F*cked by the Sinner (Russian Torpedo

Book 4) Hayley Faiman

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F*CKED BY THE SINNER
A RUSSIAN TORPEDO NOVEL
HAYLEY FAIMAN
HAYLEY FAIMAN BOOKS, LLC
 C O NT E NT S

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RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Hayley Faiman
F*cked by the Sinner

Copyright © 2022 by Hayley Faiman

All rights reserved.
Editor: My Brother’s Editor. Ellie McLove. http://www.mybrotherseditor.net
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at: http://hayleyfaiman.com
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A L S O B Y H AY LEY FA I M A N

Men of Baseball Series—

Pitching for Amalie
Catching Maggie
Forced Play for Libby
Sweet Spot for Victoria

Russian Bratva Series —

Owned by the Badman
Seducing the Badman
Dancing for the Badman
Living for the Badman
Tempting the Badman
Protected by the Badman
Forever my Badman
Betrothed to the Badman
Chosen by the Badman
Bought by the Badman
Collared by the Badman

Notorious Devils MC —
Rough & Rowdy
Rough & Raw
Rough & Rugged
Rough & Ruthless
Rough & Ready
Rough & Rich
Rough & Real

Cash Bar Series —

Laced with Fear
Chased with Strength
Flamed with Courage
Blended with Pain
Twisted with Chaos
Mixed with trouble

SAVAGE BEAST MC —
 UnScrew Me
UnBreak Me
UnChain Me
UnLeash Me
UnTouch Me
UnHinge Me
UnWreck Me
UnCage Me

Unfit Hero Series —

CONVICT
HERO
FRAUD
KILLER
COWBOY

Zanetti Famiglia Series —

Becoming the Boss
Becoming his Mistress
Becoming his Possession
Becoming the Street Boss
Becoming the Hitman
Becoming his Wife
Becoming her Salvation

Prophecy Sisters Series —

Bride of the Traitor
Bride of the Sea
Bride of the Frontier
Bride of the Emperor

Astor Family Series —

Hypocritically Yours
Egotistically Yours
Matrimonially Yours
Occasionally Yours

Nasty Bastards MC —
Ruin My Life
Tame My Life
Start My Life
Dance into My Life
 Shake Up My Life
Repair My Life
Sweeten My Life

Russian Torpedo—
Stolen by the Sinner
Bound to the Sinner
Caught by the Sinner
F*cked by the Sinner
Stripped by the Sinner
Rejecting the Sinner
Loved by the Sinner

Offspring Legends—
Between Flaming Stars
Beautiful Unwanted Wildflower

Esquire Black Duet Series –

DISCOVERY
APPEAL

Forbidden Love Series —

Personal Foul
Kinetic Energy

Standalone Titles
Royally Relinquished: A Modern Day Fairy Tale
 S TAY C O N N E C T E D

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You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.
— ALBERT EINSTEIN
 RU S S I A N B R AT VA S T RU C T U R E

Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

Sovietnik – Councilor: Adviser and most close trusted individuals to the Pakhan.
Obshchak – The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.
Brigadier – Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.
Boyevik – Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.
Kryshas – Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.
Torpedo – Contract Killers
Byki – Bulls: Bodyguards
Shestyorka – Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.
 C HAPTER 1

ZINAIDA

M yunderstand
father stares at the man across from him. He’s pissed off, but at the same time, I don’t
why. The man knows the truth. He’s figured it out just like everyone else does who
has paid attention to anything.
He is very much not running this Bratva.
I do more than he does. I am running the office, the books, and his calendar. I do everything but try
to hide my involvement. My father just physically and mentally can’t do it anymore. My father isn’t a
good man, but he’s also not a well man at the same time. He needs help, but he would never admit
that. The doctor informed me last night that he only has about a month left to live.
“The doctor has told me exactly how long you have left, Vova. One month and your Bratva, all of
your men, will be without a Pakhan. What happens then, hmm?”
My father shifts in his chair. I can see the pain in his eyes as they flick to the side before he moves
them back to meet this man’s. This Pakhan who has already taken over Fyodor Davydov’s territories.
This Pakhan who is as ruthless as he is handsome.
“I will appoint someone to take my place,” my father grinds out.
“Who?” he asks. “Nikita has made it very clear his wishes. I will always honor Nikita’s wishes.”
Nikita is the Pakhan of all Pakhans. Nobody has to follow his demands, but life is much easier
when you do. He has more power and control than anyone else in the Bratva, and more men at his
back, too. Even in Russia, this man can rule the entire world.
My father knows exactly what Nikita wants, too. He knows exactly what this man is referencing
because Nikita was here just a few weeks ago to tell him just that. My father didn’t want to hear any
of it then, and he doesn’t want to hear it now, either. What he wants is to live forever and for none of
the reality of life to happen.
He is in denial that his life is ending. I personally can’t wait for it to be done and over with. I’m
exhausted and he’s not the doting, loving father to me. He’s cruel. Though he has not declared who
will take over in his place, he has not done anything that I know of. Nothing except hide out and be in
denial. Nothing except continuing to be cruel… every minute of every day.
The Pakhan’s gaze shifts from my father to me. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes finding mine,
but he doesn’t say anything. I wait, but he just sighs as he shakes his head a couple of times. Then he
finally speaks.
“You leave me no choice then, Vova. It will be hostile.”
“Then war it is. Be prepared to lose,” my father foolishly announces.
The Pakhan stands and I watch him turn and walk out of my father’s office. My father slumps in
his chair, his body exhausted and defeated. I want to scream at him, to tell him to stop being so damn
foolish.
“Zina,” he rasps. Turning my head, I look at him. “I will broker a marriage with you and one of
my men. My man will take over and you will help him. I refuse to have my Bratva run by anyone
except one of my men.”
I don’t talk back to my father. I never have and I never will. I learned a long time ago to keep my
mouth shut and do whatever is expected of me. Instead, I nod my head once, then stand to my feet.
Turning from him, I start to walk out of the office, hoping to catch the Pakhan before he’s left the
premises.
Tugging the door open, my father calls out my name. Looking back over my shoulder, my eyes find
his.
“You’ll marry the man I choose and be whatever brand of whore he demands.”
There’s my father.
That’s the man who raised me. The man who gives no fucks about me as a person. Who raised me
to be nothing except a possession on a man’s arm—to be a man’s whore, as he so eloquently puts it.
“Yes,” I say softly, knowing that if I do not acknowledge him, he will likely throw something at
me, whatever is closest.
Slipping from the room, I start to run toward the front door. My feet carry me quickly, and as soon
as I am able, I call out his name, using it for the first time since he arrived.
“Kazimir.”
He is standing at his sexy car and lifts his head, his eyes finding mine. There is a moment of
silence as he watches me continue to hurry toward him.
“Nikita wants this. I know that you are telling us the truth,” I say.
He jerks his chin, which I assume is a silent instruction for me to continue. “He’s going to marry
me off to one of his men so that he can take over. He’ll do it quickly too.”
“This, you do not want?”
I shrug a shoulder. “To marry one of my father’s men?” I ask.
He nods his head.
Rolling my lips together, I don’t answer him right away. Instead, I clear my throat and take a step
forward. I want to tell him that I would rather die. I don’t know many of my father’s men, but I’ve
seen enough from the few that are high ranking and have been to the house to know that I would not
want to marry any of them.
“Who would want to marry a man that I know without a doubt is going to beat me, going to control
me, and is going to die in a war that we will not win?”
“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
Those words should probably offend me, but they don’t. They don’t surprise me at all. This is
who people think I am, because I am a woman, because I am Vova’s daughter, it is without a doubt
expected of me to be kept in the dark, and also kept stupid at the same time.
“Nikita backs you. There is no reason for me to have pride like that.”
His lips twitch into a smirk and he clears his throat, then jerks his chin again. “What do you want,
Zinaida?” he asks me.
 “To not just survive, but to live. I want a life.”
His lips curve into an even wider smile and he dips his chin. “I think we can achieve that, Zina.”

