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

I wake up to the feeling of fingers combing through my hair. Pasha is lying on the bed next to me, still wearing the same clothes he had on the previous evening.

“When did you get back?” I ask.

“Five minutes ago,” he says and continues stroking my hair. “I need to show you a photo of someone.”

“Okay.” I nod. He’d already shown me photos of more than a dozen men the other day, asking if I recognize anyone, but none of them seemed familiar.

Pasha releases my hair and reaches behind him to take his phone off the nightstand. I take the phone when he holds it out to me and look down at the screen. The image is of a man suspended upside-down from a ceiling. I can’t make out his face too much, so I zoom in. The phone nearly slips from my hand.

“Is this him? The one who took you?” Pasha asks. His voice is strained as if he’s speaking through gritted teeth.

I swallow the bile that has suddenly risen up my throat. “Yes.”

Pasha nods and takes the phone from my hand. He grasps my chin between his fingers, tilting my head up until our gazes meet. “We’ve got all the names. Everyone who was involved. The Bratva will deal with the rest of their organization, but I told Pakhan that this one is mine.” He leans forward and presses his forehead to my own. “You said you wanted to watch.”

“What?”

“Him, dying. Slowly. As I cut him piece by little piece.”

I look into his gray eyes as they stare back at me and take his face between my palms. “Yes.”

Pasha nods. “I’m going to shower and change. And then we’ll leave.”

* * *

It’s a two-hour drive west of the city to a rundown house that’s not much more than a shed. Pasha parks the car and turns toward me, taking my hand in his.

“If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll drive you back,” he says. “It’s okay if you can’t handle seeing that motherfucker again. I’ll come back tonight and take care of him.”

I look through the windshield at the house. The man who destroyed my life and messed up my mind is beyond that wooden door. Panic started brewing the moment I saw his image on Pasha’s phone and multiplied tenfold during the drive here. The idea of seeing him again makes me sick, but I need this. I need vengeance. Maybe seeing him die will help me get myself back.

“I’m ready,” I say.

The first thing I notice when Pasha opens the door of the house is the stench, a mix of vomit and piss. It’s so foul, I barely manage not to immediately empty the contents of my stomach. It’s dark inside. The windows are covered with shaggy drapes or nailed-on boards, and the only illumination is from the sunlight coming through the open door. I follow Pasha as he takes two steps to the left, squeezing his hand with all my might. There is a click when he flicks on the light. It’s a small sound, barely audible, but in my head, it reverberates like an explosion. I want to turn around and look the asshole in the face, but I can’t make myself move.

“It’s okay, mishka.” Pasha wraps his arms around me and presses my face into his chest. “He can’t hurt you anymore. And I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.”

I inhale deeply, savoring Pasha’s scent. It’s the scent of safety. And love. It would be so easy to ask him to kill the son of a bitch for me. But deep inside, I know I need to play this tune myself.

“Do you have a gun?” I mumble into Pasha’s chest and feel him go still.

“Yes.”

“Can I have it? Please.”

His hold on me loosens, and his hands travel up my arms until they reach my face.

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll make sure he suffers.”

I lift my hand and cup his cheek. My Pasha. Always ready to fight my battles for me. “Please.”

He closes his eyes for a second, reaches into his jacket, and takes out a gun. “Do you know how to shoot?”

“No.”

“Okay. Hold it like this.” He places the weapon in my hand and moves my fingers to the correct position. “The safety is on. When you’re ready, you switch it off. Here. You need to hold the gun tightly. This one has a bit of a recoil.”

I stare at the handgun. It’s heavy. Much heavier than I expected. I swallow and turn to face the man who ruined my life.

He’s still in the same position as I saw in the photo. His feet are tied to the beam above, his arms are dangling. Something is wrong with them, however. They hang at an unnatural angle. It’s hard to believe this is the same man I met at the bar. His dirty clothes are torn in several places. Dried blood is smeared over the exposed parts of his body, staining his shirt, and the floor below. His eyes are closed and one side of his face is swollen. He’s not moving. I’d think he’s dead already, but I can see his chest rising and falling.

