Tamed by the Bratva Prince (Mafia Bad

Boys: The Ismailovs Book 3) 1st Edition

Jailaa West
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 jailaa west

Tamed by the Bratva Prince

 Copyright © 2022 by jailaa west

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 Contents

Books by Jailaa West

Tamed by the Bratva Prince
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Stay Tuned for more Ismailovs
About the Author
Also by jailaa west
 Books by Jailaa West

Savage Security Series

Submit (Prequel)
Obey
Control
Lauren
Yield
Thalia
Bound
A Savage Christmas Wedding

Savage Security: The Ismailovs

Taken by the Bratva Prince
Trained by the Bratva Prince
Tamed by the Bratva Prince

Skin Sins Tattoo Shop Series

Cherishing Her
Choosing Her
Coveting Her
Craving Her
Completing Her
Skin Sins: An MC Romance Box Set (Vol 1)
The Biker Takes a Bride (Part of the After I do series)

Dentown Shifter Series

Laid Bear

Forever After
Yours Until Midnight (included in the Kwanzaa Kisses collection)
Loving the Beast

Southern Charms and Farms

Dad Bod Country Boy (Included in the Dad Bod Collection)
The Bookworm and the Bad Boy (Coming Soon!)

Naughty Holidays (Boxed Set Duet) Features

Thanksgiving with the Naughty Boss
New Year’s Eve with the Naughty Captain
Tamed by the Bratva Prince
 Chapter 1

O nly in Las Vegas did VIP terminals for private planes have a crowd. Was everybody that damn
important? Venedikt Ismailov ignored the purse puppies yipping in their Louis Vuitton bags and
the Rolex wrists flicking for valets. If Rand wasn’t outside, he would geld him with slow cuts from a
dull, rusty knife. When he’d given Rurik the information on Jessalyn’s family, Rurik insisted on
dragging Ven along to confront her. He didn’t have a choice, but then he’d never had a choice.
Everything he did was with family in mind. He lived for them, and he’d probably die the same way.
Ven wasn’t dead yet, but when you were in their business, you knew that death was the biggest, ugliest
monster imaginable. Snarling and sniveling with drool dripping from its hot mouth. Chasing and
gaining on you. Constantly gaining on you. You might evade the beast with a zig here and a zag there.
Get away for another year or two, but it kept coming. Like a cyborg Terminator, it never gave up.
Most people evaded the monster with distractions that helped them forget. Drugs, booze, women,
and gambling. Ven helped them with all those things. Delivering their dirtiest desires in sanitized and
pretty packages. In Sin City, all seven deadly and illegal sins were respectable entities. Served up hot
and fresh, all day, every day. Had he wanted to spend his life serving up those vices? No. Had he had
a choice? No. After an accountant murdered the uncle running their small casino, Ven took his place. It
was family. It was duty. Responsibility was the invisible noose around his neck, yanking him in one
direction or another. Ten years ago, the rope yanked him out of school and dumped him in Vegas. He
was old enough, even though he’d only just turned twenty-one. Hadn’t his father taken on a heavier
burden at sixteen? It was time for him to shoulder the responsibility. He’d done his best. Used his
brains and tech-savvy to shoulder their operation from a barely profitable run-down gambling hall to
another dazzling jewel in the strip’s crown. The Desert Fox towered between the south strip’s upper-
class, fun tourist traps filled with movie stars and families, and the north strip’s darker bowels.
Fucking families owned the south strip. All because someone decided Las Vegas should be
rebranded as a vacation attraction. But the North strip remembered who they were, what Vegas was.
At the Desert Fox, no movie stars did photo-ops outside the doors. Instead, they visited through the
darkened tunnels of the VIP’s cavernous garage beneath the casino. Whisked by security into parties
where they danced and gambled in no-cameras-allowed private rooms. And if the noose jerked him
out of his penthouse suite to mingle with them, so be it. The noose had yanked him into worse places
and situations. Ven mingled, danced, and sometimes even gambled. Smiling and partying like he had a
fucking choice in his life.

***

Arand Daniels grinned when Ven threw his bags into the back of the car and jumped in the front seat.
“Hey boss, welcome back.”
“Don’t start with your shit today.”
“Rough trip?”
“Both my brothers have lost their fucking minds over their fucking wives.” He glared out the
window, watching as the desert flew by and the city’s bright lights came into view. God, he loved
Vegas. He wouldn’t live anywhere else. Rurik lived an hour’s drive into the desert, and Sanyet
preferred Michigan. He’d frozen his ass off as soon as he stepped onto the tarmac, and it was fucking
summer. Thank God he was back in Vegas. He turned to Rand. “If I ever get that crazy over a female,
shoot me in the fucking head. Don’t hesitate. Just blow my fucking brains out.”
Rand grinned again. His straight, even teeth took up half his face when he smiled. The white
contrasting with the dark hues of his dark ebony skin. Whenever he looked at Rand, he thought about
the line from a poem he’d memorized as a kid. “Dark as the night that covers me.” That was Rand.
He didn’t smile often. When he worked, his face was statue stiff. A monolith. Giving zero clues to his
mood or thoughts. But with his friends, he was an open book. According to Rand, he was: ‘His
brother from another mother.’ The strange phrase skipped his Russian ear and landed on his heart.
Where it settled, making perfect sense. His brother.
“I take it you didn’t like her?”
“Who, Jessalyn?” Rand nodded. They’d run a deeper background check on the girl who’d
witnessed his brother committing murder. And whom he had married to prevent her from ever being
able to testify about it.
“She was okay. She surprised me. Not at all what I expected from her profile. But Sanyet
surprised me more. I thought she’d shake and cry after we confronted her about the police officer
family she’d neglected to tell us about. But she held her own. And even convinced Sanyet that, though
she’d called them. She hadn’t meant to betray him.”
“Do you believe her?”
He shrugged. “I only know my brother bought every word. He trusted her, and he doesn’t trust
easy. Hell, I don’t even know if he trusts me.”
“So, you’re going to let it go? Give her a pass.”
“Hell no. Jessalyn’s still connected to those fucking cops, and they weren’t too happy about being
detained by airport security while we questioned her. And even though she reassured them she
wanted to be with Sanyet. I don’t know if they are going to let it go. I hope they let her live her life
and go on with theirs.”
Rand arched his brow. The tip of it nearly reached his bald hairline. “Is that what you’re going to
do?”
“Hell no. When I returned her phone, I installed another tracker on it. I also set up more
monitoring equipment in their suite while the newlyweds… talked.”
“And you wonder why he doesn’t trust you?”
Venedikt’s brows lowered over his eyes, and his nostrils flared. “He may not trust me, but he
knows I have his back. Always. And if that means watching him, even when he doesn’t think he needs
it. So be it.”
“So, you’re willing to listen to hours of the newlyweds getting it on?”
Ven grimaced and swallowed. “God, I hope not. You think… hours?”
“Trust me, bro. If anybody ever nailed me down. I would take full advantage of the situation. For
hours.”
“You take full advantage of any situation.”
“True.” He laughed again. Another reward for their closeness.
“Okay, tell me. How is Yuri today?”
Rand checked the rearview mirror as he merged into the wall of traffic leading to the casino
district. “Yuri is spending his last days as if he knows they are his last. A different woman every
night, sometimes two or three. No favorites, yet. No confidences spilled. Requesting only the best
liquor and gettin’ the bus boy to deliver him cocaine and marijuana, which he alternates.”
“So, Luis is still running his side gig?”
“I told him he could continue. Some customers want it, and since we don’t provide that request,
it’s a good side gig for him. He’s got to pay for college somehow.”
 “That’s how you did it.”
Rand’s eyes hardened. He didn’t make many references to his past. “Yep.”
Ven shrugged and looked out the window. “As long as he keeps it clean of our business. He’s
okay. I told him if it blows back on us, I will kill his ass, and I don’t care who his fucking mom is.”
Rand shifted in his seat. As if Ven didn’t know he had a soft spot for the boy’s mother. “Yeah,
well, he’s being careful. Your boy Yuri, not so much. He calls the same number about ten times a day,
but no one answers. Guess he doesn’t understand the concept of a burner phone. Baranov used it to
contact him once and then probably dropped it in a lake somewhere. Every call goes straight to a
voicemail that hasn’t been set up. All he has to do is sit tight and wait for Baranov to contact him. But
he’s too fucking antsy. It’s only been a week since they tried to take your other sister-in-law.”
“Yeah, well, Rurik wants blood. Baranov would never have tried something like this if he didn’t
have it all lined up with someone he thought powerful enough to challenge us.”
“There’s always the possibility that he actually is that fucking dumb.”
Ven shrugged. “Either way, we’ll find out soon enough.”

***

Ven swiped the elevator fob for his penthouse suite. But then he hit the close button and swung
around. Almost bumping into Rand. “Fuck it. Let me go meet her. I need to meet the woman that has
you afraid to say no.”
“Not afraid, just… well, you’ll see.”
Yes, he fucking would. In the SUV, Rand had broached another problem. A woman needed to
speak to him, and she’d waited in his office for hours. Before leaving, only to return the next day.
Refusing to state what she needed. It was personal. Probably a gambling debt, either hers or someone
she loved. Shaking his head, he turned down the long, carpeted corridor from the elevator to the
casino’s lower-level hive of offices. He passed a string of doors, ignoring the open ones. If he
stopped and acknowledged any of them, he’d be swept along on a tide of bull shit situations to handle.
Most people dreamed of being the boss because they thought they wouldn’t have anything to do. No
supervisor to report to. Underestimating the weight of having everyone report to them. Every fucking
person in the building thought they had a right to update him. On every menial, trivial piece of crap.
Dumping all of their bull shit incompetencies on his lap for him to handle. Ven didn’t mind
cleaning up but come to him too often with that bull shit dump, and their ass was fired. He didn’t
babysit people who’d begged for the job, saying they could handle it. He ran his hand under the collar
of his shirt. Loosening the invisible noose a little more. His eyes burned and drooped from the trip;
his feet were sluggish. Just a few more minutes, and then he was done. He’d drop Rand off on the
casino floor, kick his shoes off and fall into bed. Clothing optional.
Ven opened the door, nodding curtly to his secretary when she stood up and snapped to attention.
Looking, as always, as if she were about to salute. He tipped his head, and she swallowed hard, her
Adam’s apple bobbing up and down before she swallowed again and waved to the other side of the
office. He read the name on the paper she handed him.
Sasha Velle. What the hell kind of name was Velle?
“This is Miss Velle. Those are the messages she left. And even after I told her you were gone, and
I assured her I was not lying to get rid of her. As if I would do such a thing.” She gave a little nostril
flare before patting her salt and pepper hair back into her bun and huffed. “She came here to wait.”
“How did she get past security, and why wasn’t she escorted out?” He kept his back to Miss
Velle. Let her sit there and fucking sweat.
“Ask him.” She huffed and pointed at Rand.
Rand raised his palms and backed out of the room. “My job was to get you here. And give you any
updates. Now that I have, I’m out. I’ll keep you posted.”
Motherfucker. He should have shot his ass a long time ago. Ven looked down at the paper he was
holding again before turning around.
His eyes were looking down, so he saw her legs first. Miles and miles of them. Planted like the
thick trunks of a young sapling in fuck me heels with peek-a-boo toes. Red toenails. Candy apple red.
His eyes took their time tracing up both boughs until they disappeared under her skirt. An inch over
her knees. Catholic school regulation. But there was nothing demure about the skin-tight skirt
plastered onto the curve of those hips. A stripper, had to be a stripper, and if she wasn’t, then she
needed to be one. His eyes traveled a little faster around the curve of her waist. The rolling
indentation between the curve of her hip and the fall of her breasts had him swallowing down pools
of drool. Swallow or drown in them. Yes, he would put her on a stage and let every man there drool
over her. His candy apple doll. No, not candy apple. That was her nails. Her name should be taffy.
Could he pull and stretch her like the sugary treat? It didn’t even matter what her face looked like. Not
with her fuck me, hot as hell, stripper body. He’d seen more girls than a gynecologist. Like it was a
medical specialty, he was good at spotting talent. And she had it in droves.
 His mind was making plans, but his eyes were still greedy for more. They’d taken big gulps of
her, but they needed more, so he traced his way from her stripper body to her face.
Damn, he swallowed again. Had he called her a stripper? He needed to go down on his knees in
penance. Say the rosary, and he wasn’t even Catholic. She had the face of an angel. Dropped straight
from heaven. A sweet baby-faced angel. Her silver eyes were wide open as if she looked at the
world from a different, holier, far more innocent place. She didn’t belong in the mortal realm. And
she damn sure didn’t belong in a place like this. No matter how much he’d put the pretty ribbon on the
pig’s ear. He lived just one small step above the cesspool. And he’d never minded before. It had
brought him more money than most men dreamed of, helped shore up the Ismailov coffers, and was
damn entertaining when it wasn’t dragging around his neck. No, he’d never minded the filth that clung
to him, even when he’d literally rise above it to his penthouse. But with her face shining with some
bright inner halo, he felt every bit of the dirt and grime he’d picked up from his trip and from
breathing the air of his Desert Fox. What was she doing here? There had to be some mistake. Rand
didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d straighten the whole mess out and escort her home. No,
that was dangerous. Not when he wanted to be absolved by those tinsel eyes while he fucked her
stripper body. No, not a stripper. He had to stop with the stripper. Maybe she was a dancer. Her
calves said she danced like a ballerina, and her thighs screamed gymnast. She had to be stuck
somewhere between both professions. Yes, a dancer made sense and was safe. Did she want a
dancing job?
“Miss Velle, I’m Venedikt Ismailov. I believe you’ve been requesting to see me.”
She nodded. He needed to hear her voice. Did it trill like angel wings or Christmas bells?
Instead, she bit her lip, the plump pout both sexy and innocent. She was the ultimate child-woman.
Every pervert in the building would lose their fucking minds. Which would be good, would make it
less painful, when he shot them all in the fucking forehead for thinking of her the way… the way he
was.
“Yes, I wanted to speak to you. I need to ask you something. But please, it’s private. It will only
take a minute of your time.” His brows drew together, and Ms. Peterson harrumphed behind him. No
doubt with her finger tapping the security speed dial number. But he gave a sharp wave of his hand to
stop the call and surprised them both when he answered.
“Of course. Right this way.” Ven gave a tight smile, waved trouble into the office, and closed the
door.
 Chapter 2

