Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

I’d planned on not saying anything, but I couldn’t help it.

Misha’s limo arrived.

I turned to the reporter who’d asked the question and responded in Russian. “Do I think Russia is ready for a black prima ballerina? Yes. I believe Russia is ready for that and even more.”

Someone clapped.

One yelled out in English, “What else does the world need, Ava?”

Another asked, “Do you have aspirations of one day starting your own company or opening your own theater?”

The scarred guard rushed to my side and opened the door. “We must go.”

Cameras flashed. I came close to jumping, but I focused on getting inside of the limo. Yesterday, no one knew or cared to hear about me. I’d walked outside like any other person.

And today, I woke up as Cinderella.

Right before I stepped into the limo, a question from a Russian reporter knocked me out of my princess moment. “Can you confirm the rumors that Mikhail Stronz and you are dating? And how do you feel about his affiliation with the Bratva?”

Bratva? He’s not really. . .with them.

My body tensed.

That question made me falter.

My guard shoved the reporter to the left. The poor guy fell back into the crowd. Others edged away, not wanting to get hit too. However, the incident had been recorded. Cameras flashed.

Oh my God.

There were paparazzi in Russia, but not on the level of America. The image of my guard getting rid of the reporter may or may not make the papers tomorrow.

More questions came as I ducked my head and slipped into the limo.

The door shut behind me.

My guards rode in front. There had been plenty space in the back of the limo, but I was glad to have the section to myself as I tried to catch my breath. For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, I had time to think without Misha’s cock or his spoiling to distract what was right in front of my eyes.

Misha is with the Bratva? No. I mean. He’s related to Kazimir and Valentina, but he’s a businessman.

I thought about the guards—the guns they had under their jackets. The scars. The way the one shoved the reporter.

Okay. He would have some affiliation due to his family. But I checked. He’s not completely involved.

I had probably done piss-poor research on Misha. Why would I think that his mafia association would be advertised right on his tech company’s website?

But he doesn’t look like a gangster.

He had the sexy nerd look. Hot CEO. A dark techie vibe. His face didn’t say killer, it said I could make those panties wet, fuck you hard, make you cum twice, and after that fix your computer.

Maybe, what he does for them is low level. He definitely isn’t a killer.

I touched the diamond on my chest and knew that would be a lie. Whatever level he stood on; it would be high.

His father just died. . .on the same night as Olesya. . .in the same city.

Those were a lot of coincidences that shifted into unhealthy red flags. I didn’t want what happened to Olesya to come to me.

But I’m not her. She played weird games. She dated Valentina and then her brother. If they’re supposed bad guys, then you shouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that.

Valentina had dated my best friend, Olesya.

I’d called her O.

When I first arrived in Moscow, O was the only person who talked to me. We’d spent a lot of time together. She was talented and smart, but so damaged.

Her great-great-grandmother had been Anna Pavlova. The rest of the family just lived off the dead woman’s money. Each generation had not been much. Most had mixed with the Bratva.

As a kid, O had been through hell and back—parents killed in front of her. The police covered it up due to the Bratva affiliation. Her aunt and uncle adopted her. The aunt had been her mother’s sister. Unfortunately, later her uncle molested O. When her aunt discovered the sad truth, she committed suicide.

From there, O descended onto a dark path. Ballet had been the only thing that grounded her. On stage, she was a beast. A true performer. Off stage, she was a dysfunctional mess.

I loved her no matter what.

Of all the other ballerinas in the company, she was the only one that didn’t care about the color of my skin. And if anyone ever tried to bully me, O punched them dead in their jaw. Sometimes, she would harass them for the rest of the season.

And she never had to do it. There was no reason for her to see something in me—to start a friendship that would be my sole foundation during my time in Russia.

I’d been isolated until O. Sad and depressed. She changed it all and took me on a crazy journey of laughs and ballet. We always practiced together and talked about our dreams incessantly.