Fractured Souls: An Age Gap Forced Proximity Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 6)
Fractured Souls: Chapter 15

“Pasha, ma che fai?”

I look up from the spaghetti I was just going to place into the pot. Asya is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, staring at my hands in horror.

“You do not break spaghetti!” She walks around the island, shaking her head.

“They’re too long. Can’t fit into the pot,” I say.

“No, no, no, you can never do that.” She takes the spaghetti noodles out of my hands and throws them into the trash can in the corner. Then, heads to the cupboard, probably to get another package. She stiffens the moment she pulls the cabinet door open, her hand squeezing the handle as she stares at the bags of different pasta lined up on the top shelf. They are all different brands. I walk up and lift her free hand until it’s hovering right before the bags.

“Take your time,” I say next to her ear and let go of her hand.

Asya stares at the shelf. With her hand still hovering in midair, she bites her lower lip, then grabs the middle bag.

“I did it,” she says, squeezing the bag.

“You did.” I smile and place a kiss on the side of her neck.

She tilts her head, giving me more access.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“I never would have managed it without you.” She turns to face me. “You know that, don’t you?”

“You would have.”

“No. I probably wouldn’t.” She places her hand on the back of my neck, pulling me down for a quick kiss. “Thank you.”

She rushes around the kitchen, getting the pasta into the pot and the cheese out of the fridge. There’s a small smile on her lips, and I feel the warmth in my chest upon seeing it. I’m so fucking proud of her. It took weeks of practice to get to this point, and she’s doing considerably better. It may take us a little more time for us to be where she won’t need me to steer her toward the decision, but we’ll make it there eventually. Suddenly, panic replaces the warmth in my chest. Will she leave when she gets better? She probably will.

Asya

“I should be back shortly,” Pasha says as he walks inside the closet. “I need to sign some contracts and check if Kostya made another mess with the orders. If it happens to take more than two hours, I’ll call you.”

I look down at the phone in my hand. He went out yesterday, saying he had an errand to run, and came back half an hour later with a white paper bag. Inside was a brand-new phone and a pair of headphones. He said those are in case I wanted to listen to music.

I leave the phone on the nightstand and walk across the bedroom, stopping at the closet threshold. Pasha is standing in front of the shelf on the left, rummaging through a stack of T-shirts. I let my gaze dart to the rack on the right side where dozens of his suits and dress shirts are hung in perfect color order, from black to light gray. Biting down on my lower lip, I enter and approach it. Slowly, I reach for the hanger with a charcoal gray suit. My hand shakes as I touch the elegant fabric, taking the garment off the loop.

“I think you should wear this today,” I say and turn around to face him.

Pasha’s eyes fix on the suit I’m holding to my chest and then move up until our gazes connect. “Baby . . . I don’t . . .”

“Please.” I extend my hand, offering the outfit to him. “It’s you. I would never be scared of you, Pasha.”

He regards me with concern in his eyes, but reaches out and takes the suit from me. I offer him a small smile and walk toward the far end of the rack where his shirts are hanging. I slide my fingers across the hangers until I reach one of the white shirts, then take it off and return to Pasha. He lays the suit on the shelf and takes the shirt from my hand.

He slowly puts the shirt on, his eyes glued to my face the whole time as if he’s waiting for me to freak out. I’m certain that if he spots even the slightest trace of fear on my face, he’ll have the shirt off in a second. But he won’t see it. He will always be my Pasha, no matter what he wears.

Once he has the shirt buttoned, he waits a few moments before reaching for the pants and putting them on. Finally, he grabs the jacket.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod and smile. When he gets the jacket on, I reach out and straighten his lapels.

“One more thing,” I say and turn to open the drawer behind me.

A variety of silk neckties in multiple colors are rolled and stuffed in small compartments within the drawer. My eyes skim over them until I replace one that’s the same shade as his suit. As I extend my hand to take it out, an image of me restrained on the bed flashes through my mind. My hand falters just above the tie. I push the memory away, replacing it with thoughts of Pasha. Pasha embracing me in bed, stroking my back. Pasha moving the cereal box closer to my hand, encouraging me to make a choice. Pasha carrying me safely home even though I was dirty and smeared in oil. Pasha washing my hair. Pasha kissing me. I wrap my fingers around the silky material, take the tie out, and turn around.

