it back and hands it to me.

I take out the cash and count it. “Fifteen hundred off Zane’s debt,” I tell Dima, who is positioned with his laptop near us to record every time money changes hands.

He nods and types it in.

“Is that enough to keep you off his back for a few weeks?” she demands.

“No, bunny rabbit.”

Her eyes flash with annoyance at the pet name, but she doesn’t address it. “How much more does he owe?”

“He’s in forty grand to me right now.”

She makes a little huh sound. “You took ten grand off for the Mustang?”

I nod. “That’s the resale value.”

She digs in her purse again, and produces a set of keys. She unwinds a Toyota key from the ring. “Take my car. It should be worth at least another ten grand.” Her fingers tremble when she holds the key out to me.

I refuse to take it. “I’m not taking your car.”

She thrusts the key in my face and shakes it, the shaking growing more visible. Her lips tremble, too, although I suspect it’s with rage not fear. Certainly not tears. Chelle is a tough cookie, that much is obvious. “Take it,” she snaps. “You took Zane’s.”

“I’m not taking your car. You don’t deserve that. Have you considered the long-term consequences of always bailing your brother out?”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What?”

“Do you think Zane will learn his lesson if you keep making sacrifices to keep his nose unbroken?”

Her jaw drops. “So now I’m getting life-coaching from his fucking loan shark? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

I smirk. This woman is cute on wheels. I prop my shoulder against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “Believe it or not, I like your brother. Before he got his nose into the blow, he was a brilliant card player and an entertaining presence at my table. Now? He’s a douchebag, and he’s out of control. He needs help, but he’s not going to get it if you clean up his messes.”

“So you beat him up out of tough love? Was that it?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

I shrug again. “It’s a natural consequence when you stiff the bratva. There will be more if he doesn’t get his shit together soon.”

Some of her bravado fades, and I see uncertainty dance over her expression. I have to fight the urge to reassure her that I’m not going to dismember her brother. Part of the problem is that I let Zane think we were friendly. I may like the kid, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have to pay up, one way or the other.

“His other natural consequence is losing his wheels. But it shouldn’t be yours. You weren’t the one snorting coke and playing loose at my table.”

Her eyes brighten with tears, and she blinks them back. Swallows. “He’s using a motorcycle now. It belonged to my dad. You could go take that from him, too.”

“He can bring it to me,” I say smoothly.

“I’ll bring it—”

“Uh uh,” I interrupt. “Stay out of this. Zane can figure it out. He’s a smart kid.”

She stares at me for a moment then nods.

I open the door for her. “Don’t come back here again,” I say when she steps close to pass.

She stops and looks up at me. I have the irrational urge to count the freckles that dust her cheekbones. “Or what?” I see that flash of temper again. “You'll beat me up too?”

“You?” I raise my brows, then allow some of the heat she rouses in me to show in my gaze. “No, Freckles,” I murmur in a suggestive purr. “I'll pin your hands to the wall and spank that cute little ass of yours until I hear you beg.”

Her eyes dilate, berry lips part. “B-beg for what?” she asks.

I hold in my chuckle. “What would you beg me for, Chelle?”

She draws in a sharp breath. “You’re…”

I cock my head when she trails off, expecting an insult with expletives.

“Bold.”

My lips twist into a surprised smile. “And you’re interested.” I allow my gaze to drop to the peaked buds of her nipples showing through her sweater.

She looks, too, and flushes. Her gaze sweeps up my tattooed forearms and across my shoulder to land at my throat. The moment she manages to lift it enough to meet my gaze, electricity pulses between us.

My dick gets harder than stone. She freezes.

Oh, Zane. I just had the most wicked idea of how you can pay off your debt.

Except I don’t pay for sex. Nor do I allow it to be used as currency.

I have a personal rule about it just to keep things clean.

Besides, Adrian would probably try to put my head in a meat grinder if he did. He came to America to free his sister from human traffickers, a horrific chapter she’s still barely recovering from.

I watch as a tremor runs through Chelle’s small frame, but to my disappointment, it seems to shake her back to reality. She pushes past me and out into the hallway.

“Don’t come back,” I remind her.

She flips me the bird without turning as she walks away.

I stay in the doorway, watching her cute ass twitch as she walks, drinking in all that is Chelle Goldberg. Fiery, adorable, and very fuckable Chelle.

Damn.

I want her.

She’s lucky I had enough scruples to let her walk away.

Next time she might not be so lucky.

Chelle

I hit the elevator button eight times in four seconds, fully aware of Nikolai’s gaze setting my back on fire.

What just happened?

I’m reeling from the interaction.

The elevator door opens, and I launch into it. Of course, when I turn to push the button, Nikolai’s still standing there, watching me with amusement.

Damn him.

I just got my ass handed to me by a mobster. That much I sort of anticipated, but it was the way it went down that shocked me.

I expected Nikolai to be terrifying. I pictured gold teeth, chains around his neck, and a revolver pointed at my head—something like that. And he certainly does seem dangerous. But I didn’t expect the suave player persona. The good looks. The charm.

His arms are covered in tattoos, but he wore slacks and a nice dress shirt, open at the throat. No chains. Nice teeth. Perfect teeth, actually, and a Hollywood smile.

Nikolai is downright hot.