Prince of the Brotherhood: A Mafia Romance Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by K. Alex Walker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  For more information, address:

  K. Alex Walker

  ZachEvans Creative LLC

  1101 East Cumberland Avenue

  Ste 201H-93513

  Tampa, FL 33602

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be assumed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Dom glanced at the door, which Nikolai had left slightly ajar. Suddenly, he was fumbling the cigar. It nearly fell to the floor, and it would have burned a hole through the massive, fifteen-thousand dollar area rug.

  “Are you all right, Dom?” Yuri asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Dom squashed the end of the cigar against the platter on his father’s desk, set it down, and stepped out into the hallway. Her back was turned to him, and although she wore a silky, high-necked, long-sleeved blouse and wide-leg black pants—another requirement set in place by Ekaterina—he knew that body. Her hair was tucked into a bun, but he knew that hair. That scent, that jawline, those fingers…he’d dreamed about them.

  He walked up behind her, wrapped his fingers around her neck, and pushed her face-first against the wall.

  Prince of the Brotherhood

  The International Mafia Series - Book I

  K. Alex Walker

  Sage Hill Publishing

  To all the lovely authors and readers I had a chance to meet at IRAE. Thank you for helping a girl genetically predisposed to awkwardness feel like she fit in somewhere.

  I’d like to especially thank Phoenix, S.K., Kassanna and Olivia. Phoenix, I adore your personality, and you called me your sister. S.K., you are sweet and beautiful and gave me the most genuine and wonderful welcome. Kassanna, you called me “baby” and made me feel loved. And Olivia, you called me “punkin” and made me feel cherished.

  I went back to my hotel room and cried (good tears!!) because there’s a little, lonely girl I often keep hidden inside who’s waited her entire life for moments just like these.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by K. Alex Walker

  Acknowledgments

  More From K. Alex

  Chapter 1

  “Your eyes are poisonous.”

  Dominik Sokolov tore his attention away from the reflection in the stacked glasses on the bar’s tile countertop to find the woman behind it staring at him.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Your eyes.” She swirled a rag inside a stem glass with a deep bowl. “They remind me of mercury, which is poisonous.”

  He’d been on the island of Grenada for the last three months, and he didn’t think he would ever get used to that accent. Everyone who spoke, it was like a melody as opposed to the rougher, more abrasive Russian spoken in his home country.

  “Oh.”

  He returned his attention returned to the glasses.

  His father, at least, hadn’t deviated from the type of goons he usually kept around. The minute Dom had walked into the small beach hut overlooking the Atlantic, he’d known these two men were there for him. Though he’d left Moscow to live with his aunt in the U.S. when he was sixteen, he still knew his people, and he especially knew Yuri Sokolov’s people. But it wasn’t like he could stay away forever. He was the son of the head of the Bratva. Russia would always find him and bring him home.

  “You are on a tropical paradise,” the bartender continued, leaning over the bar counter, her already decent-sized breasts swelling larger in the bikini top. “Maybe try to look like you’re having a good time? You’re too handsome to be sulking, friend.”

  Dom studied her. Really studied her. She worked at the resort. He’d seen her before, on multiple occasions. She was the one who’d come in to make sure his room was to his liking his first day there, and when she wasn’t tending bar, she walked around in crisp white collared shirts, black pencil skirts, and low-heels to ensure all the guests were satisfied with their accommodations. The one thing that had remained constant between both roles was the bright red lipstick that stretched and accentuated her pretty white teeth when she smiled.

  “Look, I appreciate the compliment,” he began, “but I’m not really up for…you know.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Up for what?”

  “I mean, you’re a beautiful woman.” Very beautiful, in fact. “But, I’m just here to relax.”

  “Hmm.” She leaned back and folded her arms across those plump breasts. “Well, no offense, but I work here, and you’ve only ordered one drink since you sat down. It’s either I flirt with you to get you to order more, or I boot you from my bar so a paying customer can have a seat.”

  A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. I’ll order something else. What do you recommend?”

  “Do you like fruity drinks?”

  He tipped up his left brow. “Do I look like a man who likes fruity drinks?”

  “You look like a man with poisonous eyes.”

  “Rum.” He tapped the bottom of his empty glass on the bar top. “Give me something with lots of rum.”

  She nodded, turned around, and her taut arms flailed as she mixed. For someone who worked in administration and bar-keeping, she had an excellent back. Then again, since he’d been here, he’d walked most places. Every once in a while, he took a taxi or a minibus, but most of what he’d needed had been within walking distance of the resort.