“Can I . . . can I put it on you?” I choke out.

He doesn’t say anything, just bends and cups my face in his palms. There’s a strange look in his eyes as they bore into mine—a mix of concern and wariness but there’s awe, too. And pride.

I drape the tie around his neck and begin making the knot, looping the wide part over the thin one. My fingers are trembling, and the fabric slips from my grasp. I take a deep breath, pick up the loose end, and resume my work. When I’m finally done, I let go of the tie and look up. That’s when I become aware that Pasha is still holding my face.

“You are the strongest person I know,” he says and presses his mouth to mine.

The kiss is gentle as if he’s afraid I’ll get scared. I might be broken, but what’s left of me is desperately in love with him. I don’t want him to hold back on me. I don’t want gentle. I want all of him. I fling my arms around his neck and jump, clinging to him as if he were a tree. His hold on me is instantaneous, supporting me while I pull down his face and bite his lip. Hard.

“I want you to make love to me,” I say into his mouth. “And I don’t want you to hold back.”

“Okay, mishka,” he says between kisses. They’re still delicate.

“Pasha.” I squeeze the hair at the back of his head. “No holding back. I need you not to hold back. Promise me.”

“Asya, baby, I don’t want to—”

I press my finger over his lips. “I don’t want to feel broken when I’m with you. So, I need you to treat me as if I’m not. Give me everything you have. Please. Promise me.”

Pasha’s arms tighten around my waist. “I promise,” he says and crushes his mouth to mine.

It’s a whirlwind of hard, fast kisses and bites. Clashing teeth and dueling tongues. We are a tangled mess of lips and limbs. He’s holding me so tightly pressed against his body that I’m certain no tidal force in the universe could tear us apart. And I’m marveling at every second of it.

A melody pops into my mind and plays in the background as we attack each other’s lips in a frenzy. “In the Hall of the Mountain King” by Grieg. My arms around his neck tighten. We don’t stop kissing as he carries me to the bedroom until we reach the bed.

“I need to take off my clothes,” he says into my mouth and lowers me to the bed.

I nod, reluctantly releasing my hold of him. He removes his jacket first and lets it fall to the floor. The tie is next. I see the concern in his eyes as he reaches for it. Leaning forward, I brush the back of my fingers down his cheek. “You promised.”

The tie falls down, too. His shirt and pants follow and, soon, he’s standing in front of me completely naked. My mountain king.

Getting closer I press my lips to his. “Now, please help me take off mine.”

Pavel

I take a deep breath and circle my hands around Asya’s waist. It doesn’t matter what I promised. I can’t make myself do anything that may lead to triggering her trauma, even if it means going back on my word. Focusing on her face, I hook my fingers in the waistband of her sweatpants and start pulling them down, inch by agonizingly slow inch. If I notice even a speck of distress, we’re stopping. Then, I slide my palms up her legs, over her panties, and pull up on the hem of her top. She smiles and lifts her arms, shaking out her dark hair as the shirt comes free of her body. Unclasping the bra, Asya tosses it to the floor and stands in front of me, clad only in her panties. She tries to make herself look unfazed, but I see the restrained terror in her eyes. And also, the fierce determination to show me that she won’t cave, no matter what I say. I caress her face and lean forward until we’re nose to nose.

“You are the purest thing I’ve ever touched in my life,” I say holding her gaze, “and I will never, ever hurt you.”

“I know,” she utters, then places her palms over mine and lowers herself onto the bed, pulling me down with her.

“Grab my hair, mishka.”

Her right hand moves to the back of my head, fingers threading through the strands.

“Good. Now I need you to promise something,” I say.

“What?”

“Even the smallest discomfort, you pull, and I’ll stop.”

“I promise.”