S asha Velle had twiddled her thumbs for three hours, waiting for Venedikt Ismailov to return. But
when he did, damn. What made her think she could handle this man? One look had her shivering
inside. Like an arctic wind had sliced through the room. When she’d worked at the Desert Fox three
months ago, he’d sweep through the casino. His eyes landing on everything and everyone except her.
They had relegated her to the transportation staff. Fetching car keys for the valet staff. They’d snap
their fingers and hand her a ticket. Then she’d jog down to the garage out of the patron’s sight. She’d
fetched the vehicles and handed them off to the valets, who returned them to the owner. Collecting a
nice tip in return. A tip that was supposed to be split in the tip jar they emptied every night. But
nothing stopped them from sliding some of the money into their pockets.
At the Desert Fox, all were welcome. So, some days, she delivered Bentleys and Mercedes
Benzes. Wiping each individual fingerprint off the steering wheel before she returned them. On the
same night, she might pick up an old beat-up Beetle with a manual transmission that coughed like
someone who’d smoked all their life, wheezing and shuddering her to the valet stand where she’d hop
out. Grateful the car hadn’t stopped in the middle of the ramp. Something that had happened twice
when she’d worked there. But as much as she drooled over the luxury automobiles, nothing and no
one was more drool worthy than Venedikt Ismailov. He rarely swept in through the front entrance and
never used valet. Preferring to use the hidden VIP entrance that led directly to his private offices.
She’d wondered what he’d smelled like. Some cars carried masculine scents. Adrenaline mixed with
the exotic spice of the owner’s cologne in a lavish bonanza that had her wondering about the owner.
Like, who the hell smelled that good? But she never snooped. No, that violated the sacred trust
between owner and staff. Breaking it was akin to posting videos from a confessional.
She’d left because the asshole manager of the valet staff told her the only way she’d make it from
runner to valet was to sleep with him. Licking thin lips that sank behind his out-of-control bush of a
mustache and his bovine fatty cheeks. Um, that was a big hell no. After his proposition, nothing she
did was right. She brought the wrong car. She wasn’t wearing the proper uniform. Her shoes, the
same ones she’d worn daily, didn’t meet the Desert Fox standard. She wasn’t up to standard. Anything
and everything to get her to quit. He didn’t dare fire her. He saw a sexual harassment lawsuit coming
for wrongful termination. But since his supervisor was his best buddy, what was the point in
complaining? No, Vegas was full of too many opportunities. It was an employee’s market, and all she
needed to do was shop around. Which she did. Find something better, another check.
Her new job was better. It wasn’t glamorous checking kids in and out of the kiddie adventure pool
at the family-themed pirate hotel. But she’d ahoy their matey all day if it meant Porky Pig couldn’t
touch her. It was just a means to an end. Everything was. And as long as she kept the end firmly in
sight, she’d be fine. It was worth it. Other kids may have dabbled at life. Taking bits and pieces,
sampling and sipping because they didn’t know what flavor suited them best, but she knew. She’d
always known. She looked at the covers of paperback romance books and devoured them. The cover
models dripped with diamond and emerald jewelry. Hot as hell possessive guy clenching her in front
of a Parisian cafe. The Eiffel Tower waited in the background. True, the models rarely had skin the
color of oak and mahogany or hair that curled in tufts. Red was the exotic color of choice, and she’d
tried that disaster in a box only once. Before running back, gratefully, to her own natural dark hair
color.
Sasha wanted what those women had. A grand romance and to travel in luxury and opulence to all
the corners of the globe. The romance part was optional… But the other. She took a deep breath and
stepped into his office. The other was just a hand grab away. And she was going to grab it and go.
From the moment Gina had called to tell her the latest rumor she’d heard as part of the wait staff in
the exclusive Fox lounge, what she’d wanted was in reach, and she was reaching.

***

The Desert Fox had spared no expense for luxury or comfort in the casino and nightclub. From
chandeliers to the palatial marble flooring, stepping into the Desert Fox was an oasis of indulgence.
But this room was prison-cell stark. A row of fluorescent lighting hung in the windowless room,
painting him in gray shadows. The only thing missing from the cell were bars and a two-way mirror.
No way was this his office. Maybe this was where they brought out-of-luck gamblers. Forcing them to
use blood money to repay their debt.
Venedikt Ismailov tapped his office desk. Even seated, he towered over her, and the silence built.
Sweat dribbled under her uniform between the shoulder blades she pushed together. She’d come
straight from work at her second job as a waitress. Her white shirt was still tucked into the wide
cumberbund of her skirt. It served as her shield, most nights, from unruly clients. She would suck in
her stomach and ball her toes in her black platform pumps, hiding her displeasure. Her nostrils flared
at his pine forest scent. She’d grown up in Montana, a world away from the desert of Nevada. His
scent was a Montana pine mixed with something lemony. There was no other way to describe it. It
was him. She cracked her lips open a slash to take in more of the fragrance.
“Tell me your name.”
Of course, his first words were a command. “Sasha Velle.” Barely stopping herself from rolling
her eyes. She saw Ms. Peterson give him the information.
“Ms. Velle, it takes a lot to ruffle my employees. But you’ve unsettled both Ms. Peterson and Mr.
Daniels. So, tell me, what was it you wanted that could not be denied? More money for gambling? A
better job at the Desert Fox?” She bit her lip. Refusing to panic or back down. But damn, he was a lot
bigger and more dangerous looking in the small office cell.
“Next week, there is an auction…” He exhaled, his breath the only sound in the room. “Women
who are putting themselves up for sale.”
His brows lowered, and his nostrils flared. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’ve
heard. But auctioning anything other than art or memorabilia would be illegal. Nevada has stringent
rules regarding the sale of… women. Are you suggesting, Ms. Velle,” he arched his brow, “that I
would break the law?”
She squared her shoulder and pushed those shoulder blades together until they kissed. Matching
her eyes to his stone wall. “I’m not. I just want to be in that auction.”
He arched his brow. “What are you selling?”
Sasha tugged at the skirt. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here straight from work. But when his
secretary had let slip that he might return today, she had risked it. Egged on by the daily juggle of
three crappy jobs that didn’t get her even one step closer to her dream. Did he have a dream? Did he
know what it felt like to have life speed by while he sat on the sidelines, unable to enter the race?
There had to be more. A universe of more. And the only thing standing between her, and it, was
Venedikt Ismailov.
She tilted her chin up, and her eyes narrowed at his smirk. “I’m selling myself. I want to be
entered in the auction.”
His lips flattened, the sexy full lips pressed into a thin line. The dark onyx scan of his eyes started
at the top of her head. Damn him, she would not adjust her hair. Her fingers twitched to adjust her
French roll and side bangs. A simple style, but it, and a bucket of gel, tamed her wild curls. Keeping
her hair out of her face while she worked. He skimmed her brown-skinned face. Would he disregard
her because of it? He wouldn’t be the first. She bit down on her inner cheek. Bring it. What could he
say that she hadn’t heard before? As one of a few minorities in a small town, she’d heard it all. Even
once called the color of hardwood floors. But so what? Hardwood floors were beautiful and classy.
People said she had the same high cheekbones as her mom’s. Perfect bow lips with their own
natural pink tint. She looked good and didn’t need a man to tell her how attractive she was. She had a
mirror, and she wasn’t vain or braggadocios. It just was what it was. An average pretty girl until
someone noticed her eyes. The silver metallic color had earned her double takes since birth. No one
could account for it. But the unusual color shot her from pretty to exotic.
As a teen, she’d dreamed of becoming a supermodel and storming the fashion world. Anything to
get out of Hicksville, Montana. But those dreams skidded to a halt when her five-foot-six-inch frame
stopped growing. Disappointing, but she used the years of practicing in the mirror to hold still while
he continued past her face. Scanning her body. Would he prefer the rail-thin waif look of most
models? She sucked her stomach in until it pressed to her spine. So what if she had curves? Men
loved curves. His eyes slid past those curves. Not even a blink. Did he like it or not? His eyes traced
the slopes of her legs like two hands before lifting to her eyes again.
He shrugged. “Pretty. Some might even say beautiful. But you’re in Vegas. A man can walk down
the strip, and he will find a hundred other beautiful women. For sale and for free. It’s a buyer’s
market, honey.”
“But how many of those women would be a virgin?”
The silence shrouded them like a wet, weighted blanket. Before a cruel bark of laughter broke it
like delicate crystal being thrown at a brick wall. “Is that what you’re selling? Is that what you think
is so unique? So different that you harassed my staff. Lying in wait like a street hustler trying to sell
drugs on someone else’s turf.” Sasha bit her lip and took a shaky step back when he vaulted out of his
chair and stalked around his desk like a hungry, prowling lion. While she stood frozen, in his territory,
reeking of blood. Ven loomed over her. Larger than an Imax movie screen, scowling, as she stared up
at him from the front row. She braced as if she could see his arm rearing back with the whip, and even
then, she winced at the first lash of his words.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, y…yes, Mr. Ismailov.”
 “Tell me, little girl, do you know who the fucking Ismailovs are?” He roared in her face. A lion
announcing his kill.
She bit her lip to prevent tears from running down her face in hot streams. No, yes, no. Shit, she
didn’t know. What did he want her to say? Whatever it was, she’d say it.
“We run this town. We own your mayor, governor, senator, and city councilman, from the
dogcatcher to the police chief to the US Senate. No decision gets made in this town unless we
approve it. I approve it. Did you really think you could come in here and try to sell me some
bullshit?”
“It’s not bullshit.” The cry ripped itself from her chest. Desperate to shield her from more of his
wrath. Maybe he thought she was a lying schemer. “I can take a test. Go to a doctor. I haven’t been
with anybody. I swear it.”
“And I don’t give a fuck. You don’t come here and offer this shit to me like I’d be so fucking
desperate for the first virgin I see…”
“But I wasn’t trying to sell myself to you. I was…” His nostrils flared wide enough for his SUV
to storm inside. “I just heard about the sale, and I thought…”
“What the fuck did you think? That you could come into my establishment and offer yourself like
I’m some twenty-dollar-a-lay pimp? If you want to pimp yourself out, go to any corner in Vegas, and
find a guy willing to pay. Put an ad in the fucking newspaper and whore yourself around town.”
“I wasn’t trying to whore myself. It was just going to be one time.” Dammit, now the tears were
falling, and she scrubbed them away with strokes as vicious as his words. “One time, one man. One
day… Take my one shot. I’ve read about other girls doing the same thing. I just wanted to make some
real money for once.”
“Everybody who comes to Vegas wants to make some quick money. Everybody needs for it to
work, just one time. That’s why I’m fucking rich. A fucking billionaire from suckers like you, thinking
there is such a thing as a get-rich-quick. Get-rich-quick is what I sell to the dumb fucks upstairs. Just
one roll of the dice will solve all your problems. But that’s the curtain hiding the wizard. There is no
fucking get-rich-quick… ever. Even the fucking slobs who hit big don’t keep it for long. Taxes,
families, another fucking get-rich-quick scheme. They are easy marks because if you were dumb
enough to fall for it once, you will fucking fall for it again. Which is why the house always wins.
Always. The only people who get out unscathed are the people who come to lose. They come to Vegas
to have a good time, see a great show, hang out with friends and lose money. They know they’ll lose
and don’t mind because they paid for the entertainment. Everybody else. Everybody else is a fucking
loser.”
“That’s not me. I work hard. Hell, I worked hard for you for three months.”
His brows shot up, and he stepped back as if she’d clocked him. So, he didn’t know every fucking
thing. “Here at the Desert Fox? You don’t look old enough. What did you do?”
“I’m twenty, and I was a valet runner.”
“And how did you go from being a valet runner to a would-be prostitute?”
“I told you it was…”
“Only one time I got it. Tell me what happened? Not enough tips in valet running? Need to pay for
classes at the university?”
“I’m not a college student. Well, not really.”
He wiped his loosened hands over his face. His eyes looked tired. Maybe she caught him at a bad
time. He had just returned from out of town. His exhale did funny things to her chest. Definitely tired.
“Most girls tell me they want to dance to pay for college.”
“College isn’t for everyone.”
He arched his brow. “And neither is hooking.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth.
“Yes, I know. It was only going to be one time. Look, just because it’s legal doesn’t make it any
easier. It’s hard as hell to lie under a man you have no feelings for, who you’re not even attracted to,
who doesn’t give a shit about giving you pleasure. He only wants to get his fucking kicks by making
you do the things his wife won’t. Then he’ll return home to her when the weekend is over and give her
flowers and candy while you lay there for the next man. Hooking is the hardest job on the strip.”
“How many men have you laid under?”
His eyes flew open, but he wasn’t more shocked than she was. What was she doing? He shook
his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You go too far, little one, and I’m over this bullshit. I
tried to help you. Give you some great advice. But fuck it. I’m done.” He walked back around to his
desk and sat down. Sucking the air with him in the wake of his withdrawal. The dismissal had her
eyes welling again. He looked at the stack of papers on his desk. “Take my advice and go back to
whatever hick town you came from. Farm country, no doubt. Find some guy to get rocks in his head,
gaga over you. Marry him, have his babies and live your fucking life like an episode of Little House
on the Prairie. That’s my best fucking advice, and I don’t give it often. Take it or leave it but get the
fuck out. I’m done.” The chocolate brown of his irises hardened like chocolate chip cookies left in a
fiery oven. Harder than bricks.
 She watched the hard bricks for a moment until he arched his brow and said, “Shall I call
security, after all?”
She opened her mouth but slammed it shut. Backing away until the doorknob pressed into her
spine. She gave a quick nod and only then turned her back on the predator and fled.
 Chapter 3