  When she worked inside, she kept her hair back in a tight bun.

  Today, it was out. Free. Wild.

  Curls and coils sprung from her scalp with splashes of chocolate and golden highlights spread throughout. The curls and coils framed her face, a crinkled set of bangs falling slightly over her forehead, and the colors popped against her complexion.

  “One of sour,” she turned around and placed the drink in front of him, “two of sweet, three of strong, and four of weak.”

  He stared at the pink-orange concoction. “What is it?”

  “Rum punch, Grenada-style. Try it.”

  He took a sip, and the alcohol slapped him across the face. “Damn. That’s…is it always this strong?”

  “You said lots of rum.”

  “Caribbean rum isn’t normal rum.”

  She smiled and looked behind his head at the water. Since she was distracted, he followed the trail of her brown skin down to those full breasts, her stomach with a sprinkle of sweat that created an enticing sheen, and the colorful wrap she’d tied at the hip.

  “You have a beautiful accent,
by the way,” he said, taking another sip of the drink.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she met his eyes, “you’re a good-looking man, but—”

  “All right. I deserved that.” Laughing, he held out his hand. “Andrei.”

  She shook his hand, studying him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t look like an Andrei.”

  “Well, what’s your name?”

  “Emerald.”

  He studied her the same way. “You don’t look like an Emerald.”

  “Maybe it’s not my name, but a girl can never be too careful.”

  Not that he believed anybody on the island knew what the name Dominik Sokolov meant, and those who had been sent to collect him thought he was someone who’d betrayed Yuri. Why make things easier on the Bratva, INTERPOL, or any other organization that either wanted to abduct him or had a red dot on the back of his skull?

  She tipped her chin at the drink. “You like it?”

  “It’s…pretty good.”

  “Well, I didn’t get this job because I know how to tie my shoelaces.”

  He drew a longer sip, eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

  He took a glance at it for reference. Her lips were full, and there was a dimple high on her chin, to the left of her mouth, when she smiled.

  The number of beautiful women he’d seen or come across meant he should have been fucking his entire time on the island, but knowing his father was looking for him, it was hard to trust anyone. The more beautiful they were, the more dangerous they could be.

  A customer walked up, and she left him to take their order. Dom looked over, and it was one of the men Yuri had sent. One clothed in scars. He had his fair share, but they looked like they could have come from fighting, childhood, or the military. This man, with his head tattoos and marked up face, screamed organized crime.

  “You’ve got a set of tits on you,” the man said, his accent so pronounced, Dom wasn’t initially certain whether the man had spoken Russian or English. “What are you doing later? Me, I hope.”

  Emerald turned away from the man without a response.

  “Hey,” the man rapped on the countertop using his knuckles, “I’m talking to you.”

  “Leave her alone,” Dom warned. “There are beautiful women everywhere. Find somebody else to fuck with.”

  Their eyes met, and a message was silently exchanged: “Make this easy, so no one dies.”

  Someone would die, but it wouldn’t be him.

  “Emerald” finished preparing the drink and slid it toward the scarred Russian. The man tipped the glass at her, shot Dom one last look, and left.

  She scanned the beachfront and, spotting no new customer requests, returned to stand in front of him.

  “Thanks, Andrei.”

  “No problem.”

  “Feel like another drink?”

  “Yes.” He tipped his head in a firm nod. “But not here.”

  The confident smile she’d worn since he noticed her faltered. “Where, then?” she asked.

  “Out.” He finished the rum punch. “Just the two of us.”

  “What did I put in that drink that made you go from not being interested in anything to wanting to go out, just the two of us. Are you a killer?”

  Now that made him smile.

  “Do I look like a killer?”

  “No, but you don’t look like an Andrei either. The name, is it American?”

  “I have no idea. My mother was one of those eccentric types. If the mood had struck her, she would have given me a Korean name.”

  She laughed. Like her accent, it carried a melody.

  “Now,” he leaned toward her, “how do you pronounce your name?”

  She did the same, folding her arms on the bar top, dropping her voice to a whisper. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m staying at this resort. I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve seen me? It’s not the first time I’ve seen you.”

  Her eyes made slight movements, scanning his face. “No. It’s not. I make it a point to know all our guests.”

  “I’ve been wanting to know how it’s pronounced since I got here.”

  “Where did you see my name?”