I kiss her lips, along her chin, and down her neck. My cock is so hard it hurts, but I ignore it and continue peppering her body with kisses. Her small hand, arm, shoulder, across her collarbones to the other arm. I am going to erase every single evil touch she’s had on her skin with my lips. When I reach her panties, I halt for a moment, waiting to see if she’ll stop me. She doesn’t. I trail a line of kisses from her midriff down, over her still-covered pussy, and back up to her stomach. Asya’s free hand slides to the lacy material and pushes it down. I drop a kiss on the back of her hand, then take the sides of her panties and slowly pull them off.

“I will never hurt you.” I lean forward and capture her slightly trembling lips with my own. “Hair, baby.”

She takes a deep breath and takes a hold of my hair again.

“Never,” I repeat, leaving a path of kisses from her neck all the way to her sex.

When I slide my tongue over her pussy, Asya’s breathing picks up. I keep licking, then add my thumb and start massaging her clit. A small sound of pleasure leaves her lips, and I feel her wetness on my face. I quicken my licks and keep teasing her with my finger until I’m sure she’s close, and then I suck on her clit. Asya arches her back and moans while the tremors pass through her body. Carefully, I lower myself over her, but keep most of my weight on my elbows. Her eyes flutter open, and our gazes connect.

“Yes,” she answers my unspoken question and widens her legs a bit more.

I position my cock at her entrance, then slowly begin sliding inside. It’s hard to hold back because the need to lose myself within her is overwhelming, but I keep my pace steady, half an inch at a time. And I don’t break our eye contact the entire time.

Her breaths are coming fast, and her eyes are wide, but her grip on my hair doesn’t waver. Once I’m fully inside, she gasps, her lips spreading into a smile. And then, the hold on my hair loosens and vanishes completely.

“Now, I need you to keep your promise,” she says and kisses the side of my jaw. “I need you to treat me as if I’m not broken.”

“You are you, mishka.” I pull out, pause, and slowly slide back in. “Absolutely perfect . . .” I retreat, then slide inside again, but a little faster. “Just the way you are.”

It’s almost impossible to restrain my impulses, but I rein myself in and adjust the tempo so it builds slowly, making every thrust just a little bit faster and harder than the previous one. Asya’s legs wrap around me, and she tilts her chin up, staring into my eyes.

“Prove it to me,” she digs her nails into the skin of my arms. “Give me everything.”

My control snaps in an instant. I bury myself in her to the hilt. Her body starts trembling under me.

“More,” she chokes out.

I pull out and immediately thrust back inside, bottoming out in her heat.

“Faster!”

Grabbing the back of her neck, I pound into her—fast and hard—the sight of her flushed face etched forever on my mind. The bedframe creaks beneath us. I hook my fingers behind her knee, raising her leg and opening her more so I can slide in deeper. Asya’s hands squeeze my arms, then move up to wrap behind my neck, pulling my head down for a kiss. I consume her lips like a starved man, taking more and more while rocking into her.

A moan escapes from Asya’s delicate throat. I pull out completely and just watch her for a moment before slamming back inside. Her pussy spasms around my cock while her hot breath fans my face. She cries out as she comes. Hearing the sounds of her pleasure and seeing her come apart under me sends a jolt to my system, and I explode with a groan the very next moment.

Asya

I’m in the room with the red drapes again. The heavy scent of male cologne clings to the air. My hands are tied to the headboard, and a huge male body looms above. Droplets of stinky sweat fall from his forehead onto my breasts. Pain spreads through my whole being as he thrusts into me again and again. I scream.

“Shh. It’s just a dream,” Pasha’s deep voice says into my ear. “You’re safe.”

The panic recedes and extinguishes completely when he pulls me closer toward him, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist. I don’t have nightmares that often anymore, but when I do, they are bad.

“Are you okay?” Pasha asks and places a kiss on my shoulder.

I flip around so I’m facing his naked inked chest. The lamp by the nightstand is on but dimmed, throwing a soft yellow light onto the black and red shapes. I reach out to stroke the line of a skull bathed in blood. It’s one of many. There must be at least ten different skulls on his chest alone. The rest of the tattoos are of similarly disturbing scenes.

Most men in the Cosa Nostra have some ink. Even my brother has a full sleeve tattoo. But I don’t think I know anyone who has their entire upper body tattooed like Pasha.