R urik’s gravel and rock-pitched voice disrupted Ven’s brooding. The black cloud surrounding
him had silenced even Rand’s jokes and jibes. His trigger finger twitched, still ready to shoot
Rand for the girl-ambush. A girl, he repeated for the thousandth time. Off-limits. Who gave a fuck if
her body shouted, ‘all woman’?
He growled at his brother, “What?”
Rurik paused whatever greeting he’d been about to utter and waited. Was he waiting for Venedikt
to address him with the proper respect? Fuck that. Today he wasn’t a captain reporting to his pakhan.
Today he was the middle brother with a shitload of things to do. With a bossy ass, big brother calling
on a day when he didn’t have time for the fucking middle management bull shit. “I see you rose on the
opposite side of the bed today.”
Ven rolled his eyes. His brother came to America at eighteen. Paving the way for the rest of them.
He’d been young enough to learn the phrases and nuances of English. But he’d never put in the effort,
even though he hated to be corrected. Yes, he got out of bed on the wrong side. Haunted by Sasha’s
pouty red lips, huge stormy eyes, and outrageous proposition. A fucking witch. She had to be… How
else had she possessed him for two damn days?
“What do you want, Rurik?”
Rurik returned Ven’s push, only a little stonier. If you shoved Rurik, he shoved back. Harder,
much harder. He’d started when they were kids and never stopped. Ven pinched the bridge of his
nose when Rurik bellowed, “Don’t fucking ‘what’ me? Where is Baranov? What is taking so fucking
long? I know why Sanyet is dragging his fucking feet. His new wife has dulled his killing mood. But
what the fuck excuse do you have? Unless you also have a new wife, I know nothing about?”
Sasha Velle’s face flashed in a fiery blast. Damn witch. Ved’ma. He growled. “No excuse. Yuri
has tried to reach Baranov daily. But so far, nothing. As soon as he responds, we’ll have him.”
“Is Yuri still trying to sell women on our property?”
 “Yes, but he’s staying quiet about it. We still don’t know who these women are or where they’re
coming from.”
“How about your sale of women?”
Ven growled and rubbed his hand around his neck. Was there nothing Rurik could not find out?
And if he knew fucking everything, why ask? “I’m not selling any women. You know we don’t cross
that line.”
“But you had a recent offer. Did I not hear correctly?”
“A woman came here and said she heard about the auction and wanted to enter. She said she was
a virgin and wanted to be sold as a one-timer.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I told her hell the fuck no.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Venedikt snapped the pencil he gripped. The wood splintering like his voice. “Why?” He
growled.
“We can use her. Put her up for auction…”
“No!” The sound tore from the pit of his stomach and forced its way out.
The silence froze like an icy tendril skirting the air through the phone connection. “What did you
say?” No one defied Rurik.
“She’s a young girl…”
“So, she’s not of legal age. In Nevada, you can become a prostitute at eighteen, correct? What
does she look like?”
“I told you…”
“You told me nothing. What does she look like?”
“Lightning….”
Rurik’s sharp inhale crackled through the phone. “Did you say lightning?”
“Her eyes are a very unusual color. Like a thunderstorm, silver metallic. Haunting. Her skin is a
light brown skin that reminds you of soft leather. A body with curves like a mountain road. The kind
you see when you’re flying in for a landing, and all you see are miles of curves and turns. Her legs
are endless…”
“What. The. Fuck? Are you a fucking poet now? Do you have some special feeling for her? Are
you claiming this woman, this girl, as your own?”
 Venedikt shook his head. Failing to shake the silver tendrils that had wound through his thoughts
and dragged him into a fantasy world that did not exist. Could not exist. Ved’ma. She was nothing to
him. Nothing. “No, of course not. She was a stupid young girl who came here with an impossible
request.”
“Not impossible. Necessary. And we will use her request to get what we need.”
“For what purpose? We don’t sell women.”
“No, we don’t. But she’s selling herself. She came to you. So, we will use this girl to draw out
Baranov.”
“How?” Ven huffed through the fumes smoking from his nostrils.
“You will leak that the Ismailovs have an exquisite girl for sale. A virgin we are auctioning off. A
unique and indescribable beauty….”
“I didn’t say all that. Sasha’s pretty, but…”
“Hah,” Rurik gave another bark of laughter. “You said that and more. ‘Lightning,’ you said. She
stunned you, the great Venedikt. The player. Never even dated for longer than a week. And yet
something about this girl has you arming yourself like a soldier.”
The smoke fanned higher. “She is not mine.” The words escaped from the steel cage of his lips.
“It won’t work, anyway. Everyone knows we don’t sell women. Why would he fall for this trap?”
“Ah, you should have spent more time hunting with me in the woods and less time on your silly
computer games. Then you would understand. Every prey knows the trap, sees it’s a trap. But to get
them to enter, anyway, you make the bait more attractive. Irresistible. And it has to look easy. It
works the same way with your casino. With the right bait, a hunter can catch anything.” He gave
another rough bite of laughter. “Even you, brother. So, beware. Don’t let the bait trap you.”
Ven’s nails dug crescents into his palms, but he kept his lips closed. Rurik was a master hunter
and loved strategy games. To him, life was chess. If he decided this was the winning maneuver.
Nothing would stop him. Rurik would win even if it meant putting the beautiful Sasha in harm’s way.
The only thing Rurik would not risk was family.
Did Sasha have a family? A boyfriend? Anyone to care if she got hurt? A boyfriend? Was anybody
looking out for her? She was a foolish girl, but now she’d be his responsibility. He’d protect her. The
noose around his collar tightened a little more. As it would continue to do until either the monster of
death dragged him down or snapped his neck in half.

***
“Stop fidgeting,” Venedikt growled. Watching her pull the hem of her scarlet silk dress up and down
was torture. His straining dick couldn’t take much more of the rack. Her silver eyes glared hotter than
the bright lights of the photo shoot.
“It’s hot.”
Yes, you are. No, stop that. He glared back. “The proper lighting is everything. You’re supposed
to look sexy. This is the image that we will use for the sale.”
She brushed her hair over her shoulders. They’d done something to her hair, so instead of the
dark, tight curls she’d had when they first met, her hair was straighter than his. Bone straight. The
hairstylist said something about giving her a Brazilian. The only Brazilian he’d ever heard of made
his dick stiffen and strain. “I’m sure they’re almost done?” He looked over at the photographer they’d
hired. The man gave a sharp nod and began packing up his lenses.
“Yes, we’re done. You’re a natural. The pictures are unbelievable.”
He waved Ven to come over so they could preview the camera roll. Shit, like he needed another
reason to drool. The damn ved’ma had spellbound him since she’d finished with hair and make-up.
She entered the dressing room and then exited as if she’d waved her wand and cast a glamour spell.
Because what came out of the room was a sizzling seductress, a sex pot designed with no purpose
other than bringing a man to his knees. And he was only a man, after all. He braced his knees together
to keep from falling to them as she slid to the edge of the bed and stood up. It had been Rurik’s idea to
take pictures of her in the bridal suite. “You’ve got that oversized circle bed. Put it in white silk and
drape her in red satin. She’ll be a valentine come to life.” He couldn’t know possibly know how right
he was. He was a master strategist, not a psychic. Now that he’d seen her draped across the bed, how
would he ever un-see it? She stepped down from the platform in her red stiletto heels. The shoes
were little more than soles, with tiny silver straps tying them to the tops of her feet. Wrapping around
her ankles and traveling up her calves like long leather fingers groping her legs. The dress flowed to
the ankles with thigh-high slits that mocked any hint of modesty. He’d never seen a more fuckable
woman. He wanted to rut in her like an animal. Grinding into her pussy and fucking the ever-loving
shit out of her. Crew or no crew.
“We’re done.” He nodded to the door. She needed to leave the room while he still retained some
control. “You can change.”
“Thank God.” She grinned. Dimples peeked out from the sides of her face. Motherfucking
dimples. A sprite dressed up as a nymphet. A girl role-playing in her mother’s dress and lipstick. But
she wasn’t a child.
 “Go. Change,” he growled, harsher than he’d intended. But he couldn’t stay in control and be
fucking polite.
The dimples disappeared, and she ducked her head. “Be right back.” Her voice trailed away as
she left. Missing the way every man in the room had frozen when she swished out of the room. Her
dress clinging to her plump ass like a mermaid’s tail.
He turned to the crew, who busied themselves. Packing up their supplies and paying closer
attention to equipment. Spurred into action by his glare. He’d never wanted to burn the eyes out of
someone’s socket more.