OSIP

RUSLAN WALKS TOWARD ME. He’s just completed a hit that Kazimir asked of him. The hit of a Pakhan
in Northern California, a small territory, but one that will need to be taken over shortly. However,
there is no doubt that judging by the look on his face, he feels as if he’s done something wrong.
Killing Pakhans isn’t something we normally approve of or condone. You don’t kill your
coworkers just because. However, as far as I know, this is a direct order straight from the top, so
we’ll do whatever Nikita wants… within reason.
“You good?” I ask.
He shrugs a shoulder, sinking down in the chair across from mine. It’s late and we’re hanging out
in the VIP area of Vecherinka. The waitress brings over a drink for each of us, and honest to fucking
God, I need this drink more than I need breath right about now.
Lifting my hand, Ruslan toasts, and we clink our glasses together. Bringing the drink to my lips, I
lean back in my chair and take a sip and close my eyes as the liquid flows through my body. It’s been
a long day and it’s about to get longer.
Kazimir has a plan for me, for the Bratva, and I’m not sure I’m ready to implement it at all. He’s
told me what it is, and I just don’t know if I’m ready for it. Nikita has decided to make him some kind
of fucking overlord or some shit, which means he needs men that he can trust to take over other
Bratvas.
One of those men is me, he’s already told me, and he wants me to take over the area of San Jose.
Fuck me, I do not want to live in San Jose. I love Southern California. It’s warm and comfortable
here. Northern California doesn’t have as even-tempered weather and I am not excited about making
my home there. I don’t know why he couldn’t have kept me here, maybe had me take over somewhere
in San Diego.
I’m LA bred through and through.
“Yeah, I’m good enough,” he mutters, finally answering me. “Be better if one of those girls would
come up here and choke on my dick for a while.”
Laughing, I stand to my feet and walk over to the small balcony so that I can look down at the
dance floor. I can spot the women who would do just that for a little extra money. They aren’t hard to
find. They’re our women. I know most of them personally and biblically.
“Maybe we should go and visit Arseny and his women?” I ask.
Arseny has just started a brothel for Kazimir and the Bratva. Something that he claims he has
experience in from Russia. I’ll believe it when I see it, which I haven’t done yet because I’ve been so
damn busy with everything else that I haven’t had a chance.
Ruslan grunts behind me but doesn’t say anything. Turning around slowly, I see Kazimir make his
way toward us. He looks like he’s got something on his mind. I don’t have the fucking energy for any
more shit. I need a couple weeks off and a goddamn fucking vacation.
“I don’t have it in me to do anything else today,” I mutter loud enough for Ruslan to hear, voicing
my thoughts.
“I feel the same fucking way.”
 Kazimir walks over to the small bar that is up here just for us and I watch as the bartender pours
him some vodka, then he heads straight in our direction.
“You get that shit done?” Kazimir asks, looking directly at Ruslan.
He dips his chin in a nod, then clears his throat to verbally confirm. “It’s done, Pakhan.”
“Good,” he murmurs before he takes a sip from his glass.
Slowly, his eyes swing over to mine. He watches me for a moment, none of us speaking, then he
lets out a laugh. “You got a minute to talk about something?”
“This have to do with Northern California, San Jose specifically?” I ask.
“You know that it does,” he says with a chuckle. “Some things have come up with the situation.
You need a wife?” he asks.
My eyes widen and I start to cough as I look over to him. I don’t answer him immediately. I’m not
quite sure how to answer him, mainly because I don’t know what the fuck to say. Who the fuck needs
a wife? I’ve lived my whole life without one, and I had always intended to stay that way.
I’m almost forty years old and I’ve never had the desire for one, not sure that I do now either. But
my Pakhan is asking me, the way he’s looking at me, I have a feeling that I’m not going to have a
choice in the matter.
I’m pretty fucking certain that he’s got some kind of plan working in the back of his head. A plan
that he won’t tell me until it’s time, so there’s no sense in even fucking asking him. Although, it’s clear
to me that this plan includes fucking marriage, and I’m not sure I’m down for that shit.
 C HAPTER 2

OSIP

“Y ou’reHenotnods
serious?” I ask.
his head, his face completely serious and devoid of all humor. “I certainly am.
That man is going to marry her off to some idiot. It’s going to cause a headache that we don’t need, the
best thing is to cut it off at the head. We handle this now and it will be a much easier transition.”
“What about him and whoever he’s going to marry her off to? What happens when they discover it
all and start a war anyway?” I ask.
“He’s dead in a month. It won’t matter what he tries to do. He won’t get anything done anyway.
And the other one? We’ll just get rid of him, too.”
Shaking my head, I look him directly in the eye. “Dead in a month isn’t going to matter when he
plans some shit that we can’t stop once it’s set in motion. And you know that whoever the other guy is,
they’ll start that shit.”
Kazimir nods his head a couple of times, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to relent with
anything. He has a plan. A real fucking plan and I’m too tired and too sober to hear this shit or agree
to it in any way.
I’m not sure I like this plan at all. In fact, I think I hate it, because it doesn’t involve me for just a
month or two, it involves me for the rest of my life. What if I fucking hate her? What if she hates me?
What happens when the sex is shit?
“Trust me,” he says. “It’ll work out. I just need a man that I trust.”
“Me?”
“I trust you, Osip. You’ve done an amazing job with your crew. You’ll be under me still, except
you’ll be running a whole fucking operation. You’re ready for it. Vova has a dozen Brigadiers, if not
more. You can do this. You’re ready.”
“Are you ready for what all of this means?” I ask. “To be in charge of not just a small territory,
but of a whole fucking coastline?”
He shrugs a shoulder, his eyes finding mine as he takes another drink from his glass. “Nikita thinks
that I am.”
“Nikita is in Russia,” I point out.
He hums, clearing his throat as his eyes find mine. “This is true. But I trust the man as much as I
trust you.”
Shaking my head, I lift my hand, running my fingers through my hair. I still can’t get past what he’s
asking of me. It’s hard for me to even consider it. A wife? What the actual fuck? Never did I imagine
a wife, not like this, not ever.
A fucking arranged marriage, and to who? Some entitled fucking printsessa.
Fuck.
“So, I’ll be married then? When?”
Kazimir laughs softly before he answers me. This is funny to him, likely because he’s already got
the wife he wants. I’m not really excited about his answer when he says it either.
“Two weeks. We have to get our ducks in a row. I am in contact with the woman, and I will get the
name of the man that her father thinks will be a good match.”
“What happens to him?” I ask.
Kazimir’s eyes find mine and he holds my gaze for a moment, then he clears his throat. “He will
not be salvageable. You must know this. He will never be trustworthy. If Vova has chosen him, then he
will just not be able to be saved.”
“Christ,” I hiss.
“Is it so bad to be married? Got to say, I quite enjoy the experience.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah?” I ask. “Tell me, would you have enjoyed being married to a
stranger and not your Natasha, huh?”
“You have someone else you’d rather marry?” he asks. “Someone that I do not know about?”
Fucker.
“Nyet,” I bark.
He stands to his feet, emptying his glass. Ruslan hasn’t said shit and I don’t blame him. He’s
probably afraid that if he says something, he will have to marry some stranger too. He’s watching the
entire interaction, and I want to offer him up as fucking tribute as well. Does the bitch have a sister
that he can marry?
“Enjoy your evening,” Kazimir begins. “You know that you do not have to change anything about
yourself because you’re married, yeah?”
“Except everything,” I grumble.
“Nyet,” he says. “She’s raised Bratva. She knows what’s expected and what is not. Have your
women and your wife. Nobody will look down on you or think anything less of you. She won’t either.
Make your marriage the one you want. This you know, yes?”
“Yeah,” I grunt.
He laughs, but I call out his name before he walks away from me.
“You got a name?” I ask.
“Want to look her up?”
Jerking my chin, I give him a smirk. He shakes his head, annoyed with me for sure, but then he
gives me something. He throws me a bone.
“Do you better. Check your phone in a few. I’ll send you some pictures. Figure you don’t need a
whole file. Just a few pictures should suffice?”
Pressing my lips together in a thin line, I don’t verbally say shit. He laughs, then walks away from
me. I watch him go. He’s taking his sweet ass fucking time before I turn to Ruslan. Ruslan, who is
trying to hide his smile, but he isn’t any fucking good at it, the bastard.
“What?” I grind out.
“You’re getting married,” he announces, trying to hide his laughter.
 Emptying the contents of my glass in one gulp, I stand. Not wanting to hear his laughter, knowing
that I don’t have a choice, but also knowing if the tables were turned, I would be laughing at him too.
“Yeah, I am. But I’m not married yet. Let’s go see Arseny and his women, yeah?”
“Fuck, yes.”