“Why so many?” I ask.

“Everyone has a different way of coping with the shit life throws at them. This was mine.”

“What kind of shit?”

Pasha looks down at me and places the tip of his finger on the corner of my lips. “Abandonment. Low self-esteem. Loneliness,” he answers, then looks away. “Humiliation. Hunger.”

I blink at him in confusion. It’s obvious he has money. His watch costs at least twenty grand.

“It wasn’t always like this for me,” he says, guessing my thoughts. He looks down at me again and traces his finger over my eyebrow. “I was left on the doorsteps of a church when I was three. The earliest memory I have is of a woman leading me up the steps to a big brown door and telling me to stay there. Then she left. It was probably my mother, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember what she looked like. I don’t remember anything prior to those five stone steps and the brown door.”

I slide my palm across his chest and examine the design on his left pec. It shows a dark double door. Thick black vines wrap around it several times as if to keep it shut. The details are amazing; the images are almost photo quality.

“You did that?” I point to the design.

“Yes. As well as most of the rest. Except for the ones on my back and other places I couldn’t reach.”

“Can I see those?”

He turns so his back is to me. Skulls again. Snakes. Lots of red. Spiders. Some strange, winged creatures. The style is similar to those on his front and arms, but they don’t look as good as those he did himself.

“A jail buddy did those for me,” he adds and turns back to face me.

My head snaps up and I stare at him. “You were in jail?”

“A couple of times.”

“What for?”

“Police often raided the clubs where the underground fights were held. The charges varied from disturbing the peace to assault. I did four months for that last one.”

“But you’re so levelheaded. You even organize your T-shirts by color.”

He smiles at me. “I organize everything by color, mishka.”

I reach out and brush the side of his face with the tip of my finger. Such a hard-looking man. Yes, looks can be so deceiving, because his rough exterior hides an amazingly beautiful soul. How can someone who experienced the things he did have a heart as big as his? Is it big enough to include me, too? I lean forward and kiss him. The moment our lips touch, my soul begins to sing.

For as long as I can remember, I have associated music with the feeling of joy. Whenever I was feeling down or scared, I’d play the piano Arturo bought me. Sometimes, I played for hours until sadness or fear was replaced with joy. Right now, it seems that my relationship with music has transformed. I don’t need to play anymore to feel better. I just need to be close to him, to my Pasha, and the melody fills me.

“How old were you when you started fighting?” I ask.

“Eighteen.”

“Were you good?”

Pasha laughs into my lips. “Not in the beginning. The first few months, I got the shit kicked out of me.”

“But you kept doing it?”

“The money was good. And as I got better, I earned larger sums. So I practiced every day and made sure I was the best I could be.”

“So it was all about the money?”

“At first, yes,” he says as he traces my chin with his finger, “but there was something . . . primal that rose within me when I heard people cheering and yelling my name. I got addicted to it, in a way. It was very fulfilling. Well, for a period of time, at least. I was twenty-three when I joined the Bratva. I can’t believe it’s been over ten years.”

“So you went from a fighting ring to an upscale club. It’s a big change.”

“I started as a soldier. Sometimes running errands, but most of the time, I was sent to collect debts. I’d never even held a gun back then, so Yuri had to teach me how to shoot before I could be given more serious assignments.”

“Do you like it? Running a nightclub?

“Two clubs, actually. I’m at Ural most of the time. It’s a bigger one. The second club, Baykal, is mostly used to launder money. But yes, I like it.”

I lean my head on his chest and stroke the inked skin of his stomach. “I’ve never been to a club. The New York Family isn’t involved in the entertainment business, so Arturo only let me and Sienna go to bars owned by someone within the Cosa Nostra. And even that was rare.”

“Why?”

“He was scared that something would happen to us. Sienna always wailed about how paranoid he was. I guess he was right to be.”

Pasha’s hold on me tightens, and he strokes my back.

“How does it feel?” His voice is soft, almost reverent.

“What?”

“To have a family. Someone who’ll stay with you, no matter what. Even if you make a mistake. Even when you’re angry. Someone who’ll be in your corner even when they know you’re wrong. To have someone who is . . . yours?”