***

An hour later, the suite was empty, and her magic wand had turned her back into a beautiful young
woman. She picked up the pizza from her delicate China plate and bit a piece of heaven. It was his
favorite, deep-dish Chicago style. She sighed around the mouthful, and he smiled. He’d had the same
reaction to his first bite.
“It’s so good.” She pursed out her lips, puffing her cheeks. Waving her hand in front of her mouth.
“It’s hot, though.”
“Take your time,” he reprimanded her like a child and then narrowed his eyes. She was not a
child.
Sasha downed some of the sparkling cider he’d poured into her wineglass. She laughed, “Cider?”
“I didn’t want to corrupt you.”
“Too late.”
She ate like a starving person. No dainty nibbles. She took a bite big enough for a linebacker and
chewed with enthusiasm. Mixing her bites of the deep-dish pizza with equal bites of the Caesar salad
with anchovies. He’d offered to put the salty treats on the side, but she took the bowl and dumped
them on top before mixing the salad. “Why? If I enjoy it and you do too… Then I don’t see anything
wrong with taking what we both want.”
She’d been too busy dumping and mixing to see the effect her casual words had erected. Literally.
How true. Why not, indeed?
Her tongue swiped an errant morsel from her plump lips. The bows formed soft pillows, but he
didn’t want them soft. He wanted them stretched and firm, holding onto his dick. He shook his head.
Taking another bite into his own pizza. She was bait. He didn’t have to love it or hate it. If Rurik said
she was bait, she was bait. It wasn’t like she was his. Could never be his. Not with his father’s latest
decree and plans already in motion. Adding one more responsibility and another loop to his noose.
He sighed and balled the napkin in his lap. Throwing the fine white linen on top of the sauce-
stained plate. And balling his fingers into fists.
“Why are you doing this?” He threw the words at her. And she jumped. Snatching her attention
from her food to him. Where it belonged.
“Huh?”
“You’re young and bright. You’ve been able to keep up with me on conversations from sports to
politics. With your brain, wit, and charm, you could own Vegas. But instead of working hard. Fighting
your way up, like everybody else. You’re using the one thing anyone could use. Every cat in the street
knows how to give away pussy.”
Her eyes narrowed. Lashes nearly as long as the fake ones she’d worn shielded her eyes. She took
another sip of her cider before placing it down with a snick that even the linen tablecloth didn’t
muffle. When her eyes finally met his, they were armed for battle. “Is that what you did? You went to
college, hung out with the frat boys, and made out with a few cheerleaders before grad school. You
completed the application and internship process, moving from the mailroom to the boardroom. Is that
what you did? Ismailov?”
She sneered his name. No one mocked his name. Not to his face. He might be a dirty word in
many circles, and whispers abounded but never to an Ismailov’s face. He glared back at her. A mere
wisp of a girl who’d been lower than a valet in the casino hierarchy. “No, I didn’t work my way up
—”
“No, you didn’t. Your family handed you everything you have. You sit here with your wealth and
privilege from your king of the castle penthouse and condemn me for being a peasant. A peasant who
dares to better herself.”
“That is not true.”
She arched her brow when he stuttered to a stop. It was only a little true. “Watch out, Ismailov. I
took your mean boy bullshit last time. Left here and cried like a baby. But that won’t happen again.”
The nerve of this fucking girl. He balled his fists even tighter. Wishing he had a pencil to snap
between them. Or a steel pipe. Or her neck.
“You know nothing about me…”
“No, I didn’t. Not really. But when I left here three days ago, I corrected that. Immediately.”
“So, you think you know me because of some information you found on a Wikipedia page?”
 “There was nothing on Wiki other than what you wanted the public to know. A businessman and
philanthropist. So, I dug a little deeper. Sneaking into the back of the dark web. Where you hadn’t
taken the time to scrub yourself clean. Or maybe you figured anyone looking for you on the dark web
wasn’t looking for light. Shall I tell you what I found?”
“Go ahead, as I find this fascinating. And when you finish, you will still have to answer my
question. So, all of this deflection is for naught.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not deflecting.”
“Of course you are. Is it so painful? You can tell me. I’ve heard it all. Your parents abandoned
you, leaving you in foster care, where men abused you. Maybe your mom was on drugs, and her
dealer forced her into prostitution. They wanted to force you, too. So, you had to get away. Or your
ex-boyfriend beat you up regularly, so you’re on the run from him, and this was the only way to make
sure he doesn’t find you. Go ahead, Sasha, tell me your sad story. A story I haven’t heard a million
times. A billion excuses people crafted to explain their own failings.”
“Have you heard this one? I wasn’t abused or abandoned. And no ex-boyfriend is looking for me.
My parents are wonderful people who love me more than themselves. My mom was the first African
American woman to complete veterinary school in a small but decent college in upstate New York.
Instead of settling into a nice veterinary hospital, she took a chance and moved to Montana. She
wanted to live in the great outdoors and work on horses and cows. She fell in love with my father,
one of the few black ranch hands in the small town where she worked. So, of course, the good people
there in Hicksville, Montana, thought it would be great to fix them up. It would have been insulting
and patronizing if it hadn’t worked. They say they knew the first time they saw each other that it was
love. They’ve been together ever since.”
“Still haven’t told me how you ended up here. Starting your life as a prostitute. And how are you
fucking virgin, anyway? Are there no men with eyes in Hicksville, Montana?”
“Yes, of course, there are.” She wiggled in her seat when he arched his brow. “Okay, fine. Not
many. It’s a very small town.”
“What about school?”
“Homeschooled. As I said, it’s a very small town.”
“So, have you ever been on a date?”
“Yes, of course. Kind of. Sort of.”
“How long have you been here, in Vegas? Someone here would have snatched you up in a
second.”
 “Been here about three months. Got the job here and had to quit. Started another job waitressing.
It’s a small sandwich shop. Hard to land casino jobs if you’re under twenty-one. So, I started another
job, housekeeping at a hotel. I also work at a pool with kids… and between that and some online
classes—”
“How many fucking jobs do you have?”
“Three. And I called in sick to all three this week. So, if this doesn’t work…”
“And you also go to school online?”
“We can’t all be born with a silver spoon in our mouths.” His eyes narrowed. But she only held
up her hand and continued, “No matter how dirty the spoon is.”
He shook his head. No respect. “So, basically, you came from one sheltered environment and
came to the most unsheltered city in the world and immediately sheltered yourself?”
Her bottom rocked in the chair again, and he was not. Not going to think about it rocking on his
dick. She was a child. “And decided the best way to quit your three jobs was to sell yourself?”
“You don’t know what it’s like…”
“So, tell me.”
His dick jerked when she wiggled again. This time rocking back and forth before settling down
with her hands between her thighs. Where he wanted to be. Needed. “Stop stalling,” he growled.
“You’ve been bold about everything else.”
Sasha shrugged her shoulders, and they graced her straightened hair. He’d work his fingers
through it, wrap it around his fist and hold her to him. When he made love to her. If. “I left home,
didn’t run away. I’ve been taking online writing classes. I love reading and always dreamed of being
a writer. My parents think I’m here for a summer writing program.” His brows rose. “Yes, they
objected.” Was she a mind-reader, too? No, obviously not because if she could…
“But how could they argue? Both of them are trailblazers in their fields. I’m twenty years old and
I’ve never even crossed a trail that wasn’t leading out to some pasture. Maybe if they hadn’t
homeschooled me. Maybe if I had hung around other kids. But…”
He shouted a laugh. The crack broke through her words. “So, you used their guilt against them.
They thought they were doing their best for you, and you made them feel like it wasn’t enough. That
you needed more.”
“It wasn’t enough,” she hissed. “I mean, the education was okay. But I never got to be a kid. Not
really. I don’t even relate to kids my age. They chatter about what’s trending on their social media and
the latest dance craze. Using slang that I need a translator to understand. I probably could understand
more of your Russian. And what I understand seems… childish.”
“So, you want to grow up?”
“I am grown up.”
“Grown-ups don’t need to say that.” He rubbed his temple. “Do you even know what you’re
getting yourself into? Has anyone ever held you? Kissed you?”
“I read romance books all the time. So, I know what it feels like.”
“I guess you’ve read all the books on how sex works, too?” She nodded but didn’t need to. Her
blush answered for her. “So, you know what to do and how it feels?”
Her arms crossed over her breasts and tipped her chin up, cocking her head. “Of course. I was
raised on a ranch. My mother is a vet. I know all about animal husbandry.”
Another bark of laughter ripped from his chest. Animal husbandry. “Come here.”
“No.” Sasha refused, but fire lit her silver eyes. “Why?”
He slid his chair back and held out his hand. “Come. Do you really want your first kiss to be with
a stranger?”
“I didn’t say it was my first kiss.”
“Hmph. You’re too scared to come. Which tells me it will be your first real kiss.”
“Why would you do this? Why?”
“You like to stall when you’re afraid. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you refused to answer my
question. But lucky for you, I have another question. Something I want to know more?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How do you taste? How will your lips melt under mine? Will you tremble in my arms?” He
arched his brow. “As you should.” He cocked his head and slid his chair back. He wanted plenty of
room for her. On his lap. “Or will you be as bold in this as you are in everything else? Surprising me
yet again.” He waved his palm up and down in another sharp request. “Now. Come. Here.”
 Chapter 4

W ild stallions stampeded in her chest. Charging through her bloodstream, frantic to get a way
out. But the only way out was in his arms. Her eyes latched onto his hand. Would she do it?
Could she do it? Shit, how the hell would she go through with her plan if she couldn’t kiss him? Her
auction included a faceless, shadowy body. She’d never thought of the man himself. Wanting her. But
desire raged in Ven’s eyes. His eyes were a solid brown, like the chocolate center of a luscious
candy. Until they blazed. Then fire leaped from them like golden embers. Providing enough heat to
rekindle the horse stampede.
The long, lean curl of his fingers beckoned. But she couldn’t do it. Could she? Did she want her
first proper kiss to be with some stranger? Someone she might not even be attracted to? Her
agreement included vetting. She could reject any offers she wished. So, it wouldn’t be with someone
completely unappealing. Like bad breath, with hideous drooling, unappealing. And even if it was, it
was only one night. But what kind of man would pay a woman to sleep with him? Wouldn’t any
handsome, six-pack-abs, wealthy man already have women throwing themselves at his feet? He
wouldn’t need to buy a woman or pay for sex, ever.
His fingers curled into a ball. Wait. Was he withdrawing his offer? Her feet jumped to the floor.
Dragging her in his direction. Shit, what was she doing? Other than allowing the decision-making part
of her brain to run amok. Once it was off the chain, it was like a mustang set free in a pasture. Taking
off running all over the place. Enjoying its freedom. Nope, don’t overthink it.
She grabbed his hand and followed its tug as he jerked her onto his lap. Her eyes rode the
elevator skyward to meet his gaze. Taking their time to ascend and enjoying every bump and ridge
along the way from his rippling abs like the long, lean rolls of a paddock fence, sturdy and unyielding
to the wide expanse of his chest. He was so huge; he dwarfed her. Nothing like the pillows she had
practiced her kissing on as a teen. Desperate to know what it would feel like to have a man’s arms
wrap around her and hold her as close as the heroes in her books.
 “Kiss me,” he commanded with his eyes roaming the unexplored territory of her mouth. As if
looking for a place to plant his flag and stake his claim.
“I, um…” She pulled her lip into her mouth. “You want me to make the first move?” Her heart
beat in protest against its stall.
“If you can’t reach up and kiss me. A man you’re attracted to...”
“…I never said I was attracted to you.”
“A man you’re attracted to. How will you carry out your mission with a stranger?”
Sasha ran her palms over his scalp. The hair on his head prickled with his tight buzz cut under her
palms. The sharp spikes were like the needles of desert cacti as she pulled him closer. She could do
this. She would do this. An article in one of her fashion mags detailed what to do. Six steps toward
the perfect kiss. Step one ‘trace his lips.’ Sasha took a deep breath and leaned forward. Nibbling and
nipping at the borders. Licking her tongue across the seam of his. Was he really letting her do this? No
objections, even when she bit his lower lip. Twisting her head, she nudged his lips apart and took
more of the kiss. Her tongue darted inside. Snuck in when the rest of her body wanted to storm his
defenses and claim him. She ran her tongue over the tips of his teeth in a quest for more of his flavor.
What was that flavor? Nutty. Thank God she wasn’t allergic. Because even if she was, she’d still suck
that flavor down and relish it. He had the undertone of nuts mixed with sin and coffee. But there was
something else. Something that was all him.
He groaned into the kiss, and her tongue chased the sound as it retreated down his throat. She
wanted more. Would always want more. She was hooked.
Another delicious groan filled her mouth before he pounced out from the shows where he’d
waited. His wail shifted from a moan to a roar faster than a lion chasing prey.
It was too much. Sasha shook her head and reared it back. Was he playing some crazy game?
Letting her play and roam his lips as if it were safe. Like a Venus flytrap attracting her with his spicy
nut butter flavor and then whoosh, slamming the trap shut. His hands, the same ones that had deftly
beckoned. Curled into her scalp. Holding the back of her head like a lion, bringing home its meal.
There was no pulling back and no escape. He pursued her as she raced back into her mouth. Her
tongue retreating from his even though her head couldn’t. But he rushed in and sucked her tongue back
into his. There had to be some kind of drug involved. Nothing else made sense. How could he hold
her captive, and she wasn’t even afraid? How was he shooting lightning from her mouth down her
spine and back? Until the sensation burst into a firework symphony of colors and sounds.
 He growled something. She couldn’t make out what it was over the buzzing. She was dizzy.
Weightless with wonder, as if he had picked her up, spun her around. His tongue surged along hers,
taking and claiming. When had he seized control of the kiss? And Lord, why hadn’t she let him do it
from the beginning? This was a kiss. The kiss her romance books promised. The fashion magazine
was wrong. It wasn’t about her quick sips but his great gulps. Her mind spun while her senses
danced. Oh God, this was life. At long last, life. His hands gripped her hips, turning her sideways
slouch into a straddle. A wild stallion under her saddle. His hot girth bucked against the quickly
dampening heat of her yoga pants. Thank God for yoga pants. And why now? Why did she finally
taste everything wicked and wild she’d ever dreamed of?
She groaned against his tongue. Yes. Yes. Wait, did she say yes? Yes, to what? Everything.
Anything.
Ven retreated at her plea, evading her chasing lips. Panting his hot demand against her face. “Tell.
Me. Why. Fucking tell me why? Why the hell would you do this? Why?”
His why echoed her own. His demand made her question her own resolve. Shit, she almost forgot.
But no. No. Hell no. She couldn’t. No. She shook her head, refusing until he clasped her face between
the enormous paws of his hands, a lion clutching a mouse. Denying her attempt to pull back. His eyes
glittered with more golden flares. Until his shoulders slumped, and he dropped his forehead onto
hers. Sighing. “Please, I have to know why.”
She leaned into the forehead, nudging hers. And closed her eyes. Letting the darkness swallow
her. Entering her confessional and closing the door with her lashes.
“My parents loved each other at first sight. They both had careers they were passionate about. But
they met each other and finally had something they cared about more than their life’s ambitions. They
married. And then, six years later, adopted me. My birth mother had packed it all up and left town.
Told everyone she couldn’t take another minute in ‘this god-forsaken town.’ Not having children was
the only thing missing from their lives. I was their happy surprise. Their choice. That’s the story they
told me a thousand times. I was their happy surprise.”
His forehead moved against hers. A slight shift as he smiled. “Sounds nice.”
“It was nice… for them. My parents loved ranch life. But ranch life is hard. Up before dawn, rain
or shine. There was always something to do, work. Duties. Responsibilities.” She felt her way along
the sides of his face. “You feel that?”
He nuzzled her palms. “Your hands?”
 “Callouses. I followed my dad working around the ranch. My mom took me on house calls. Ranch
calls. But I never really fit in either of those places, and we all knew it. But here’s the hard part. How
could I leave? How would they make it without me? Didn’t I owe them for taking care of me? Hell, it
was more than my mother did.”
He tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes open. “I’m sure they wouldn’t have wanted you to
sacrifice your life for their dreams.”
“No, of course not.” She shrugged. “But sometimes love ties you up with the biggest chains of all.
Holding you down when all you want is freedom.” The lights glistened and shined over his shoulders.
Or were they shimmering and watery from her story? “Don’t get me wrong. They loved me. But they
never saw me. Didn’t get me. I spent most of my time buried in books. Books became the teachers
who taught me, the friend who shouldered me, the mentor who encouraged me, and the village aunty
who taught me about sex. When I wanted to escape, there was no other way than books.”
“I see you. But I still don’t get it.”
“Did you ever sit in the security room and watch the people on camera?”
“Yes. Of course, but why…”
“Wonder what their lives were like? How did they meet? What’s their back story? Did you ever
watch them like characters in a movie, appearing on screen?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“That feeling you get watching them. Waiting for something magical to happen, wondering about
their lives. That’s been my whole life… Only I wasn’t stopping to peek in on the security cameras for
a few minutes. I was locked in the room with no way out. Shut-in with live feeds rolling across the
screen. Forced to watch life from afar, day after day. Until finally, the door opened. I found a key. A
silly story about a student who posted her virginity in an online auction to raise tuition fees. I
researched that story and found others. It was crazy and desperate, but it was a way out. My parents
think I’m in a fine arts internship. I’ve been studying writing online.” Her words zoomed out. Flush
with the freedom to share her story with someone. “I can do it. I will do it. It will give me enough
money to pay for full-time help on the ranch. And still, leave me enough to travel and see the world.
Actually have the life I’ve dreamed of while watching from in that locked room.”
“You do know that the lives you were watching weren’t real? What you see from a distance is
always only a reflection of their lives. A mirage.”
“I realize that. But they showed me the possibilities.”
“But those same possibilities exist with an excellent education. A decent job…”
 “Takes time. This lets me grab it all in one big scoop. I can earn enough for a night or two to help
my parents and unchain myself. Have someone watching me on-screen for a change. I will take the
money and travel around the world. Paris, London, Dubai, Egypt. There’s no country I won’t visit. I’ll
see all seven world wonders plus seven more that no one talks about. I will play polo with future
kings, surf over the golden corral of the South Pacific, and eat shrimp off the barbie. Visit the point of
no return in Africa and think of those who came before me. Because I won’t be selfish. I will give
with an open hand to any who asks me.”
“And your body…”
“Is a small price to pay.”
He leaned forward and rested his brow on hers again. The soft touch was like the head bump of a
barnyard cat when she brought fresh food. His nose rubbed back and forth on hers. And damn, how
was a nose rub sexy? How did it send little tingles down her spine? Make her yearn for more. Have
her wishing…
His words breathed against her lips, gentle winds calming the fire he’d kindled. “I can provide all
that. Give you the money you ask, the travel you want?
“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“Nyet. But I also know what sitting in the security booth is like. In my family, I’m the watcher.
When they need information; they need to know something. I’m the one they send to investigate. I have
everything you told me about your ranch and farm life sitting on a file on my desk.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because watching someone on screen doesn’t tell you about the person. You see what they do.
You hear what they say. But you don’t know the person. I know more about some people than their
children, spouses, or employers. But the number of people I really know is about ten. My siblings, my
parents, Rand. A few others.”
“You live in this tower alone as much as I did in my room.”
“Not quite.” His smile wrinkled his forehead. “But I know what it’s like to want something more.
Something different from what our parents planned for us.”
“My parents planned for med school or ranch life. When I told them I wanted to wander the
world. They couldn’t imagine giving me that…”
“…Freedom. I, too, wanted to travel. But everything changed, and they sent me here instead.” He
sighed and pulled back. His palms burned her thighs through her yoga pants. “Family emergency.” She
raised her brow. But he only answered, “Business.” And then focused on the skyline over her
shoulder. The Vegas lights surrounded them through the wrap-around floor-to-ceiling windows of his
suite.
“So, you would give me the money. Help me travel?”
“If that’s what you want…” His brown grizzly eyes snapped back to hers. “I have the money. I can
arrange it.”
“And you’d do all this for me. That’s amazing.” Her heart sang. He really was the sweetest man.
Sexy and sweet. Why hadn’t some woman snatched him up a long time ago? He was too generous to
wander around Vegas unattached. Women probably figured he was a user like everyone else in the
town. “I can’t believe you’d do that for me, and you don’t want anything in return.”
The long curl of his fingers tightened on her thighs, and his bark of laughter stopped the singing.
“Of course I do.”
“Wh… what do you want?”
“I want what you are selling. I will take you. Use you. Be your first. Be the man that breaks you
open. So open, no other man will ever take my place.”
She scrambled backward to jump off his lap. But the soft caress had hardened into steel bands
around her back. Halting her flight. “No, I was going to the auction. For sale to the highest bidder.”
“And now there will be no bidding. I will pay the price.” His brow arched into a blade before his
words sliced her, “And so will you.”
“That’s not what I want. Not what we discussed.”
“Why not? It solves all of your problems. You will sell yourself to a man willing to meet your
price. Willing to provide you with the things you want. And all you have to do in exchange is sleep
with him.”
“Don’t say it like that. I’m not a prostitute.”
His brow sliced up again, cutting right through the flesh of her heart. “It wasn’t going to be like
that. I was going to meet the men first. That’s what you promised. I was going to interview each one
and then pick…”
“The man you desired most. But since we both know that’s me. How lucky you are that I’m
willing to pay your price.”
“I… um. I… I would have to think about it. This is not what I planned.”
His brows lowered, and even the twinkling bright lights of Vegas couldn’t hide the dark cloud that
settled on his face. “Life never is.”
 Chapter 5