ZINAIDA

MY FATHER DOESN ’ T SAY anything to me, not that he would. He usually ignores me until he needs me
for something or wants me to do something for him. The man across from me is staring at me as
though I’m going to be his next meal. If my father had his way, that is exactly what I would be.
I know him, and unfortunately, he is one of the men that I was terrified my father would choose for
me.
I refuse.
I’m a traitor.
I am happily a traitor too. Any doubt that I once held has vanished in this moment.
My father will curse me once he finds out the truth. Once he discovers that I am going to marry
someone else. That I have conspired with Kazimir Laskin against him. I don’t care anymore, not that I
ever really did.
Twisting my fork in my fingers, I stare at my plateful of food. It is all bland and foul, a diet that my
father’s doctor thinks will save him, so I must eat it as well. A diet that has not saved him from shit. I
hate the food almost as much as I hate the man himself—my father.
“So, Z, I’ve decided we’ll go to Russia for our honeymoon,” Motya announces. It’s not a question,
it’s not a suggestion.
He has decided.
I hate him.
I also don’t really want to traipse around Russia with this man. The thought of going to another
country with this man terrifies me. I am pretty certain that I won’t make it back into the United States
if I do.
“Russia? Why?” I ask.
He arches a brow and my father coughs, his eyes finding mine and his cruel gaze holding my own.
He doesn’t say anything, likely because he’s saving his strength. It’s been five days since Kazimir was
here, and my father has declined more each day. I’m the worst kind of person. I know that I am, but
each day I wake up and hope that he doesn’t.
I know how that makes me sound. It doesn’t matter though, when your father is Pakhan Vova
Krupin, that is what you pray for every fucking morning… his death.
“It’s where we should always aspire to visit once in our lives, Z.”
I hate his name for me, Z. I’m not a letter. I’m a fucking person with a real goddamn name. I don’t
say that though. Instead, I give him a tight smile. Russia. I don’t want to go back to Russia. That place
holds nothing but bad memories for me.
“You’ve never been?” I ask, trying to change the subject so that I don’t scream at this asshole and
earn more shit from my father.
He stabs his fork into the steak that he is eating, though I didn’t get any red meat because I’m
eating the same boiled chicken as my father. Motya shoves a huge bite of steak in his mouth and chews
with his mouth open. There are little pieces of food flying everywhere and my stomach flips at the
sight.
I don’t think that I’ve ever eaten with him before, and I am so glad that I’m betraying my father
because there is no way that I could be married to this animal for the rest of my life. I don’t even
know that I can finish this one meal with him.
“You have?” he asks.
“I was born there,” I inform him.
His eyes widen, then he frowns. “Didn’t stay long. You don’t have an accent.”
God, what an idiot. Instead of conversing with him for another minute, I tip my chin down and
pretend to be consumed with my food. Thankfully my father takes over the conversation. I ignore
them, my mind shifting to Kazimir and his offer. The offer that I accepted. The offer that makes me a
traitor of the worst kind… or maybe the best kind, depending on who you ask.
I was born in Russia, I lived there for the forming years of my childhood, but when we left, I was
coached not to have an accent. My father thought that I would be more desirable without an accent. I
don’t know who I would be desirable to, or who he wanted me to be desirable to, but that’s why I
don’t have one. Not that I would ever tell Motya any of this.
“They’re going to fight you,” my father announces, looking to Motya.
“Yes, Pakhan,” Motya says. “I will not allow them to win.”
My father laughs, then coughs until he spits out blood. I continue to pick at my food, listening to
them and with every word, feeling as though I’m completely doing the right thing. I already knew that,
but in this moment, I feel almost vindicated.
“You will destroy them. You will take over my Bratva and my daughter.”
Fuck.
I hate this.
I hate all of it, but if I stand up and leave, then I know without a doubt that some kind of decision
is going to be made without me knowing what the fuck it is. Breathing in and out of my nose, I try to
stay fucking calm with my ears open so that I can take in whatever they say.
“You know that I will,” Motya says.
The rest of the evening is small talk, along with business talk. Thankfully, nothing has to do with
anything relating to Kazimir Laskin or marriage. I’m happy with that. Eventually, I excuse myself and
sneak off to my room, making sure to lock the door behind me, then I grab one of my new books.
A brand-new release that I’ve been dying to read. Curling into my chair, I let out a sigh and I
disappear for a while. I’m only happy when I’m reading my books, and I need this after the evening
that I’ve had. I need this happy moment all to myself. A moment where the outside world doesn’t seep
in, that I can just disappear for a few hours.
 C HAPTER 3

OSIP

A name and address are all that Kazimir gives me. I want to know more, but he isn’t giving it to me,
and my social media search has come up completely dry. So, I decide to go searching in person.
I’m not usually someone who researches and watches people. I leave that to other men. I have
way too much shit on my plate to do those things, but this is something that I cannot simply delegate to
someone else.
I need to know more about her. I need to lay eyes on her, a picture is just not enough for me right
now.
The home is large. That doesn’t surprise me. Most men in his position have opulent homes. What
does perplex me is that the grounds are not kept at all. They are overgrown and from the outside
looking in, I would assume that the entire place has been abandoned.
There is movement on the second story of the home that catches my eye.
I see her there.
She’s wearing a robe as she walks out onto the balcony. Her hair is long and it actually fucking
shines in the sun. Her skin is paler than I expect, it is like porcelain. I’ve met her father before, he’s
not dark, but this girl doesn’t look like she sees the sun often at all, there is a translucence to her. That
doesn’t make her any less beautiful. She is a beauty, but she is young.
She looks far younger than I had anticipated.
Finding Kazimir’s name in my phone, I touch the call icon. As the phone rings, I continue to stare
at this creature. She stands on the balcony and just looks straight out. She isn’t with anyone, she isn’t
on the phone, she is just there.
“Heard you took the day off,” Kazimir announces as his greeting.
Taking a cigarette out of the pack, I place it to my lips and then light it. Taking a drag, I let out a
laugh. “I did, and you know what I’m doing right now, so there’s no reason to discuss that.”
He chuckles as well, then I start to speak. I have a question that I need answered. Because I
cannot go forward with this if the answer is not acceptable. I’m almost forty years old, and there is no
fucking way I’ll marry a child.
“How old is she?”
Silence.
 Shifting in my seat, I open my mouth to demand an answer, but Kazimir decides to speak.
“Younger than I would have ever suggested in any other circumstance.”
“Kazimir,” I warn.
“Her father is old school. Though, I don’t know why he didn’t already have an arrangement set up
for her marriage, typically someone like him would have had that ironed out when she was a baby. I
suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. It would be null and void even if he had something set up.”
“Are you going to tell me how old she is?” I ask.
Kazimir lets out a sigh, then he grunts before he speaks. “She turned eighteen last month.”
“Eighteen?” I hiss. “What the fuck am I going to do with an eighteen-year-old?”
He snorts, finding that question goddamn hilarious, and if the tables were turned, I would find this
comical as well. But since it involves me, I do not find this funny in the slightest. Not in the fucking
slightest.
“She’s likely a virgin, so I would guess… teach her what you like.”
“Ty che, blyad?”
My asking Kazimir what the fuck, is obviously hilarious since he bursts out into laughter. Closing
my eyes, I can practically imagine his shoulders shaking on the other end of the phone.
Growling, I almost end the call and toss the device across the car, but I don’t.
Opening my eyes, my gaze shifts to the girl again, she’s still standing on the balcony. Except she’s
no longer staring out into nothingness, her attention is focused right on me. As if she can see inside of
the dark-tinted windows, inside of my car, and straight to my goddamn soul.
“There is nothing else to say, Osip. Think of this as your reward.”
“A child?” I grumble.
“Doubt she will seem as such once she’s legally your wife.”
Ending the call with him, I continue to stare at this woman and wonder how on earth I’m going to
marry her in just a few weeks. Holy shit, but I cannot imagine having this child as my bride. I’ll
definitely have to keep a whore or two, because there is no way I’m going to be able to consummate
the marriage.

