Dirty Minds: An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

My mouse had been my sanctuary. My goddamn religion. I praised her. Blessed every inch of her body. Without her, life would be hell. A demonic spirit gnawing at my soul. Even now, flames already burned my skin. I swore smoke suffocated my lungs.

Although the sun hovered above, a dark cloud followed me. Murderous rage floated within it. There would be no peace until Emily lay within my arms.

Usually I marveled more at the world. At the birds and the trees. The beauty of the sky. The shades of the flowers all around us. Not today. At this very moment, the earth represented a cruel place. Horror tangled with dread.

Without Emily, loneliness clung to me. Darkness seeped through every pore. My soul had blackened.

I had been building a house for Emily, right inside my chest. A castle. A haven. Deep within the crevices of my soul. The ribs had been the walls. My heart would power the place. Keep it warm. All this time, I was trying to get Emily deep inside of me. Deeper. Until she could never escape. And that piece of shit had snatched her away.

There would be no place that he would hide.

There would be no day, where I would forgive me.

Eternal enemies.

Pavel and I sat in the back of the huge jeep.

Emily’s new recruit rode in the seat in front of us. I turned to the woman. She’d been watching me from her right side.

As soon as our gazes met, she moved her attention to the laptop she’d brought along. It sat on her lap. She looked to be early twenties and inexperienced. However, my mouse was clever. Emily had found something in this one, and so I would keep her near.

I glared at her. “What’s your name?”

She touched her chest. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. . .Blue. That’s my name.”

Pavel smiled at her. “Makes sense. What came first? The hair or nickname.”

Blue nervously turned to Pavel. “My nickname?”

“Who gave it to you?” Pavel asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” I turned away and stared out the window.

The jeep went quiet.

My voice held an edge, as I looked back at Pavel. “We’re going to King David.”

“Yes. I’m told that everyone began calling him King and not him asking.”

“I remember him. He was spiritual. Could take a heart out a man’s chest fast. Cut the chest. Crack the ribcage and yank it out with minutes to spare.”

Blue glanced over her shoulder and opened her mouth in shock.

Pavel shrugged. “Everyone has a cute little trick.”

“How long to Little Russia?”

Pavel checked his watch. “Ten minutes maybe.”

Blue raised her hand.

I glared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Asking to speak.”

“Speak.”

Blue swallowed. “I looked King David up. It should be less than that to get to his house. Barely five minutes.”

Pavel grinned. “How did you look it up?”

Blue gestured to her laptop. “I’m good at finding things.”

“You better be,” I growled.

If anybody fucks this up, they’ll be dead. I would hate to make that blue hair purple.

I stared out the window.

Little Russia was a small neighborhood in the southwest of Paris. Long ago, Russian-born taxi drivers had moved to the cheap apartments and did their best to take care of their families. Later, the Bratva got to the nice cab drivers. And money had them shifting their jobs to other things. Currently, Little Russia consisted of many Russian expats, and Bratva living harmoniously together.

The brotherhood’s dealings in Paris remained more business than criminal. Although the city was the center of all trafficking for France, the French were gentlemen. They tended to solve disputes during dinner and fine wine.

Apparently, not anymore. Now, they are just e idiots kidnapping women.

I pushed Jean-Pierre out of my mind.

I needed to focus.

The jeep pulled into Little Russia and sped down a small cobblestone road.

This place still has not changed .

Before taxi drivers and Bratva, Russians still flocked to Paris. I believed it was due to Lenin—the founder of the Soviet Communist Party. Here in the City of Lights, lived the famous revolutionary. Lenin’s revolution had failed in 1905. Full of disappointment and embarrassment, he fled to Paris in 1908, right at the height of the city’s cultural explosion.

Later, more Russian revolutionaries exiled to Paris.

Pavel disrupted my thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What can I do, Kazimir?”

Get my mouse back to me. But you know that.

I had to calm my anger, before I ended up killing everyone. My hair remained wet from the quick shower. Meanwhile, heartbreak had soaked my flesh more than the water. How I wish I stained my skin with Emily. Her scent.

I raised my hand to my nose and sniffed. Nothing came, but the shampoo’s flowery fragrance.

Fuck this. Where is my mouse?

I ran my fingers through the damp hair. “Do you know a lot about Lenin?”

“I know what’s necessary.” Pavel shrugged. “I didn’t do well in school.”

“Lenin lived in Paris for a while. Brought his wife and family.” I leaned back in the seat. “He met his mistress here. Inès Armand, a French communist activist.”