T hink about it. She had to think about it. What the fuck did she need to think about? She was his.
He wasn’t selling her to anybody. Hell no. If she didn’t know it, she should. Or she would
before the night was over. He’d slept on his back because it wasn’t comfortable laying on top of the
log that pressed between his belly and the sheet. Taking two cold showers and jacking off in the booth
hadn’t helped, either. The soft, warm feeling of her crotch snuggled up against his lap was a memory
he couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to. He’d like to thank the creator of yoga pants. His new favorite
fashion apparel. He should have an entire trunk of them delivered. She paired the pants with long
loose t-shirts. He hated how the soft cotton shirts shielded her ass from his eyes. But loved them for
the ease at which he could slide his hands under her shirt and caress her velvety bare skin.
Ven slid his hand over the bulge of his dick as he walked to his office desk. Using the remote, he
switched on the live feeds covering one wall of his office. This was the office he preferred. High in
his tower, one floor below his penthouse suite. From this office, he could watch every corner of his
casino, nightclub, pool, and penthouse. Sanyet called it his crow’s nest. Sanyet and his fucking birds.
Ven preferred watching any and everything from a distance.
The family noose had been jerking him around since he was twenty. Forcing him out of college,
dumping the casino on him. Offering him no choices. But here, with the endless streams of information
he controlled, he was in charge. How did I miss you, little witch? How did you slip under the radar
without even a blip?
He zoomed in on the valet stand. Everything appeared to be running smoothly. Cars pulled up, and
the valets helped the customer exit. Taking the car keys to the holding area. And then the runner came,
dressed in their red cap and jacket. Was that how he’d missed her? With the hat pulled low, it was
hard to determine what the faces looked like. But he should have spotted her ass when it climbed into
the car… Or caught the glint from her glossy, plump lips. What happened there? More missing
information. Something made her leave his employ, dissatisfied and angry. Who did it? He would find
out and serve her their head.
 The peal of the phone stole his attention away from the screens. Rurik. “What do you have for
me?” Rurik demanded, never a question or a request. He asked, and you better have his answer. “Did
he take the bait?”
“Yes, Baranov is coming. He doesn’t trust Yuri or anyone else.”
“And he’s not afraid that this is a trap?”
“He thinks we got into the sex for sale game after following his lead.”
“He imagines we would follow him anywhere?”
“He’s still pretty pissed you stole his daughter.”
“I didn’t steal his daughter. Hannah was always mine. He was going to sell something that
belonged to me. Because of his anger.”
“She’s his daughter.”
“He was going to sell her like a whore,” Rurik thundered.
“Something that didn’t bother you because you were going to buy her like one.”
What the fuck was wrong with him? He never challenged Rurik. Never challenged any of them.
He did his job. Fulfilled his responsibility. He ground his teeth together, waiting to have his ass
handed to him. “You forget you’re talking about my wife.”
“So, we should forget that you started this whole mess when you intended to buy her yourself.”
“Giving her a bride gift was not buying her.”
“He was auctioning his daughter’s virginity, and you pissed him off when you married her
instead.”
“He was breaking the rules and code we have sworn to uphold. What do we have if we don’t live
by our code? Should we look for our women on dating apps? Maybe you can start one with your fancy
computers and new ideas. Bratva Brides.com.”
“Sanyet found a woman to fit his life and… culture.” Why was he doing this? And why couldn’t
he stop? “And it seems to have worked out for him. Sanyet and Jessalyn seemed happy enough.”
“We don’t marry for happiness, brother. We marry for honor, for duty, for connections. Which you
should know. Since your betrothed is on her way. Arriving with Baba next week.”
He didn’t need a fucking wedding reminder. He knew precisely when the last knot in his noose
was being tied. Akim Ismailov had selected the exquisite Inessa with her long, flowing hair and dark
doe eyes. How often had he looked at her picture and wondered if there was anything behind them?
Their few conversations told him exactly nothing. She was as strange to him as the surface of the
moon. And she was going to be his wife. If he was going to marry a stranger, why couldn’t it be… No.
He wasn’t going there. Instead, he scrubbed his hand over his head. Wondering if he looked in the
mirror, who would he see? He didn’t know himself. And if he didn’t know himself, his family damn
sure wouldn’t.
“How long before Baranov arrives?”
“He should be here on Sunday.”
“So, five days from now. You’ll have the girl there.”
“No,” he growled.
“The fuck did you say?” The sound of Rurik’s boots hitting the floor bounded across the line. Ven
winced, glad he didn’t see the glare his brother usually aimed like a dagger. Rurik was a hulking ex-
MMA fighter who earned his role in the bratva as an intelligent strategist and a brutal no, gloves,
bare-knuckled fighter. Defeating every challenge to be the second in command of their bratva,
reporting only to their father. And taking shit from no one else. But… “I said no. It’s unnecessary. Her
fucking picture is on the internet for every slobbering, hairy hand pervert to see. Even though we
won’t sell her, we don’t know how many men right now could be plotting to come and take her.
Giving her no fucking choice. We put her out there, and we’ll protect her. She served her purpose.”
“She’ll serve her purpose until I say she served her fucking purpose. Or do you want to take me
on Venedikt?”
So, he was Venedikt now. He ground out, “If I have to.”
A deep inhale crackled the line. “Does she mean that fucking much to you? Your life…”
How did it come to this? Bewitched. Damn, ved’ma. Some weird hocus-pocus. It had to be. But
no one would drool over her in person. If he had to stand between her and fight off a thousand men…
or one Ismailov, he would. He sighed. “Make your plans, Rurik. Do what you have to do. You can
make this work. I delivered Baranov to you. What you and Sanyet do with him afterward is up to
you.”
“If he gets wind, even a breath, that she will not be there. I will hold you responsible…
personally. And brother or not. You will pay for your fuck up.”
No pressure. “I understand.”
“Do you, Venedikt? I don’t think so. I don’t think you know what the fuck you’re doing. But if you
want to risk your life and family for a few days with some virgin pussy. I get it. As long as it doesn’t
fuck up my plans. Baranov arrives on Sunday, and Baba will be here on Tues. You’ll be married on
Weds. Enjoy.”
 ***