ZINAIDA

THE CAR PARKED across the street from me is sexy. It’s black and sleek. It screams money and the
tinted windows shout danger. This is no doubt a Bratva man behind the wheel. I can’t see him, though
I wish that I could.
I don’t know who would be watching me, although I can hope that it is one of Kazimir’s men.
Maybe the one that he’s chosen for my husband. Wouldn’t that be something? I imagine a Pretty
Woman moment where he jumps out of the car and climbs the side of the building to rescue me from
my tower.
It’s not the first time that I’ve imagined such a moment. It’s not even the hundredth.
If it is indeed Kazimir’s man, I only have ten days until I wed him. This stranger that I know
nothing about, not even what color his eyes are. I always hoped that I would be able to pick my
husband, but at the same time, I knew that it was a foolish hope.
I know who I am.
I know who my father is, and it has been no secret that I would marry whomever he chose for me.
This though, what I am about to do, this is an act of defiance of the likes that I didn’t think I was
capable of. I’m actually proud of myself for taking this entire situation by the horns and moving
forward.
I hear my name being called behind me just as the car speeds away. Turning away from the
balcony, I slip back into the house. My bedroom is my only refuge from the world that I have here
with my father, his men, his people, his sickness, his anger, and his wrath. They do not come into this
space and I’m glad for it.
Hurrying, I pull on a dress, slip my feet into high heels, then walk out of the bedroom and down
the stairs. The person calling my name is the doctor. It doesn’t surprise me that he is here, although, I
wasn’t quite expecting him.
“Doctor,” I say, dipping my chin slightly as a sign of respect.
“It’s coming sooner than I originally predicted,” he announces.
“What?” I breathe, my head lifting with a jerk.
I start to panic, not because my father is dying. I’ve known this was coming and since I don’t
really like the man, I can’t really be sad that I’m finally going to be free of him. In fact, I’m a bit
excited, even if it means I’ll just be passed from one controlling man to another. I can’t imagine the
second half of my life will be any worse than the first half.
“I told him to get his final wishes in order. You have about eight days, I would say, maybe less.”
My heart starts to slam against my chest. Thanking the doctor, I turn around and rush back up to my
room. My father’s men monitor my phone, they have since I was a young girl. But they don’t know that
I’ve had a burner phone hidden beneath my mattress for years.
I’m not even sure why I bought it. I suppose it was for high hopes of an actual social life when I
was around fourteen. I found out almost immediately that it was fruitless, but I couldn’t give the phone
up. It’s like this little lifeline, though a lifeline to nothing… except now, now it has come in extremely
handy.
Thankfully, I never did get rid of the phone. And another thankful thing is that Kazimir Laskin gave
me his number just in case something went wrong. Diving down to the side of the bed, I shove my
hand between the mattress and the box spring as I search for the burner phone.
Once I have it in my grip, I pull my arm out and scramble to the bathroom. Locking myself inside,
I turn on the shower and call him. I’m without a doubt certain that my bedroom and bathroom are
under some kind of audio surveillance.
My father isn’t the kind of man to give me even a single ounce of freedom, not even in my own
room. Though my space is my sanctuary, it does not mean that it is exempt from being monitored.
“Laskin,” he grunts. I have no doubt that he is unsure of who is on the other end of the phone.
“Kazimir, it’s Zinaida,” I whisper. “I don’t have much time. The doctor just told me that he will
be gone within eight days. He’s already met with his man that he would like to hand me off to. I’m
afraid that he is going to force this marriage sooner than we anticipated,” I quickly explain.
“Can you get out today?” he asks.
“I might be able to go to the store, then slip away.”
“My man is close. He will get you. Do not put yourself in harm’s way. He will find you and
protect you. His name is Osip.”
The call ends and I am staring at the burner phone. I don’t move, I don’t even breathe as I watch it
for a long moment. Then there is a loud knock on the bathroom door. I jump, almost dropping the
phone.
“Z, it’s me,” Motya calls out.
 He’s in my bedroom. My sanctuary. He is in my space, and I want to scream. But I don’t. I have
bigger fish to fry right now.
I look around the bathroom for a place to stash my phone, but I know that I can’t leave it here, I
might need it. So, I shove it in my bra, then turn the water off. I need to run. I need to get out of here. I
need to fly. Because I will not be able to fight, and I know that more than anyone.
With a shaky hand, I reach for the doorknob and open it, giving him a smile.
“The time has come. The doctor doesn’t think he’ll last much longer,” he announces.
Eight days isn’t a long time, but he is acting like my father is going to die tonight. A shiver of fear
slides down my spine. What if Motya kills my father as soon as he marries me? What if he tries to
marry me before I can get away?
Shit.
Nodding my head, I roll my lips together and wonder how the fuck I’m going to get out of this
house, because I have a feeling that Motya isn’t going to let me out of his sight anytime soon, not until
I’m legally his, and I refuse to let that happen.
Motya guides me out of my bedroom and down the stairs, his hand on the center of my back. I bite
the inside of my cheek, trying to keep from shivering in disgust, or curling my lip, from the feeling of
his hand on me.
“Soon you will be mine,” he whispers. “I cannot wait to fuck you.”
I try not to puke. It takes everything inside of me to control myself. Giving him a smile, I nod my
head, still biting my cheek and drawing blood. Standing outside of my father’s room, I suck in a
breath as I stare at the closed door for a beat.
Motya pushes the door open, without knocking, and without announcing himself or checking with
me if I was ready to go into my father’s room, because the man doesn’t give a shit. The only thing he
can think about is fucking me, as he puts it, and taking over as a Pakhan. Neither of which will ever
happen.
We walk into my father’s bedroom, and I see him lying in the bed. He looks a lot worse than he
did last night when he went to bed. I don’t know how he can decline so quickly, but there he is.
Continuing to bite the inside of my cheek, I watch him for a moment. He must sense me because his
eyes open.
“You will marry tomorrow,” he announces.
Fuck.
Looking back to Motya, I give him a fake smile, then shift my attention to my father. “I would like
to go shopping today and buy a dress.”
Everything must be done delicately when it comes to my father, even asking for clothes. I usually
buy everything online, because he doesn’t like to waste his men on silly girl activities, and he won’t
let me go anywhere without a man on me. But this is something that I can’t get in time, a dress for a
wedding, even if it’s just at the courthouse or here in my father’s home.
Plus, this is my only opportunity to get the fuck out of this house with any hope of being rescued.
At least I hope that it’s being rescued, because if I’m doing all of this to end up in a worse situation,
I’m really going to hate myself.
“Take one of the men. They’ll escort you. Motya and I have documents to sign. My Sovietnik is on
his way over.”
My father dismisses me and I’m all too happy to get the fuck out of here. I should probably stay to
see these papers, but I don’t think that they’re going to be valid after I’m married to this Osip man
anyway, or after Kazimir takes over this territory.
 C HAPTER 4