I’ve imagined this moment so many times. Dreamed about making him pay for every fucking second of my pain. I thought that if I ever got the opportunity to avenge myself, I would want him to suffer as I did. But now, seeing him like this, I just want it to be over.

I cover the distance between us in quick steps until I’m standing right in front of him. His head is level with my chest, and the foul smell is even worse up close.

“I hope you burn in hell,” I choke out and spit into his face. Robert’s eyes flutter open, meeting mine. I flip the safety switch and press the barrel to the bridge of his nose.

And pull the trigger.

Pavel

A loud bang erupts through the room.

I wrap my left arm around Asya’s middle, pulling her out of the way so the dead man’s body won’t hit her when it swings back. I don’t think she even noticed me standing right behind her. I take the gun out of her hand, sliding the safety on, and carry her out of the house.

When we reach the car, I throw the gun onto the back seat and lower Asya to the ground, turning her to face me. Her hand and the sleeve of her yellow coat are covered in blood spatter. I unbutton and take the coat off her, throwing it onto the back seat, as well. Then, I pull off my own jacket and manage to get Asya’s arms into the sleeves, zipping her into its warmth. She doesn’t say anything while I get her dressed. Her eyes seem vacant as she stares in front of her. I don’t think she’s even aware of me.

I shouldn’t have let her do this. When she took the gun and turned toward the son of a bitch, I was certain she’d change her mind. I don’t think the sound of a gunshot has ever shaken me this much.

“Mishka,” I prompt her as I wipe the blood off her hand on the front of my hoodie. “Please say something.”

Asya just blinks. Her eyes remain unfocused.

A small white flake lands on her cheek. Another one follows. I look up at the sky. It’s snowing. I quickly grab the hood of the jacket and pull it over her head. “Let’s go home, baby.”

* * *

By the time I park the car in front of my building, the light snow has turned into a full-blown blizzard. Asya spent the entire two-hour drive curled up on the passenger seat with her face pressed to my shoulder.

“We’re here,” I say.

She nods and straightens up, but keeps her eyes closed. I exit the car and walk around the front. However, when I open the passenger door, Asya makes no attempt to move.

“Let’s get you inside.” I bend and scoop her into my arms.

The wind blows in my face, sending snow into my eyes as I carry her toward the building’s entrance. The parking lot is barely forty feet away, but by the time we reach the doors, we’re both covered in flurries.

As soon as we get inside the apartment, I set Asya down and remove her jacket. I take off my hoodie next. It’s black, like the jacket, and the snow hasn’t had a chance to melt off it, yet. I throw the hoodie behind me and crouch to unlace her boots. I need to call the doc’s psychologist friend again and ask what to do. I can’t tell her that I let Asya kill a man, but I need some kind of advice. What if she regresses? Her silence is freaking me out.

As I’m untying Asya’s other boot, I feel her hands in my hair. Slowly, I look up and find her watching me with a strange look in her eyes.

“I never should have given you that gun,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Asya cocks her head to the side and glides her hands down my neck and further, to the center of my back. Grabbing handfuls of material with her fingers, she pulls the T-shirt over my head and then starts unbuttoning her shirt. I regard her as she removes it and her bra and starts on her jeans. I’m still crouching in front of her as she pushes the discarded clothes to the side and stands bare before me.

Taking my hand in hers, she pulls me up and unbuttons my jeans. I can’t take my eyes off her while she removes my shoes and the rest of my clothes, leaving us both naked in front of each other.

“Asya, baby?” As I reach out to caress her face, she jumps on me. I barely catch her in time, managing to grab a hold under her thighs. Her arms lock around my neck, legs wrap my waist as she dips her head until her lips touch the shell of my ear.

“Yes, Pashenka?” she whispers.

I suck in a breath. No one has ever called me that. The pakhan and a few others use my full name, but the rest call me Pasha—the Russian short variant for Pavel. But no one has ever used a diminutive name. In Russia, those are usually reserved for someone’s closest family members and spouses.