Rand shoved his chair away from the desk. Rubbing his hand across his bald head as if he were
shining a billiard ball… “Enough, Ven. We went over this a hundred times.”
“Then we’ll go over it a hundred more. Until…”
“Until what? We collapse in our chairs? Until you knock me the fuck out, or I knock you the fuck
out?” He slammed his fist into a palm. “Look, dude, you need to relax. Chill. Seriously.” He hissed,
flatlining his usually smiling lips. “Yes. I have checked every back door that could point back at you.
Or to anyone connected with the Ismailovs. He doesn’t know. Baranov thinks he’s showing up to
finish his sale, collect his cash and pick up some fresh cherry pie.” A huge smile split his goatee,
breaking up the ruggedness of his charcoal skin.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? Is this a time for jokes? We have the safety of these women on our
heads. We’re fucking assholes for not reporting this shit to the police. They’re safe for now. But one
slip up, and they’re off to a life of fucking hell.”
“Are you worried about all the women, or just one?”
Ven arched his brow. Waiting for him to say another word so he could knock him the fuck out.
He’d been itching to do just that since Rurik’s call. But Rand knew when to shut the fuck up. That was
the problem with having brothers or best friends. “I’m concerned about them all. But only one came
here to us. And so, we’re responsible for her.”
“Is that why you’re keeping her locked in your fucking tower?”
“She isn’t locked. It isn’t a tower. And if she has restricted movement, it’s for her own fucking
good. Her image is out there now, and I’m concerned for her safety.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all you should be fucking worried about. Now, let’s go over the shit one more time. Or a
hundred more times. Until I say, it’s perfect.”
Rand shook his head. “There isn’t a motherfucker alive who is better than you at this internet shit.
And if there is, I want to meet him. Fucking brilliant.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a fucking brilliant person born every day. We take no chances.”
“Okay, last time. Baranov brokered this fucking virgin auction. Men were supposed to meet here
in Vegas for the damn Cherry Convention.” He cringed. “Yeah, I want to vomit every time I say it. But
in Vegas, there’s a convention for every damn thing.”
 “But Vegas can’t have legal prostitution. He has to hold it outside of the city. He’s just the host.
These guys have been snatching cherries from across the country.”
“Stop with the damn fruit analogy.”
“Anyway,” Rand huffed. “The men are bringing their women to the Dusty Rose Hotel and Saloon
outside the city limits. That’s where Yuri, his boots on the ground, is waiting. Making arrangements
and feeling secure that they got this thing covered.”
“Dumb fucks.”
Rand nodded before continuing, “When Baranov arrives, we move in. Sanyet snatches him. Take
the assholes out. Leave the girls there, waiting for the police while the dust settles. If they were taken
against their will, they get a free trip home. And if they were there willingly…”
“Then they make their way to the next auction.”
“Is that what your girl upstairs is going to do?”
“She’s not my girl…”
“Yet.”
“She’s a pawn in Rurik’s game.”
Rand arched his brow. “Is that all she is?”
“What else can she be?”

***

As soon as he entered the suite, Sasha’s long legs planted themselves on the floor. Even from the
door, the long bowstring curve of the calves called to him. Her brown legs were endless, and he
needed them wrapped around his back. Around his face. His dick stiffened in approval. His eyes
made their reluctant travel from the highway of her legs up to her face. Freezing at the stop sign on her
face. She had the most innocent face he’d ever seen. If he could freeze that innocence, preserve it in a
nun’s cloister, protected from all the world, he would. But she didn’t live in a cloister. She would
have her innocence taken away by someone. And damn if it would be anyone other than him.
He managed a clipped nod and grunt at her greeting. Sasha bit her lip. Her teeth pushing down
gently on the soft cushion. The flavor flooded his mouth as if he were still kissing her. Drool pooled
in his mouth, and he swallowed. Forcing it down. Stay in control. “What’s wrong?”
Lean brown fingers palmed the side of her face, curling around her neck and giving her ear a tug
before she clenched her hand and returned it to her side. “I, uh. I was hoping to get started weeding
out offers because the weekend is coming up… And well, there don’t seem to be any requests. Did
the video post?”
“It did.”
She bit her lip again. Her brows centered on her forehead, pushing her nutmeg skin together. “Did
I get any offers?”
“You did.”
Fists balled at her side, and one foot gave a tiny stamp. “Then what’s going on? When do I get to
choose?”
“You made your choice.” Her brows met again, and she cocked her head to the side. He arched
his brow, holding her sterling eyes. “Last night.”
Her hands flew up, curled like talons in his direction before crossing themselves over her heaving
breasts. She gritted her words out through her tightly pursed lips. “I did not. If you’re talking about
the kiss. It was just a kiss. You said I should have a taste of an actual kiss before… I… Before
this…”
“Before you sleep with a stranger. Luckily, now you won’t have to. You’ll be having sex. But it
won’t be with a stranger. No one will be claiming your offer other than me.”
Her mouth dropped open. The juicy lips created a channel almost wide enough for his dick to
traverse. Almost. “You can’t do that.”
“Ved’ma, it’s already done.”
 Chapter 6

“
W hat the…” What was he saying? This wasn’t what she wanted? Was it? He stepped forward.
Invading her space. His breath fanned the heat rising in her cheeks. His searing stare was a
gunshot that set the stampede in her chest off again. “You came here with a plan. It was crazy. It was
nuts. But you had a goal when you stalked my secretary. You saw a way to get the things you’d always
dreamed of in a one-weekend swoop. I see it happen all the time. Someone gets in their car and
drives to Vegas. Bringing their life savings or last paycheck. It doesn’t matter.”
His hand brushed away a tendril from her forehead. Staring at the errand curl before lifting his
knuckles to lift her chin up. Was he going to kiss her again? Did she want him to? Okay, fine, she
did. But should she want him to? “And then what happens?” Her question floated on a whispered
exhale.
“They put it down, every penny on the table. Roll the die and go for it. It’s absolutely insane until
you get that one. One person in a million who fucking wins. Wins it all with one flick of the wrist. It’s
crazy. But you have to respect that kind of guts. Go for it or go home. You’re going for it.”
“I shouldn’t go home? I thought you said it was crazy.”
“It was crazy and dangerous. More dangerous than you know.” His thumb dropped away, and her
chin drooped. Bereft of the warmth. “But now you don’t have to take a risk. You put it all on the table
and won.”
“So, you’re the prize?” The wicked curl of his lip sent a fiery tendril through her body, matching
the heat flaring in his eyes. He nodded.
“Look, it’s simple. You’re selling, and I’m buying. In my country, we say; ‘a swap is not a
swindle.’ It means we both get what we want from the deal.”
“And you don’t mind paying?”
“Men always pay. Everyone pays. Everybody is giving something to get something. I like knowing
your price upfront. Usually, women hide these things. They say they only want a good time, but they
really want a man to pay with his time, feelings, and sweet words.”
 “Money?”
“Of course, money. They may not openly discuss a fee. But for a man in my position, they expect
that a certain amount of money will be spent. Travel, jewelry, dresses, flowers. There is always an
exchange.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
He shoved his fists into his trouser pockets, plunging deep until only his platinum watch with its
diamond-crusted face remained in view.
“It did. Before I realized. When I thought feelings were real. When I believed people were who
they say they were.”
“Ahh, I see..” She sighed. “There was a girl. Or a story.”
“That’s the other way women make you pay. They think they can snap into place with your
secrets, all the little bits of your puzzle. But I don’t negotiate that anymore. I don’t pay with my heart
or my soul.”
“I wasn’t asking for either.”
“So, we have an understanding?”
“We haven’t discussed the amount yet.”
His lip did that lift again. Sexy and frustrating. “Money isn’t a problem. Name your price.”
She threw out a figure wild enough to shake his sexy as hell over-confidence, but he didn’t blink.
“That’s a lot for a one-night stand, even two nights. That’s a week at least.”
“So, you don’t want to quibble over the price, just the time.”
“Non-renewable resources, like time, are always more valuable. Economics 101.”
“Fine.” She slid the air out of her lungs through her slightly open lips. Trying to camouflage her
crazy, ragged breathing. Oh God, what was she doing? Had she really just agreed? His hand reached
out for hers. Beckoning like the dark hand of the devil tempting her to sin. Her hand rose like a puppet
master, tugged on its marionette strings.
They shook on the deal. She wiped her sweaty palms down the side of her pants. His eyes lit, and
his brows lifted in a coy little wink that let her know he missed nothing. He knew how damn nervous
she was. She’d laid her cards and money on the table, and would she walk away with her winnings?
Would she walk away with her soul?
Another deep inhale shattered her calm facade. “So, when, uh… when do we begin?”
His puppet master hands yanked her to his chest, scooping her up and across his forearms in one
move. “Now.”
 Long, heavy strides carried them across the room, blurring the Vegas skyline as he moved.
“Shouldn’t we wait?”
“I waited.”
“How have you waited? We just agreed…”
“I forget how naïve you are.” She glared at him as he set her down. She wasn’t a country
bumpkin.
“I wanted you since you set foot in my office.”
“But you threw me out. Immediately.”
“That’s how bad I wanted you. You and your damn legs.”
“What’s wrong with my legs?”
“Not a damn thing. Nothing. Fucking perfect.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Understand this. I want you. I’m going to take you. And I’ll make sure you don’t regret it. You
will come so hard that your smart ass mouth won’t have a thing to say besides my name.”
“Don’t have a smart ass…”
“Come so hard that you cream yourself every time you look at me.”
“Done,” she muttered.
“Mark you so deep that any other guy who comes after me will feel the groves my dick left.”
“Not fair.”
“I don’t play fair. I don’t want anybody else exploring after I’m done. So, damn it, I’m going to
make it so you never even imagine yourself with another lover after me.”
“And after me. How many lovers will you take?”
“One. Only one.”
Her brows crinkled, and she tottered as she stepped back to see his face. What the hell did that
mean? “I don’t understand…”
He swallowed her confusion into his mouth. Stealing the questions with his tongue and started to
mark her. Just as he’d claimed, starting with one taste of his lips. His mouth ground down on hers.
Sending every rational thought fleeing. Running away from the flood of feelings. She was drunk.
Wrecked. As he tore through any protests. As if she had any.
“Do you know how hard it was to sleep alone when you were nearby and available? How the
thought of anyone else claiming you made me want to set the casino on fire?”
Another random document with
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 oligarchi. Fu assassinato nel 1832, da Sarah Jenkins, il cui marito era
stato ucciso trent’anni prima dai compagni di Farley, che impedivano gli
scioperi.

85. Le predizioni sociali di Everhard erano degne di nota. Con la stessa

chiarezza, come leggeva gli avvenimenti, prevedeva le defezioni dei
Sindacati privilegiati, la nascita e la lenta decadenza delle caste operaie,
come la lotta fra queste e l’oligarchia, per la direzione della macchina
del Governo.

86. Dobbiamo ammirare l’intuito di Everhard. Molto prima che la semplice

idea di città meravigliose, come Ardis e Asgard, nascesse nella mente
degli oligarchi, egli intravedeva queste città splendide e la necessità
della loro creazione.

87. Da quel giorno, sono passati tre secoli di dominio dell’Uomo, e oggi
calpestiamo le vie e abitiamo le città edificate dagli oligarchi. È vero che
abbiamo continuato a costruire, ma le città degli oligarchi sussistono; io
scrivo queste righe, in Ardis, una dalla più belle fra tutte.

88. Tutti i Sindacati delle ferrovie entrano in questa associazione. È

interessante osservare che la prima vera applicazione della politica delle
«parti dell’avanzo» era stata fatta nel Secolo XIX da un Sindacato di
ferrovieri, «l’Unione Fraterna del Meccanici delle locomotive», della
quale un certo P. M. Arthur era da vent’anni il capo. Dopo lo sciopero
della Pennsylvania Railroad nel 1877, egli sottopose ai meccanici delle
locomotive un disegno secondo il quale avrebbero dovuto intendersi
colla Direzione, staccandosi dagli altri Sindacati. Questo disegno
egoistico riuscì perfettamente; donde la parola «Arthurisation», per
significare la partecipazione dei Sindacati alla spoliazione. L’origine di
questa parola è stata per molto tempo dubbia per gli etimologi; ma mi
pare che tale origine sia ormai ben chiara.

89. Alberto Pocock, altro Farley, godeva, in quei lontani tempi, della stessa
notorietà; e fino alla morte riuscì a tenere soggetti tutti i minatori dal
Paese. Suo figlio, Levis Pocock, gli successe, e durante cinque
generazioni, il rinomato lignaggio del guardiaciurma ebbe la supremazia
sulle miniere di carbone. Pocock, il vecchio, conosciuto col nome di
Pocock Iº, è stato dipinto così: «Una testa lunga e sottile, mezzo
circondata da una frangia di capelli scuri e grigi, con zigomi salienti e un
grosso mento... Colorito pallido, occhi grigi senza splendore, voce
metallica, e un atteggiamento languido.» Era nato da genitori poveri e
aveva cominciato la sua carriera come garzone di bar. Divenne in
 seguito poliziotto privato al servizio di una corporazione di tranvieri e al
trasformò a poco a poco in crumiro di professione.
Pocock Vº, l’ultimo della casata, morì in una camera, per lo scoppio di
una bomba durante una rivolta di minatori sul territorio indiano. Questo
avvenimento ebbe luogo nel 2073 dopo Gesù Cristo.