OSIP

I thought that I had a little less than a few weeks to get used to this idea of a wife. Get used to the
idea of this very young wife. But apparently, I now have only hours.
Zinaida Guseva to my Osip Gusev.
It has a ring to it, one that I don’t mind too much, to be quite honest. It’s the age I think that bothers
me most, and not just because she is young in years, but that she actually looks young as well.
A car pulls into her father’s driveway, and I watch as a man gets out. He walks toward the door
and about ten minutes later, they both walk out to the car. He opens the car door for her before she
slips inside.
As she sinks down into the back seat of the vehicle, I take in her dress. Black, tight, spectacular.
Her shoes, high heels, gold. Also, spectacular. She’s got large sunglasses on her face and her hair is
now pulled back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her lips… red. I can see them from across
the street and I can’t deny my cock twitches at the sight.
Maybe she doesn’t look so young after all?
When the car pulls out of the driveway, I shift my car and ease onto the street behind it. I stay far
enough away that the driver doesn’t get suspicious, but close enough that I won’t miss the exit that
they take.
It doesn’t surprise me that they pull into a shopping district. Women and their clothes, although
this will be a perfect place and opportunity to take her without anyone realizing it. Parking just a few
spots down from their car, I watch as they exit and begin to make their way toward the entrance.
Unfolding from my own car, I follow them into the shop. It’s some kind of dress shop. I don’t pay
much attention, but I hope that there is some way to get the fuck out of here unseen. The last thing that I
need is this fuck to follow me, follow us anywhere.
I need to get her out of here and to the courthouse before anyone realizes that she’s gone. We need
to be legally bound to each other as soon as humanly fucking possible. Dipping my chin, I make sure
that if there are any cameras, they don’t catch my face.
The shop is just a random dress shop, it’s nothing special, but I’m glad to see that although it is
nothing special, that it’s heavily populated. This is fucking perfect. I see her instantly. She’s easy to
spot with her dark hair and pale skin.
 She’s standing next to a rack of dresses thumbing through them, but I can tell that she isn’t really
looking at them. Her hand is trembling, her lips are pressed together and she’s just staring down, her
eyes not even blinking.
The driver isn’t even looking at her, he’s got his head to the side and he’s staring at another
woman’s tits. This is my opportunity. Stepping behind her, I slide my hand along her lower back. She
turns her head, and I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look back at her.
I continue to walk straight to the dressing rooms, knowing that there must be a back entrance to the
shop here. There is an employee standing in the dressing room area hanging up items and folding
items behind a counter.
“Do you have a back exit?” I ask.
She lifts her head, her eyes finding mine, and I watch as her lips part in awe. There is a moment of
silence that passes between us, and then she clears her throat.
“It’s not for customers,” she whispers.
“It’s delicate, and an emergency,” I murmur, taking a step toward her.
Lifting my hand, I touch her bare shoulder with my index finger, sliding it down to her elbow.
Goose bumps appear on her skin, and I know that I’ve gotten somewhere. Though, I don’t know how
far. She licks her lips, her eyes finding mine, and she holds my gaze for a moment.
Then she relents. “It’s right down that hallway. You turn left, and the door is in front. If anyone
asks, it wasn’t me who told you,” she breathes.
Leaning forward, I touch my lips to the side of her cheek. “Thanks,” I whisper against her ear.
She nods her head, her lips parted and her breathing heavy. Clearing my throat, my hand falls from
hers and I look over to see Zinaida walking quickly through the entrance to the dressing room with a
couple of dresses in her hand.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the folding table asks.
“I’d like to try these on,” Zinaida says. Her voice is soft, sweet, shaky as fuck.
“Right this way.”
“Toward the back,” I grind out.
The salesgirl lifts her eyes to meet mine. They widen, and she nods her head. I watch as she
guides Zinaida toward the dressing room stall that is the farthest away from me and the closest to the
hallway that leads to the exit. I could kiss this woman, but I don’t. Any other time, I probably would.
It’s time.

ZINAIDA

I SEE HIM, but I can’t see his face, just his back. I know that it’s him, the man that I am meant to
follow… to marry. Dipping into the dressing room, I wait for the attendant to walk away. When she
does, I open the door slightly and peek my head out.
“Come,” a deep voice booms.
I still haven’t seen his damn face. I don’t know if he’s handsome or ugly. His body is tall and lean.
He looks great from the side and behind in his suit pants and tucked-in white shirt, but other than that,
I know absolutely nothing about what this man looks like.
But even without knowing what he looks like. I follow him.
I practically sprint behind him.
 My heart slams against my chest, it races, and I wonder if I’m going to survive this.
A door opens and he stands with his head tipped down as I rush past him into the sunshine. He
doesn’t speak, neither do I as he takes my hand, and together, we walk quickly toward the parking lot.
My breath hitches when we pass the car that brought me here, but we don’t stop. I see the sexy
sleek black car that had been in front of my father’s house this morning. It was him. I knew that it had
to have been him or someone connected to him.
“In the car,” he growls.
I can’t tell what his voice really sounds like yet, but so far, I am definitely not disappointed.
Sinking into the front seat of the car, I put my seat belt on, and I let out a sigh. I’m half tempted to slide
down into the floorboard of the car, but I don’t think that I can really move.
We’re one step closer, but we are not in the clear yet.
He folds into the driver’s seat, touches the start engine button, then shifts into reverse. I look
straight down at my lap as he drives away from the shopping center. I hear him take something out of
his pocket, and something crinkles, then I hear a lighter and smell the smoke. I don’t know how I feel
about the smoke, I’m not sure about cigarette smoke. I don’t dislike it, but I’m not used to it.
Only when we’re on the freeway, do I lift my head and chance a glance at his profile. He’s got a
cigarette between his lips with his wrist resting on the top of his steering wheel as he drives down the
freeway.
My stomach twists at the sight of him.
He’s gorgeous.
Absolutely beautiful.
At first glance, I thought that he had brown hair, but in actuality, he has dark-blond hair. His jaw is
chiseled. He’s just breathtaking. I don’t know why he would want me… except to take over my
father’s territory for his Pakhan.
Which means he will no doubt have a woman on the side, and I’ll be his wife in name only. I
knew it could be a possibility, but I was hoping that I could find joint admiration with the man that I
married, even maybe love.
But with this man?
There is no doubt that he could marry someone much more gorgeous and worldly than me. This is
for nothing other than business. This is going to be for convenience only.
“Kazimir has already arranged a judge and witnesses. We will be married in just thirty minutes’
time,” he announces.
God. Even his voice is sexy.
“I would like to marry in the Orthodox Church,” I whisper.
He snorts. “Not today, you won’t.”
Nodding my head, I look down at my lap. I can’t look at his beautiful face for another minute
longer. Especially with that laugh, he thinks I’m stupid, I can feel it. Then something strange happens.
He reaches across the center of the car, and I feel his hand on my knee.
My eyes widen. They practically bug out of my head when I see his fingers wrap around my knee.
When he squeezes, something slides throughout my entire body, something that I don’t quite
understand, but at the same time, I know that it’s sexual.
“We can make that happen later, kukolka.”
Little doll.
My god.
My heart races at the endearment, though I have no doubt that it’s a throwaway term he uses, but
it’s sexy. It’s hot. It’s too much. Just like him. He is too much. I don’t know how this is going to work,
because I can’t even think around him.
“Okay,” I breathe.
He continues to drive, then pulls up behind the back of a large brick building. I look around,
wondering where exactly he’s taken me. It’s almost as if it’s a big estate. I don’t know exactly where
we are or what kind of building this is.
He doesn’t tell me either.
I watch as he unfolds from the car, then jogs around in front of the vehicle before he comes to my
side and tugs open the door for me. Shifting my legs over the side of the seat, I make sure that my feet
are flat on the ground before I attempt to stand from the car.
He takes my hand.
Again, my heart races as soon as my hand touches his. Standing, I try not to fall on my ass. His
grip is firm in mine and together we walk toward one of the doors. I follow beside him, though half of
a step behind him, as I have been taught by my father that you never walk directly beside a man.
“The judge and witnesses are here. He will marry us and expedite all of the paperwork to be
filed. It should be legally binding and filed by tonight. Thankfully, it’s early enough that this can be
done today, and we won’t have to wait.”
“Okay,” I exhale.
“Do you say anything else?” he asks, and he sounds upset, pissed off even.
Turning to him, I stop walking and look up into his eyes. “I do,” I say. “I’m not sure what else I’m
supposed to say in this instance though,” I point out.
His lips curve up into a grin, and he dips his chin in a short nod. “Okay,” he mutters.
Together we slip inside of the back door of whatever building this is and then walk down a
hallway for a while before turning right and walking into what I assume is a judge’s office, or
chambers, or whatever they’re called.
There is a man standing behind a desk wearing a black robe. His eyes find mine and he gives me a
smile, then he turns his attention to Osip and jerks his chin in a nod. “Let me call my secretary. She
just came back with the ring.”
Oh my god.
This is real.
It’s going to happen.
I am going to marry a stranger.
 C HAPTER 5