  “You wrote it on a napkin for a man I’ve been jealous of ever since.”

  Red hair, beard, tall. The kind of man she didn’t need to waste her time fucking.

  “And you have been with us for how long now?” she asked.

  “Three months, but I didn’t want to ask at the time and make you think I’m hitting on you.”

  One thing was clear—the woman had no issues with eye contact. If she hadn’t gone into resort management, she would have made a hell of a police detective.

  Her voice lowered even further. “And now?”

  “Oh, I’m definitely hitting on you now.” He grinned. “So…dinner?”

  “I thought it was drinks.”

  “The more you talk, the more I like you.”

  She looked away again, over his shoulder, at the beachfront. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I take you to see my Grenada, not the watered-down, beach resort version.”

  “I’m down for that.”

  A large, loud group of customers approached, and her chest and shoulders moved with a deep sigh.

  “Meet me in the lobby at eight tonight,” she said. “And it’s pronounced ‘Asia.’”

  He slid off the bar stool. “Pretty. I’ll see you tonight, Eija.”

  Chapter 2

  Eija Barrett tightened the sarong wrap draped around her waist. She had exactly one hour to shower, dress, and meet the man from the bar downstairs. Her hair alone would take a half-hour, so the fact that she wasn’t anywhere near her room didn’t help.

  But she couldn’t waste this opportunity.

  All their intel had pointed to the prince of the Bratva, Dominik Sokolov, hiding out in the Caribbean. Luckily for her, he’d chosen to hide out on the island where her parents had been born and where she’d spent seventeen years of her life.

  No one knew what Dominik looked like, but they knew what his father, Yuri Sokolov, looked like. They knew what Yuri’s wife, Ekaterina, and their other children looked like. So, they’d used the information to compile a profile which perfectly matched the golden-haired companion of the tattooed piece of shit who’d hit on her at the bar. But Mr. Head Tatts wouldn’t be a problem as she’d laced his drink with enough sedative to leave him comatose on a lounge chair on the beach.

  She sauntered down the corridor that led to Dominik’s suite with a stack of towels on her palm, stopping in front of the door. Just as she was getting ready to call out, the door opened. Although she was holding towels, she kept them low to frame her breasts. Dominik’s dark eyes immediately fell to them, and he tucked his blond hair behind one ear.

  Up close, he looked younger. Intel had put the Bratva protégé between twenty-five and thirty-two years of age, and she’d been expecting the older side of the spectrum. Twenty-five seemed too young to lead an entire criminal organization, but Yuri was getting ready to pass the torch. A transition of power was often a country, organization, or nation’s most vulnerable time period.

  “You requested fresh towels, sir?” She played up her accent and smiled. “I’m sorry. I also tend bar to help out, and I didn’t get a chance to change before I came up. Please excuse my unprofessionalism.”

  His accent seeped from his mouth like tar. “It’s okay. I remember you from downstairs.”

  She held out the towels.

  “Here you are.”

  “You want to put them inside? You can put them wherever you like.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The room had been registered under the name Yevgeny Arbenin, a character from a Russian play from the mid-1800s. It was why their team believed Sokolov knew they were watching him and that they were closing in—Yuri could have used a traditional name, but he’d chosen one from a play reminiscent of Othello. They just
weren’t sure who, in Yuri’s mind, played the role of Iago.

  Eija stepped inside, stopped in the middle of the room, and turned around.

  “Where would you like them?”

  “Anywhere is fine.” Dominik pointed to the other side of the suite. “In the bathroom closet, maybe? That would make the most sense.”

  She sent him another smile, deposited the towels, and returned to find him leaning against a wall, staring at the doorway.

  “Where is your friend? The one with all the…” She drew a circle around her head.

  He laughed. “The tattoos on his scalp? Passed out drunk on the beach. He thinks he’s a Viking.”

  “His tattoos, they look painful.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Oh, no.” She covered her mouth, giggling. “It isn’t my type.”

  “What is your type, then? Maybe tall, blond hair, and with a Russian accent?”

  “What do you…” She giggled again. “Oh. I get it. Well, compared to your friend, you are more my type. Russia certainly has some good-looking men.”

  “The women here are so beautiful,” he said. “You are so beautiful. How can you stand it?”

  “Stand what?”

  “Not being able to walk two steps without a marriage proposal?”

  She dropped her gaze to his mouth. “If all the women here are beautiful, doesn’t that make me average?”