90. Quei gruppi di azione furono modellati in genere sul tipo delle
organizzazioni consimili della Rivoluzione Russa, e, nonostante gli sforzi
incessanti del Tallone di Ferro, durarono tre secoli, per tutto il periodo di
dominio del Tallone stesso. Composti di uomini e di donne ispirati da
propositi sublimi, e impavidi davanti alla morte, i Gruppi di
Combattimento esercitarono una prodigiosa influenza e moderarono la
brutalità dei governanti. La loro opera non si limitò a una guerra invisibile
contro gli agenti dell’oligarchìa. Gli oligarchi stessi e spesso, persino i
sottocapi degli oligarchi, ufficiali dell’esercito e capi delle caste operaie,
furono obbligati a prendere in considerazione i decreti dei Gruppi.
Le sentenze di questi rivendicatori organizzati erano conformi alla più
rigorosa giustizia; e soprattutto notevole era la loro procedura senza
passione e perfettamente giuridica. Non c’erano giudizi improvvisati.
Quando un uomo era preso, lo si giudicava lealmente e gli si lasciava la
possibilità di difendersi. Necessariamente, molti furono processati e
condannati per procura, come nel caso del generale Lampton, nel 2138
dopo G. C. Questi era forse il più sanguinario e il più crudele dei
mercenarii dell’oligarchia. Fu informato dai Gruppi di Combattimento che
era stato giudicato, riconosciuto colpevole e condannato a morte; e
questo avvertimento gli venne dato dopo di averlo tre volte esortato a
cessare dal trattare ferocemente il proletariato. Dopo questa condanna,
Lampton si circondò d’ogni mezzo di protezione, e, per anni ed anni i
Gruppi di Combattimento si sforzarono invano di eseguire la loro
sentenza. Molti compagni, uomini e donne, fallirono successivamente
nei loro tentativi e furono crudelmente condannati dall’oligarchia. Perciò
fu rimessa in vigore la crocifissione come mezzo di esecuzione legale.
Ma alla fine il condannato trovò il suo boia nella persona di una
giovinetta di diciassette anni, Maddalena Provence, che per ottenere il
suo scopo, serviva da due anni nel palazzo, come guardarobiera. Essa
morì dopo torture orribili e prolungate, in una cella. Ma oggi la sua statua
di bronzo sorge sul Pantheon della Fratellanza, nella meravigliosa Città
di Serles.
Noi che, per esperienza personale, non sappiamo che cosa sia un
omicidio, non dobbiamo giudicare troppo severamente gli eroi dei
Gruppi di Combattimento. Essi hanno dato la loro vita per l’umanità; per
la quale nessun sacrificio sembrava troppo grande. E, d’altra parte, una
 necessità inesorabile li obbligava a dare al loro sentimento una forma
sanguinosa, in un’epoca sanguinaria. I Gruppi di Combattimento furono
l’unica freccia nel fianco che il Tallone di Ferro non potè mai estirparsi. A
Everhard spetta la paternità di questo strano esercito. I suoi successi e
la sua resistenza, durante trecento anni, mostrano la saggezza con la
quale egli organizzò, e la solidarietà della fondazione legata da lui ai
costruttori avvenire. Da certi punti di vista, questa organizzazione può
essere considerata come la sua opera principale, a parte il grande
valore dei suoi lavori economici e sociali e le sue gesta di capo supremo
della Rivoluzione.

91. Condizioni simili si osservano in India, nel secolo XIX, sotto il dominio
britannico. Gli indigeni morivano di fame a milioni, mentre i loro padroni
li privavano del frutto del lavoro e lo spendevano in cerimonie e cortei
feticisti. Non possiamo non vergognarci, in questo secolo di lumi, della
condotta dei nostri antenati, e dobbiamo limitarci a pensare
filosoficamente che nell’evoluzione sociale lo stadio capitalistico sia,
pressa poco, come l’età scimmiesca all’epoca dell’evoluzione animale.
L’Umanità doveva superare quei periodi per uscire dal fango degli
organismi inferiori; e le era naturalmente difficile liberarsi interamente di
quella viscida feccia.

92. Questa espressione è una trovata dovuta al genio di H. G. Wells, che

viveva alla fine del Secolo XIX. Era un veggente, in fatto di sociologia,
uno spirito sano e normale, e nello stesso tempo un cuore veramente
umano. Numerosi frammenti delle sue opere sono giunti fino a noi, e
due delle sue opere migliori: «Anticipations» e «Mankind in the Making»,
ci sono state conservate intatte. Prima degli oligarchi, e prima di
Everhard, Wells aveva preveduto la costruzione di città meravigliose di
cui parla nel suoi libri chiamandole «pleasure cities», città del piacere.

93. Persuasa che le sue memorie sarebbero state lette, nel suo tempo, Avis
Everhard ha tralasciato il risultato del processo per alto tradimento. Ci
sono nel manoscritto molte altre lacune del genere. Cinquantadue
membri socialisti del Congresso, furono giudicati e ritenuti colpevoli.
Cosa strana, però: nessuno fu condannato a morte. Everhard e undici
altri, fra cui Teodoro Donnelson e Matthew Kent, furono condannati al
carcere a vita.
Gli altri quaranta furono condannati, chi a trenta, chi a quarantacinque
anni; e Arturo Simpton, che il manoscritto dice ammalato di tifoidea al
momento dell’esplosione, non ebbe che quindici anni di carcere.
Secondo la tradizione, fu lasciato morire di fame nella sua cella per
punirlo della sua intransigenza ostinata, e del suo odio ardente ed
 assoluto contro tutti i servi del dispotismo. Morì a Cabanas, nell’Isola di
Cuba, dove tre altri de’ suoi compagni erano detenuti. I cinquantadue
socialisti del Congresso furono rinchiusi nelle fortezze militari sparse sul
territorio degli Stati Uniti: così, Dubois e Woods furono rinchiusi a Porto
Rico; Everhard e Merryweather nell’isola di Alcatraz, nella baia di San
Francisco, che da molto tempo serviva da prigione militare.

94. Avis Everhard avrebbe dovuto aspettare molte generazioni prima di

ottenere la rivelazione del mistero. Quasi cento anni fa, e quindi più di
seicento anni dopo la sua morte, fu scoperta negli archivi segreti del
Vaticano, la confessione di Pervaise. Non è forse inopportuno fare un
cenno di quest’oscuro documento sebbene esso non abbia per gli storici
più alcun valore, ormai.
Pervaise, un americano di origine francese, nel 1913 era prigioniero a
Nuova York, in attesa di essere processato per omicidio. Sappiamo,
dalla sua confessione, che senza essere un criminale indurito, aveva un
carattere impulsivo, impressionabile ed appassionato. In un impeto di
gelosia folle aveva ucciso la moglie, cosa abbastanza comune, a quel
tempo. Il terrore della morte si impadronì di lui, come raccontò egli
stesso; e per sfuggirle si sentì disposto a fare qualunque cosa. Gli
agenti segreti, per ridurlo alle loro mire, gli confermarono che si era reso
colpevole di omicidio di primo grado, delitto che era punito colla pena
capitale, giacchè il condannato veniva legato a una poltrona apposita, e
per cura di medici specialisti era ucciso dalla corrente elettrica. Questo
modo di esecuzione chiamato elettrocuzione, era molto in voga, a quel
tempo: solo tempo dopo, fu sostituito dall’anestesia. Quest’uomo, che
non aveva cuore cattivo, ma una natura superficiale improntata a
un’animalità violenta, a che aspettava in una cella l’inevitabile morte, si
lasciò facilmente convincere a gettare una bomba alla Camera.
Dichiara, anzi, nella sua confessione, che gli agenti del Tallone dì Ferro
gli affermarono che l’ordigno sarebbe stato inoffensivo, e che non
avrebbe ucciso nessuno. Egli fu introdotto di nascosto in un palco
ostentatamente chiuso col pretesto ch’era in riparazione, e, incaricato di
scegliere il momento opportuno per gettare la bomba, conferma
ingenuamente che tanto era l’interessamento pel discorso di Ernesto e
pel tumulto suscitato da questo, che per poco non dimenticò il compito
affidatogli.
Non soltanto Pervaise fu liberato, ma gli fu concessa una pensione per
tutta la vita. Ma non potè fruirne a lungo: nel settembre del 1914 fu
colpito da reumatismo al cuore e morì dopo tre giorni. Allora mandò a
chiamare un prete cattolico, al quale fece la confessione. Il Padre
Durban, considerandola molto grave, la scrisse e la firmò, come
testimonio. Noi possiamo soltanto fare delle congetture su quanto
avvenne dopo. Il documento era certo abbastanza importante per
trovare la via di Roma. Potenti influenze furono messe in movimento per
evitare la divulgazione. Soltanto nel secolo scorso, Lorbia, il celebre
scienziato italiano, durante le sue ricerche, lo scoprì. Oggi, dunque, non
rimane alcun dubbio che il Tallone di Ferro sia il responsabile
dell’esplosione del 1913. Ed anche se la confessione di Pervaise non
avesse mai veduto la luce non vi sarebbe potuto essere dubbio
ragionevole: quell’atto che mandò in prigione cinquantadue deputati, è
della stessa natura degli altri innumerevoli delitti commessi dagli
oligarchi, e, prima di essi, dai capitalisti.
Come esempio classico di massacri di innocenti, commessi con ferocia
e indifferenza, bisogna citare quello dei cosiddetti anarchici di
Haymarket, a Chicago, nella penultima decade del secolo XIX. Bisogna
considerare a parte l’incendio doloso e la distrazione dei possedimenti
capitalistici compiuti dai capitalisti medesimi. Per delitti di questo genere
furono puniti numerosi innocenti, messi in ferrovia, (railroaded) secondo
un’espressione usata allora, nel senso che i giudici si erano intesi prima,
per liquidare i conti.
Durante le rivolte del lavoro che scoppiarono nella prima decade del
secolo XX fra i capitalisti e la Federazione Occidentale dei Minatori, fu
adoperata una tattica simile, ma più sanguinosa. Gli agenti dei capitalisti
fecero saltare in aria la stazione della ferrovia a Indipendenza: tredici
uomini furono uccisi, e molti altri feriti. I capitalisti che guidavano il
meccanismo legislativo e giudiziario dello Stato del Colorado,
accusarono di questo delitto i minatori e per poco non li fecero
condannare. Romaines, uno degli strumenti di questo «affare», era in
prigione in un altro Stato, nel Kansas, quando gli agenti del capitalisti gli
proposero il colpo. Ma le confessioni di Romaines furono pubblicate
durante la sua vita, al contrario di quelle di Pervaise. Nello stesso
tempo, vi fu ancora il caso di Moyer e Haywood, due capi di lavoratori,
forti e risoluti: l’uno presidente e l’altro segretario della Federazione
Occidentale dei Minatori. L’ex Governatore dell’Idaho era stato
assassinato misteriosamente; i socialisti e i minatori avevano
apertamente incolpato di questo delitto i proprietarî delle miniere. Pure,
violando le norme costituzionali statali, in seguito a una intesa fra i
governatori dell’Idaho e del Colorado, Moyer e Haywood furono presi,
gettati in carcere e accusati dell’omicidio.
Questo fatto provocò la seguente protesta di Eugenio V. Deba, capo del
Socialismo americano: «I capi del lavoratori, che non si possono
corrompere, si arrestano o si assassinano. Moyer e Haywood, sono
 colpevoli soltanto del reato di fedeltà tenace e inconcussa alla classe
operaia. I capitalisti hanno spogliato il nostro paese, corrotto la nostra
politica, disonorato la nostra giustizia; ci hanno calpestato coi loro
scarponi ferrati, ed ora si propongono di ammazzare coloro che non
sono così abbietti da sottomettersi al loro brutale dominio. I governatori
del Colorado e dell’Idaho non fanno che eseguire gli ordini dei loro
padroni: i plutocrati. La lotta è incominciata fra i lavoratori e la
plutocrazia. Questa può, sì, assestare il primo colpo violento, ma noi
daremo l’ultimo».

95. Questa scena ridicola costituisce un documento tipico dell’epoca, e

dipinge bene la condotta di quel padroni senza cuore. Mentre il popolo
moriva di fame, i cagnolini di lusso avevano delle speciali cameriere. Il
travestimento dì Avis Everliard era una cosa ben pericolosa, ma era un
caso di vita o di morte ed era in gioco la causa, ed è perciò da
considerarsi veritiero.

96. Pullman, si chiamavano così le vetture più lussuose dei treni di quel
tempo, dal nome del loro inventore.

97. Nonostante i continui pericoli, quasi inimmaginabili, Anna Roylston

raggiunse la bella età di anni novantuno. Come i Pococks sfuggirono
agli esecutori del Gruppi di Combattimento, essa sfidò quelli del Tallone
di Ferro. Prospera in mezzo ai pericoli, la suo vita sembrava protetta da
un sortilegio. Essa stessa si era fatta giustiziera per conto di Gruppi di
Combattimento: la chiamavano la Vergine Rossa e diventò una delle
eroine della Rivoluzione. All’età di sessantanove anni, uccise Halcliffe «il
sanguinario», circondato da una scorta, e scappò, senza neppure una
scalfittura. Morì di vecchiaia nel suo letto, in un rifugio segreto e sicuro
di rivoluzionarî, sulle montagne di Ozark.