ZINAIDA

W hen the judge pronounces us man and wife, then tells Osip that he can kiss his bride, something
foreign slides through my body just at the words. I don’t understand the sensation, but it’s there
and it’s extremely apparent.
It’s sliding through me.
It’s almost as if my blood is burning. I suck in a breath when his mouth touches mine. My lungs
seizing.
Instantly, I feel light-headed. That feeling. That burning sensation. The way my body burns
combined with whatever that foreign feeling is that is still very much apparent. It just completely
consumes me in an instant, as if it explodes inside of me with just his mouth touching mine.
Then, just when I think that I can’t feel anything else, like my body has had enough sensations, his
tongue touches my bottom lip, and I melt toward him right as he ends the kiss.
Osip takes a step back, his eyes wide and searching mine. He opens his mouth slightly to say
something, but nothing comes out.
Just when I think that he’s about to finally say something to me, he turns his head and looks over to
the judge. He murmurs something to him, but I don’t listen to them. I can’t. All I can think about is this
burning that is in my belly, in my blood. The foreign sensations. I can’t think of anything else.
I’m completely flustered.
Osip and I sign some papers, but I’m in a complete daze. I don’t know what’s happening at all, my
head is all foggy and I feel light-headed. Once our paperwork is finished, he takes my hand in his and
we walk out of the office and straight out of the back door that we arrived through.
The car is exactly where we left it. Osip opens the passenger side door for me, and I sink into the
seat. Putting my seat belt on, my heart beats hard and fast. I can’t believe that just happened.
What the hell am I going to do? What the hell did I just do?
Everything happened too quickly, I haven’t even had an opportunity to think about it. Then I
remember my phone in my bra. For whatever reason, it just came to me that it’s still tucked away.
Reaching inside of my dress, I tug my phone out and hold it toward my husband.
Husband.
What a weird thought.
 Husband.
He takes the phone and I watch as he tosses it into the area at the bottom of his car door. He
doesn’t say anything about it, and I decide not to say anything, because in the end, it doesn’t matter.
That phone has no numbers saved, aside from Kazimir’s. I have nobody to call even if I wanted to.
Trembling, I clasp my hands together in my lap, but then I feel the metal that is newly wrapped
around my finger. Holding out my hand flat, I look at the new ring that adorns my finger. My wedding
ring.
It isn’t fancy, it doesn’t have a diamond or anything attached. The ring is just a simple plain thin
gold band.
I love it.
I always knew that I would have some stupidly obnoxious diamond ring. Especially since my
father would no doubt demand it, as some kind of status symbol or something, but this, this small plain
ring. It’s better than anything I could have ever imagined for myself.
Osip slips into the front seat and touches the button to start the engine of the car, but he doesn’t
shift into drive right away like I expect. Instead, there is a long moment of silence. Neither of us
speaks, but I can feel his eyes on me.
Lifting my head from being tipped down and staring at my lap, I turn and look over at him. He’s
staring at me just like I knew that he would be.
“Zinaida Guseva,” he whispers.
I hold my breath, wondering what he’s going to say next, because I love the sound of that. Zinaida
Guseva… it sounds and feels almost sexy. If I knew how to be sexy, then I could strut around with a
name like that backing me.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
Sliding my tongue along my bottom lip, I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment, then nod my
head once. “I do. Very much so,” I confess.
It’s too telling, me loving that name, admitting that I like it so much. But I do and he is my
husband, so why shouldn’t I be honest? I hope that I can always be honest with him, because this is
the man that I will spend the rest of my life with. There is no divorce, there is no leaving.
There is only marriage and death.
Nothing else.

OSIP

I’ M TAKEN ABACK by her words. I don’t know why, but it means so incredibly much to me that she
likes my last name mixed with hers. I fucking love the sound of her name combined with mine. I didn’t
think that I would, even as I thought about her earlier today and I liked it… but since it’s a reality
now... I love it.
Fucking love it.
“I’ll get you a better ring later. This is all I could get in time,” I announce.
Taking my phone out of my pocket, I shift the car into reverse as I touch the call button. I know that
it’s illegal as shit, but I don’t care, she can’t hear the conversation, plus who the fuck is even going to
pull me over anyway?
I glance down at the burner phone that she handed me a few moments ago. Trust. That showed me
something, though I’m not sure if the move was calculated or just something she did without even
thinking.
“Is it done?” Kazimir asks as I pull out onto the street.
Guiding my car toward the freeway, I move through traffic as I head toward the hotel. I upgraded
and booked the penthouse suite at the last minute, thankfully they had availability, though the cost was
nothing to sneeze at.
“It is,” I say.
“Good. You will have to make it known tomorrow, after you’ve consummated.”
“Kazimir,” I grind out.
He laughs softly but doesn’t answer me right away or comment. He clears his throat, and I can
hear some rustling around before he decides to speak to me.
“I know that you think she is young, and she is, but if you do not consummate this, then how can
you expect to have complete control? A dozen different scenarios could ensue. I would prefer you just
take care of that tonight before all the shit hits the fan, yeah?”
If I could reach through the phone and punch him in the face right now, maybe choke him a little
too, I would. But I can’t, and honestly, I probably wouldn’t anyway. At the end of the day, he’s my
Pakhan, no matter how pissed off he makes me.
“Kazimir,” I grind out. “Fuck.”
He lets out a long laugh as if this is the funniest shit he’s ever been part of. Once he catches
himself, he then clears his throat when he realizes that I have not joined him in this laughter. I’m not
very far away from the hotel, so I hope that he gives me something else before I end this conversation
completely.
“I will be up there in a couple of days to help with everything. Get through tonight, tomorrow, and
maybe the next day. After that, a group of us are coming and I am including Danill, Grisha, and Ruslan
in the group.”
“Do you think their services will be needed?” I ask.
“Don’t know, but I’m not going to head up there without backup. They will be in the shadows and
know when to make themselves known and how.”
“Understood,” I murmur.
And it is understood. They are the men that you have in the shadows. The Torpedoes are ready to
take out whoever needs to be taken out for a price. There are other men that are not in the shadows,
but nevertheless, Kazimir must be protected, especially with what we’re about to take on. What I’ve
started the process of taking on.
This may be one of their most important assignments yet, though Zinaida’s father will likely not
survive long enough for their services to be needed for himself, there will no doubt be men that will
try to take over the territory, the position that he has left open.
Men like Moyta, who feel as if they have the right to be Pakhan. Men who will think that I’ve
stolen something from them. Men who have decided that something is owed to them. They will fight,
they will scheme and plot.
They will die.
It is survival of the fittest, and I am, along with Kazimir, the fittest.
Ending the call, I pull into the valet of the hotel. Climbing out of the car, I watch as the valet helps
Zinaida out of the car. He drops her hand as soon as I round the hood. Tossing the keys to him, he
hands me a card with a number on it and I take my wife’s hand.
Together, we walk into the hotel in silence. Zinaida doesn’t say anything as we walk past the
reception desk and toward the elevators. The car opens up and we step inside. Someone else slips
into the car on the second floor, but we continue to ride up to the top in silence.
Zinaida trembles next to me. I don’t ask her if she’s okay, because I doubt that she is. We’re
complete strangers and we’re now married for the rest of our lives. This is a bond that can never be
broken, this is for fucking life.
When the rider steps off on the fifth floor, we continue to the top and finally are able to exit what
feels like a fucking stifling elevator car. Gripping her hand, I tug her behind me and walk toward the
door.
Touching my card to the panel, I push the handle down and push the door open. We make our way
into the room, and I drop her hand as I head directly for the kitchen and booze. I need a fucking drink
after this.
I did not prepare for this.
I thought I had a few more weeks to come to terms with it, but now that it’s here, it’s a reality, I’m
suddenly overwhelmed. I thought that I was okay with this. Her having my name is sexy as shit, but
being alone with her, realizing that I am married to a girl that is literally young enough to be my
daughter?
It’s making me feel… odd.
Being attracted to her makes me feel even… odder.
Fucking shit. What the fuck am I going to do? Drink. That’s what I’m going to do, because
apparently, I have to fuck her tonight. I have to consummate my marriage with a woman who is
without a doubt, judging by the trembling she’s doing, a virgin.
I haven’t ever fucked a virgin before. I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing. Why the shit did
I agree to this? Why did Kazimir think that I would be the man for this job? Jesus fucking Christ.
 C HAPTER 6