“How do you know about that endearment?” I ask.

“I found a website about Russian names,” she says and places a kiss on the side of my neck. “It mentioned that it’s a very personal and affectionate name, and it’s best to ask for permission before using it.” She trails her mouth to the side of my jaw. “Do I have your permission to use it?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Her lips reach mine and hover just a breath away. “I want you to fuck me, Pashenka.”

My cock swells upon hearing her say it. Squeezing her thighs, I turn around, pinning her to the front door. I can feel her dripping pussy against my abs, and it takes all my restraint not to bury my dick inside her. Asya bites my bottom lip, and my control snaps. Positioning her above my rock-hard cock, I start lowering her, inhaling her trembling breath as I fill her up. She moans into my lips, then squeezes my hair when I pull out.

“Harder.” Her soft whimper transforms into a scream when I slam back inside.

As I drive into her pussy, I can feel her warmth, and it feels like coming home. I don’t think I really knew what that phrase meant before meeting Asya. But this—her body pressed to mine, her hands in my hair, and her lips crushed against my mouth—it finally feels like home. She is my home. Squeezing her thighs, I thrust hard, wanting to imprint myself on her. To mark her as mine in some way.

“Harder.” She moans and sinks her teeth into my shoulder.

I’ve long since lost the ability for rational thought. Purely on instinct, I turn around and carry her across the room to the dining table. Ignoring the neat stacks of financial documents I labored over yesterday which are now lining the tabletop, I lower Asya directly on one of the contracts. She’s so wet that the paper under her ass gets instantly saturated.

“Lie down, baby.” I grab her behind her knees and pull her closer, placing her feet at the edge of the table. She watches me through her spread legs, a tiny smirk lighting up her face.

“I’m waiting,” she says.

I smile and take a step closer, letting just the tip of my cock find its home, and press my thumb over her clit. She sucks in a breath. I rub small circles on her nub, teasing her, then slowly push further in as I increase the pressure with my thumb. Before I’m even fully inside, her body starts trembling. My cock hurts because of how hard it is, but I keep up my slow movements, watching her body arch off the table and reveling in each sound of pleasure she makes. With one last circle on her clit, I take her ankles and slowly straighten her legs to a perfect V. I pound into her, narrowing and widening her legs with every thrust and retreat.

“Harder!” she yells.

I rest her calves on my shoulders, press her knees together, and slam back inside. She orgasms, screaming out her pleasure while tremors shake her body. I can feel her pussy spasm around my cock, and it sends a jolt up my spine. I roar and explode into her.

* * *

I stroke the length of Asya’s hair, then leisurely run my palm up and down her back. She’s been sleeping on top of me for two hours now. I should try getting some sleep, too. I spent the previous night chasing and, once I caught him, beating the shit out of the motherfucker who hurt my girl. But I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Asya as she pulled that trigger.

It feels as if a countdown has begun with that bullet. The man who tore apart her life is gone. Roman assured me that the rest of the organization will be dealt with, so I’m sure they will all be dead by this time tomorrow.

I look down at Asya’s face resting on the center of my chest. She usually tosses and turns in her sleep, but she hasn’t moved a muscle since falling asleep earlier. I tug on the blanket at her hips and cover her fully.

How much time do we have left? She’s been doing much better these past few weeks, and I very rarely need to help her with decisions anymore. Men in suits still make her uncomfortable, but she’s come a long way toward overcoming that, too. The nightmares have stopped, and the only thing that still distresses her is snow. I’m so fucking proud of her.

As good as her progress is, it fuels the utter panic rising within me. Will today be the day she’ll tell me it’s time for her to leave? Or will it be tomorrow? It’s been weeks since I stopped urging her to contact her brother. I convinced myself that I did it to give her time and space to heal, but I’ve been lying to myself. I did it because I want her to stay. Forever.

As I watch her sleeping form, her presence lessens the gaping hole inside my chest, but the sound of a ticking clock echoes through my mind. Counting down the days, or maybe mere hours, I have left with her.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.