The look in his eyes . . . I can’t describe it. Longing. Hunger. And so much sadness.

“It’s like warmth,” I whisper.

“Warmth?”

“Yes. When you replace yourself in a frigid, raging storm, they are the people who will do anything to make sure you don’t get cold. They will wrap their arms around you, shield you, surround you in their own warmth while the icy wind beats on their backs.”

“Is your family like that?”

“Sometimes, Sienna and Arturo are hard to deal with. The three of us have very different personalities. But yes. They are both like that.”

“Will you tell me about them?”

“Sienna is . . . a force of nature. She’s loud. Outspoken. One moment, she would be laughing like crazy, and the next, she’d be crying her eyes out.” A nostalgic smile spreads across my lips. “Sienna loves to pretend that she’s shallow. She posts a gazillion photos on social media, wearing ridiculous clothes that usually make people think she’s a bit whacky. Sometimes, she gives them the impression that she’s not very bright.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.” I reach out and trace the line of his brow with my finger. “My sister is the most intelligent person I know, but instead of doing something with her amazing mind, she’ll just . . . fool around. The only thing that truly interests her is her writing.”

“What does she write?”

“She’s never shown me.” I smile. “But I snuck a peek at some of her notebooks when we were younger. They were hidden in a box under her bed. She writes romance novels.”

“Romance novels?” Pasha raises his eyebrow. “Is she good?”

“Yeah. Very good. Sienna has a thing with words. Other than English and Italian, she can speak four other languages. And she learned them on a whim.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone learning a language on a whim.”

“My sister learned basic Japanese in a month, all on her own, just because a boy from school called her stupid.” I laugh. “She was fourteen at the time.”

Pasha smiles, but his eyes stay sad. “That’s quite the talent. Most people would be hard-pressed to learn and speak one foreign language, never mind five. I don’t like speaking Russian. I understand it completely, but I almost never converse in it.”

“I’ve noticed.” I lean forward and press my lips to his. “Why?”

“Because I have an English accent if I do. None of the kids at the foster homes or schools spoke Russian, so during that time I kind of . . . just forgot it, I guess.” He nips at my lip. “What about your brother?”

“Arturo is like all older brothers. Just a hundred times worse.”

“Protective?”

“To a point of driving me insane. He was twenty when our parents died, so he took on their role.”

“You didn’t have any other family members?”

“We had an aunt. Dad’s half sister. She offered to take me and Sienna in, to live with her. Arturo said no.” I shake my head. “I’m worried about him. I think, something flipped in his mind when our mom and dad were killed, and he focused all his attention, outside of his work, on the two of us. He’s thirty-three, but he’s never brought a woman to our house. I know he had several relationships; we even met some of his girlfriends. But none of them have set a foot in our home. I think he was so focused on raising us that he actually forgot he’s not really our parent.”

“Why don’t you want to call him? It’s obvious he loves you.”

“Because I love him, too,” I whisper. “At first, I thought he wouldn’t be able to get over what happened to me. So, I didn’t want to call him.”

“And now?”

“Now, I don’t want to call because I know how much he’ll hurt if he learns the truth. Arturo will put two and two together, even if I don’t tell him everything. He’ll blame himself. I can’t allow that. He has enough on his shoulders, and he’s shielded me from enough storms in my life.” As I say this, something else crosses my mind. “There was a girl. At Dolly’s place. I think she may have been Russian. She was brought in about a month after they took me, but she disappeared a few days before I got away.”

His palm stills on my back. “Do you remember her name?”

“Rada, or something like that. I’m not sure. Why?”

“Could it have been Ruslana?”

My head snaps up. “Yes. It was Ruslana. Do you know her?”

“She was the daughter of one of the Bratva’s soldiers.”

“Was?”

“Her body was found around the time you escaped. A day or two earlier, I think.”

I shudder and bury my face in the crook of his neck. She couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than me.

“Will you be in trouble because you didn’t go to the club tonight?” I ask, trying not to think about the girl with a long blonde braid and how it easily could have been me.

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Can I come with you?” I ask.

A kiss lands on the crown of my head. “Of course.”