ZINAIDA

W alking over to the double doors that I assume lead to a balcony, I stand and look out at the city
below us. We aren’t extremely high in the air, but enough that I can look down at the world
below me and wonder what everyone else in the world is doing while I stand up here and wonder
what is going to happen to my future.
I’ve never slept anywhere but my bed, in my father’s home, in my own bedroom. I’m trembling
and nervous, scared really of what’s to come. I want to believe that this was the right thing to do. I
want to believe that Osip will somehow save me and not ruin me all at the same time.
I want to believe so much, but I don’t.
I don’t because I understand how men can be in this world. I understand my place as a woman and
it is not beside Osip, but always, always behind him. I just hope that it is enough for him. I don’t
know what he really expects from me, but I just hope that whatever it is, that I can be enough.
Because if I can’t, if he doesn’t want me, it’s my life that hangs in the balance.
There is a noise behind me, and I turn around, watching Osip, my husband, pour himself a glass of
vodka. He isn’t looking at me, his gaze isn’t making me feel foreign and uncomfortable, so I watch
him for a moment.
I know that he’s older than me, but with his head tipped down, his face no longer hard with his
worries and thoughts, he looks younger. Taking a step toward him, I pause. He lifts his head, his eyes
finding mine, and my breath hitches.
“I’m not a patient man and I cannot be your teacher,” he announces.
I blink, nodding my head once. “You don’t have to teach me about the Bratva. I’ve been helping
my father run his territory, his men, for the past three years,” I explain.
His lips twitch into a small smile, and he snorts softly as he jerks his chin. “That’s good to know,
kukolka. It will help us in the future, maybe as soon as tomorrow, but that wasn’t quite what I meant.”
The way he looks at me, one of his brows arched and his lips twitching, I have a feeling that he
was not speaking of work. Instead, he was no doubt speaking of sex. Biting the inside of my cheek, I
stare at him and wonder what the hell I’m going to do.
I’ve read about sex before. I know the mechanics of it but beyond that… I know nothing. It’s not
like I can wing this. I’ve only been kissed once before today, and I’ve never done anything else. Not a
single thing.
I’m going to need him to teach me, because I am clueless.
It’s clear to me just in this singular moment that my hopes of being enough for him are completely
dashed. I know that I will not be, I cannot be. Sex is one of the most important parts of a relationship
and it is clear to me that I will not be able to fulfill this for him.
“I understand what you’re saying,” I whisper. “I’m sorry that I won’t be able to be what you want.
I’ve been sheltered in some ways, and not in others.”
It’s the best explanation that I can give without spelling out the fact that I am sexually completely
and totally virginal. He doesn’t move from his place behind the counter. He’s bent slightly, his eyes
on me, focused on me.
Osip finishes his drink, then lets out a hiss as it no doubt burns his throat. He takes a step
backward, then walks toward me. He walks around the small kitchen counter and with one hand in his
pocket, closes the distance between us.
He’s handsome, overly handsome, really. His age only increases his attractiveness. He has dark-
blond hair, green eyes, a twelve o’clock shadow, and is beautiful. I have a feeling he could have
married anyone he wanted, especially through the years.
Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to ask him, why me? Why wasn’t he already married with
children when the opportunity arose? I’m not brave enough for that right now though. I may never be.

OSIP

THE WAY she’s staring up at me, so fucking innocent and sweet looking, I wonder if I can sully her.
Can I turn her into what I crave? Can I dirty her up? She doesn’t know what I like, what I want, and if
she did, there is no way she would look at me the way she is looking at me now.
She also doesn’t know that I’ve spent my life fucking whores. In fact, I fucked a prostitute just the
other day. If she knew this, I can imagine the look on her face would not be as inviting, as sweet, as
the one she’s currently wearing.
Lifting my hand, I cup her cheek. Her skin is smooth and soft to the touch. She lets out a sigh, then
licks her bottom lip as she looks up at me. I should back away from her, I should turn and walk away.
I should just tell people a lie, that we’ve consummated this marriage.
I don’t want to do any of that, because deep down inside, I want to fuck her. I want to own her.
She’s my wife, she’s sexy as shit. She’s young, but right here standing in front of me, none of that shit
even fucking matters.
“Kukolka,” I rasp.
“Osip,” she breathes.
Dipping my chin, I touch my mouth to hers. So fucking sweet. Soft, too damn pure for me. Sucking
her bottom lip between my teeth, I sink my teeth into her soft flesh. Zinaida moans, her back arching,
her body moving closer to mine.
I want to feel her against me.
Naked.
Her bare flesh against my own.
“I should not want you, even though you are my wife,” I whisper against her mouth. “There are
half a dozen reasons why I should turn my ass around and sleep on the couch,” I murmur against her
lips.
“Please,” she breathes.
She doesn’t know what she’s saying please to, has no fucking clue, but it’s sweet as shit that she is
saying the simple, sweet word. I aim to have her say it a few more times to me before tonight is over.
Dragging my lips down her jaw, then her neck, I touch them to the center of her throat, sucking the
skin there. Her head falls backward between her shoulders as her breath hitches. Sweet fucking
music.
Then I feel her hands, her fingers bury into the back of my hair, gripping the strands tightly as she
holds my head to her neck.
Fuck me.
She’s perfection personified. All of my fears of her not being enough simply just vanish in that
moment. She tastes sweet, like candy. Like forbidden fruit. Though she’s not quite forbidden because
she’s mine… all mine.
Gripping her hips, I’m sure that my fingertips will leave marks, even from over the top of her
dress. Slowly, I lift the skirt of her dress up her thighs, my lips kissing, licking, biting, and sucking
every square inch of her exposed flesh. Her entire body trembles.
Grabbing ahold of her ass, I squeeze her cheeks with a grunt. She breathes my name and I lift my
head, my eyes finding hers. “I should stop,” I say.
“I’m your wife,” she whispers, her eyes wide and full of desire.
“My child bride.”
She shakes her head once, her gaze never leaving my own. “Yours.”
Fuck. Me.
“Yeah, you are, aren’t you?”
She moves her hands from my hair, wrapping them around the sides of my neck as her eyes focus
on mine. Her lips are parted and beg for my mouth, for my dick, for every goddamn part of me.
“I’m your wife, your printsessa, your confidant, and your partner, if you’ll have me.”
My cock could pound goddamn nails it’s so hard from her words. I want all of that. If I ever had
to marry, I wanted it to be someone that I actually fucking gave a shit about. Someone that I could lean
on, trust, and build a life with.
I don’t know if this girl will ever be that for me, but I like the fact that she wants it too. That she
wants more than just to spread her legs for me, at least that’s how she’s acting. Hopefully, she’s being
genuine. I would hate to have to kill her. Circling my thumb against her exposed hip, I grunt… more
soft skin.
“You prove yourself to me, then yeah, I would like that.”
Sucking in a breath, I watch as her lips twitch into a small smile. “It seems like we both need to
prove some things to one another,” she says.
No more words are spoken. Tilting my head to the side, I touch my mouth to hers, sliding my
tongue inside of her mouth, I taste her, and I find that words are no longer fucking needed.
 C HAPTER 7