98. Socialista Labor Party.

99. Nonostante tutte le ricerche fra i documenti dell’epoca, non abbiamo

potuto trovare nessuna allusione al personaggio in questione. Non ne
parla che il manoscritto di Everhard.

100. Il viaggiatore curioso che si dirigesse verso il Sud, partendo da Glen-

Ellen, si troverebbe su un viale che segue precisamente l’antica strada
di sette secoli or sono. Un quarto di miglio da Glen-Ellen, dopo aver
passato il secondo ponte, vedrebbe a destra un botro che si estende
come una cicatrice, attraverso un gruppo di monticelli boscosi. Questo
botro rappresenta il posto dove si esercitava l’antico diritto di passaggio
che esisteva in quel tempo di proprietà individuale attraverso i terreni di
 un certo signor Chauvet, pioniere francese venuto in California all’epoca
del cercatori d’oro. I monticelli boscosi, sono quelli di cui parla Avis
Everhard. Il grande terremoto del 2368, staccò il fianco di uno di quei
rialzi che riempì il baratro ove gli Everhard avevano il loro rifugio. Ma
dopo la scoperta del manoscritto sono stati fatti degli scavi, ed è stata
trovata la casa con le due camere interne contenenti gli utensili
accumulati durante una lunga residenza. Fra le altre reliquie degne di
nota, è stato trovato l’apparecchio distruttore del fumo, di cui si parla in
questo racconto. Gli studiosi che si interessassero dell’argomento in
questione, potrebbero leggere il volume di Arnold Bentham, che uscirà
in questi giorni.
A un miglio a nord ovest dei monticelli, si trova l’area della Wake Robin
Lodge, alla confluenza della Wild Water e della Sonoma. Osserviamo di
sfuggita che la Wild Water si chiamava un tempo Graham Greek, come
si legge in alcune vecchie carte. Ma il nuovo nome perdura. A Wake
Robin Lodge, Avis Everhard dimorò, poi, a parecchie riprese, quando,
mutatasi in agente provocatore del Tallone di Ferro, potè rappresentare
impunemente la sua parte, in mezzo agli uomini e agli avvenimenti. Il
permesso ufficiale le fu concesso da un signorotto non meno autorevole
del signor Wickson, l’oligarca secondario di cui tratta il manoscritto.

101. In quest’epoca il travestimento diventò una vera arte. I rivoluzionarî

avevano delle scuole di attori in tutti i loro rifugi. Sdegnavano gli
accessorî degli artisti ordinari come false barbe e parrucche, ch’erano
una trappola. Il travestimento doveva essere fondamentale, intrinseco,
doveva costituire nell’individuo come una seconda natura. Si racconta
che la Vergine Rossa fosse diventata seguace di quest’arte, alla quale si
deve il successo della lunga carriera di lei.

102. Queste sparizioni erano uno degli orrori dell’epoca. Di esse si parla
continuamente, nelle canzoni e nelle storie. Erano un risultato inevitabile
della guerra insidiosa che infuriò durante quei tre secoli. La cosa era
però frequente anche presso gli oligarchi e le classi operaie. Senza
preavviso, senza chiasso, uomini, donne e bambini sparivano; non si
rivedevano più, e la loro fine rimaneva avvolta nel mistero.

103. Du Bois, attuale bibliotecario di Ardis, discende in linea diretta da quei

rivoluzionarî.

104. Oltre le caste operaie, vi era la casta militare formata da un esercito

regolare di soldati di professione, i cui ufficiali erano membri
dall’Oligarchia, conosciuti tutti col nome di Mercenarî. Questa istituzione
sostituiva la milizia, divenuta impossibile sotto il nuovo regime. Era stato
 istituito un servizio segreto di Mercenarî, oltre quello del Tallone di Ferro,
ch’era un che di mezzo fra l’esercito e la polizia.

105. Solo dopo la sconfitta della seconda rivolta, il gruppo dei Rossi di San
Francisco ricominciò a prosperare; e per due generazioni fu fiorente.
Allora un agente del Tallone di Ferro riuscì a farsi ammettere in esso e a
penetrarne tutti i segreti, conducendolo così alla fatale distruzione. Ciò
accadde nel 2002. I membri del Gruppo furono giustiziati, ad uno ad
uno, a tre settimane d’intervallo, e i loro cadaveri furono esposti nel
Ghetto del Lavoro di San Francisco.

106. Il rifugio di Benton Harbour era una catacomba la cui entrata era
abilmente dissimulata da un pozzo. È stata conservata in buono stato;
così che i visitatori possono attualmente percorrere il labirinto dei
corridoi fino alla sala delle riunioni, dove certamente avvenne la scena
descritta da Avis Everhard. Più oltre, sono le celle dove erano tenuti i
prigionieri, e la camera mortuaria dove avevano lungo le esecuzioni; più
lontano ancora, il cimitero: un insieme di lunghe e tortuose gallerie
scavate nella roccia, aventi, a ogni lato, nicchie dove riposano i
Rivoluzionari ivi deposti dai loro compagni, da tanti anni ormai.

107. A quest’epoca vi era ancora la poligamia in Turchia.

108. Il fior fiore del mondo artistico e intellettuale era composto di

rivoluzionarî. Ad eccezione di pochi musicisti e cantanti e di qualche
oligarca, tutti i grandi creatori dell’epoca, tutti coloro i cui nomi sono
giunti sino a noi, appartenevano alla rivoluzione.

109. Anche in quest’epoca la panna e il burro si estraevano ancora dal latte

di vacca, con procedimenti grossolani. Non era incominciata la
preparazione chimica del cibi.

110. Nei documenti letterarî dell’epoca si parla costantemente dei poemi di

Rudolph Mendenhall, che i suoi compagni chiamavano «La Fiamma».
Era di grande ingegno, però, tranne qualche frammento fantastico, citato
da altri autori, di lui non ci è giunto altro. Fu giustiziato dal Tallone di
Ferro, nel 1928.

111. Il caso di questo giovanotto non è straordinario. Molti figli d’oligarchi,

moralmente o romanticamente, votarono la loro vita all’ideale
rivoluzionario, spinti da un sentimento di onestà o dal fatto che la loro
fantasia era stata sedotta dall’aspetto glorioso della rivoluzione. Già
prima molti figli di nobili russi avevano fatto lo stesso, durante la lunga
rivoluzione del loro paese.
112. I Mercenarî ebbero una parte importante, negli ultimi tempi del Tallone di
Ferro. Essi mantenevano l’equilibrio del potere nei conflitti fra Oligarchi e
caste operaie, gettando il peso della loro forza sull’uno o sull’altro
piattello, secondo il gioco degli intrighi e delle cospirazioni.

113. Dall’inconsistenza e incoerenza del capitalismo, trassero tuttavia gli

Oligarchi una nuova etica coerente e definita, decisa e rigida come
l’acciaio, la più assurda e la meno scientifica e nello stesso tempo la più
possente che abbia mai servito una classe di tiranni. Gli oligarchi
credevano nella loro morale, sebbene essa fosse smentita dalla biologia
e dall’evoluzione, e per tre secoli poterono arrestare il movimento
potente del progresso umano: esempio profondo, terribile, sconcertante
per il moralista metafisico, e che deve ispirare al materialista molti dubbi
e ritorni su se stesso.

114. Ardis fu terminata nel 1924, e Asgard nel 1984. La costruzione di

quest’ultima durò cinquantadue anni, e occorse un lavoro continuo di
mezzo milione di servi. In certi periodi, il loro numero superò il milione,
senza tener conto delle centinaia di migliaia di lavoratori privilegiati e di
artisti.

115. Fra i Rivoluzionarî, c’erano numerosi chirurghi che avevano acquistato

una grande abilità nella vivisezione. Secondo le parole stesse di Avis
Everhard, potevano letteralmente trasformare un uomo in un altro. Per
essi l’eliminazione di cicatrici e deformità era un gioco. Mutavano le
linee del volto con tale cura minuziosa, che non rimaneva traccia
dell’operazione. Il naso era uno degli organi preferiti per tali operazioni.
Innestare la pelle e trasportare i capelli era una cosa ordinaria per essi,
che ottenevano cambiamenti d’espressione, con un’abilità strana, e
modificavano radicalmente gli occhi, le sopracciglia, le labbra, la bocca,
le orecchie. Mediante speciali procedimenti, alla lingua, alla gola, alla
laringe, alle fosse nasali, poteva essere modificato persino il modo di
parlare. A quell’epoca di disperazione occorrevano rimedî disperati, e i
medici rivoluzionarî assurgevano all’altezza del tempi. Tra gli altri
prodigi, era la possibilità d’ingrandire un adulto di tre o quattro pollici o
rimpicciolirlo di uno o due. La loro arte oggi è perduta. Non ne abbiamo
più bisogno.

116. Chicago era il pandemonio industriale del XIX secolo.

Viene riferito in proposito un curioso aneddoto di John Burns, grande
capo socialista inglese, che fu per qualche tempo membro del
Gabinetto. Egli visitava gli Stati Uniti quando, a Chicago, un giornalista
gli domandò cosa pensasse di questa città: «Chicago! — rispose, — è
 un’edizione tascabile dell’inferno». Poco tempo dopo, mentre
s’imbarcava per ritornare in Inghilterra, un altro reporter lo avvicinò per
chiedergli se avevo modificato la sua opinione su Chicago: «Sì,
certamente! — rispose John Burns — La mia opinione attuale è che
l’inferno è un’edizione tascabile di Chicago».

117. Nome del treno reputato, a quell’epoca, il più rapido del mondo.

118. A quell’epoca la popolazione era così rada che pullulavano le bestie

selvatiche ed erano un vero flagello. In California si introdusse l’uso
delle cacce battute contro i conigli. A un dato giorno, tutti i fittavoli d’una
località si riunivano e percorrevano la contrada in linee convergenti,
spingendo i conigli a ventine di migliaia verso un recinto preparato
prima, dove uomini e ragazzi li uccidevano a colpi di randello.

119. Si è a lungo chiesto se il ghetto del sud fosse stato incendiato

incidentalmente o volontariamente dai Mercenarî. Ora è assodato che
furono questi ad appiccar l’incendio

120. Molte case resistettero più di una settimana: una di esse resistette
undici giorni. Ogni casa fu presa d’assalto come un forte, e i Mercenarî
furono obbligati ad attaccare piano per piano. Fu una lotta micidiale.
Non si chiedeva nè si concedeva tregua. In quel genere di
combattimento, i rivoluzionarii avevano il vantaggio di essere in alto.
Furono alla fine distrutti, ma a prezzo di forti perdite. Il fiero proletariato
di Chicago si mostrò degno della sua antica reputazione. Tanti morti
ebbe, altrettanti nemici uccise.

121. Gli annali di questo intermezzo di sconforto furono scritti col sangue. La
vendetta era il motivo dominante; i membri delle organizzazioni terroriste
non si preoccupavano punto della loro vita e non sapevano nulla
dell’avvenire. I Danites, ch’ebbero nome dagli angeli vendicatori della
Mitologia dei Mormoni, e origini nelle montagne del Great West, si
sparsero lungo tutta la costa del Pacifico, dal Panama all’Alaska. Le
Valchirie erano una organizzazione di donne, e la più terribile di tutte.
Non era ammessa nell’organizzazione se non colei che avesse avuto
parenti prossimi assassinati dall’Oligarchia. Avevano la crudeltà di
torturare i loro prigionieri fino alla morte. Un’altra famosa organizzazione
femminile era quella delle Vedove di Guerra. I Berserkers (guerrieri
invulnerabili della mitologia scandinava) formavano un gruppo affine a
quello delle Valchirie, composto di uomini che non davano importanza
alla vita. Furono essi a distruggere completamente la città dei Mercenarî
chiamata Bellona, con una popolazione di più di centomila anime. I
Bedlamiti e i Helldamiti erano associazioni gemelle di schiavi. Una
 nuova setta religiosa, che non prosperò a lungo, si chiamava «Lo
sdegno di Dio». Questi gruppi di gente terribilmente seria, avevano i
nomi più fantastici; fra gli altri: «I cuori sanguinanti»; «I figli dell’alba»;
«Le stelle mattutine»; «I fenicotteri»; «I tre triangoli»; «Le tre Barre»; «I
Rubonici»; «I Vendicatori»; «Gli Apaches» e gli «Erebusiti».

122. Qui è interrotto il manoscritto di Everhard. Fu interrotto bruscamente, a

mezzo d’una frase. Avis dovette essere avvisata dell’arrivo dei
Mercenarî, perchè ebbe tempo di mettere in salvo il manoscritto prima di
scappare o di essere fatta prigioniera. È doloroso che non sia vissuta
per finirlo, poichè avrebbe certamente fatta la luce sul mistero che, da
settecento anni, avvolge la condanna e la morte di Ernesto Everhard.
 Nota del Trascrittore

Ortografia e punteggiatura originali sono state

mantenute, correggendo senza annotazione minimi
errori tipografici.
Copertina creata dal trascrittore e posta nel pubblico
dominio.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IL TALLONE DI
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