ZINAIDA

O sip strips my dress off me, then slowly tugs the band out of my hair so that I’m standing in front of
him wearing my high heels, my panties, bra, and my hair now down and around my elbows.
Just when I think that he’s going to finish the job and strip me completely naked, he surprises me.
He bends slightly, wrapping his arm around the back of my thighs and picks me up off of my feet.
Letting out a cry before I burst into laughter, he carries me away and off to what I assume is the
bedroom. I don’t know, because I can’t look anywhere but into his eyes. Those sea-green eyes.
They’re mesmerizing.
Osip walks into a room, closes the door behind us, then once we’re in the middle of said room he
slowly lowers me to my feet, my body sliding down his, the entire way down. I don’t want to look
away from him, I could gaze into his eyes for the rest of my life.
“Touch me,” I bravely whisper.
He smiles. “Not patient, kukolka,” he reminds me, but for some reason, he’s being nothing but
patient with me. He has been the exact opposite of what he claims.
Osip reaches out, his hands gripping my waist, holding me still before he slides them up my back
and unhooks my bra. This is it. I can’t stop my body from trembling, though it’s more out of excitement
and anticipation than fear.
I want him to touch me—everywhere.
Kicking my shoes off, he looks to the side at them, then swings his gaze back to meet mine. “One
day, those shoes and nothing else. That’s how I’ll take you, wife.”
Lifting my hands, I place my palms on the center of his chest. He’s still wearing all of his clothes,
while I’m wearing just panties, but I don’t feel uncomfortable at all. I thought that I would, maybe I
should, but this man is as much mine as I am his.
“Okay, Osip,” I exhale. “Call me wife, and I’ll probably do just about anything.”
It’s a gamble admitting that to a man like him, offering that to a man like him. But judging by the
way his lips curve up into a smile and his eyes widen slightly, then his nostrils flare, I know that I’ve
made the right decision. I’ve said the right words.
“On the bed,” he murmurs gently.
Taking one step back, then another until the backs of my knees hit the side of the bed. Only then do
I pause. Osip doesn’t move. Sinking down, I sit on the edge of the bed, my toes on the floor and my
eyes on him.
Slowly, Osip undresses. He takes his time, unbuttoning every single button, painstakingly, his gaze
never leaving mine. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his pants down, and then strips his shirt
completely off until he’s left only in his boxer briefs.
“Once we do this, there is no going back. You’ll be mine in every way.”
His warning is cute, but I know just as much as he does, that I am already his. I’ve vowed to be
his until I take my last breath. In a bold move, I lift my hips and shimmy my panties down, tossing
them to the side. His eyes follow my every move. Then his gaze flicks to mine.
“This is your decision?”
“This is us, Osip. You are my husband.”
He surprises me when he takes a step forward. He wraps his hands around my waist and pushes
me back across the bed until I’m in the middle, then he climbs onto the bed between my legs. His
hands wrap around the inside of my thighs, and he spreads my legs farther apart.
My breathing comes out in pants, my eyes are wide, and my mouth is completely dry.
I’ve propped myself up on my elbows, and out of sheer curiosity, I watch as he dips his head
between my thighs. He lets out a groan, then I feel his tongue slide through my center. I gasp again, my
lips parting as I watch him.
Osip keeps my legs open with his hands. His mouth is between my legs, and he doesn’t stop. His
tongue moves, he sucks and flicks his tongue, and he tastes every part of me. I don’t know what’s
happening, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
Something begins building inside of me, that feeling of my blood boiling. It fills me all over again.
This time it’s intensified, and then my belly swoops, it flutters, and I know that something huge is
coming.
It’s massive.
Bucking my hips, I am unable to control my own body. Heat consumes me right before it bursts
inside of me, and I see stars. Closing my eyes, those stars burst in my vision over and over, my
breathing coming out in rapid pants.
When he stops, I feel his lips against my thigh, then he kisses up the center of my body until he’s
lying against me. His chest against mine. His eyes are on mine, then his lips brush my own before he
finally speaks.
“I want to worship this sweet body, but I don’t know how long I can wait to have you, kukolka.”
I’m tired, exhausted really, as I look up into his eyes. Smiling, I focus my attention up at him and
lift my hand to touch the side of his cheek. I can feel his stubble and I instantly remember how it felt
just moments ago against my thigh, my pussy, every part of me.

OSIP

“TAKE ME, HUSBAND .”

No sweeter words have ever been said. I don’t know why, but hearing her say that it erases all of
the bullshit that I had floating around in my head about her being too young. It all but disappeared the
moment her clothes came off, then she came, and now she’s begging me to fuck her.
Definitely no longer the girl that I thought she was.
 Though Zinaida may be young, she is indeed not the child that I thought she was. She is anything
but that. She’s desirable, she’s sexy as hell, she is mine, she is my woman.
Aligning myself with her center, I slide my hand down her leg, wrapping my fingers around the
back of her knee before I hook it around my hip. Slowly, I push myself inside of her tight heat.
Dipping my chin, I touch my mouth to hers, sliding my tongue inside of her, tasting her.
She gasps and I swallow the sound as I push past her barrier and bury myself completely inside of
her. Zinaida’s nails dig into my shoulders, her pain no doubt overcoming her. Her entire body is tense,
but I don’t stop kissing her.
There is no way she’s going to just get used to my invasion of her body, at least not this first time,
but I still want to kiss her, want her not to be in excruciating pain. I consume her, kiss her, taste all of
her, then I start to move.
She gasps, pulling her head back. Looking into her eyes, my hips thrust, and I move inside of her. I
can’t take my eyes off of hers. I watch her, wishing that I could make her come like this again. She’s
tight and wet, hot and sweet, but to feel her pussy clamp down around me right now would probably
feel like fucking heaven.
I won’t be able to last that long though. Not long enough to make her feel good again, to bring her
there again. I’m holding on by a goddamn thread as it is. Grinding my teeth together, I stare at her,
breathing through my nose and trying to keep my fucking shit together.
It doesn’t work.
I come in just a few strokes, my entire body bowing backward, then trembling. Burying my face in
her neck, I let out a heavy breath as I try to calm my racing heart. Once my breathing has calmed, I lift
my head from her neck and look into her eyes.
“Wife,” I breathe.
She smiles softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Husband,” she whispers.
The titles are nice. Her body beneath mine is even nicer. I could stay like this for a lifetime, my
cock buried inside of her, her sweet body naked beneath mine, the taste of her cunt still on my tongue.
Unfortunately, I can’t stay buried deep inside of her or keep my body pressed against hers for a
lifetime. Slowly I slip from her body, then I shift off of the bed. Wordlessly, I gather her in my arms
and carry her across the room and into the fancy-as-shit bathroom.
“Osip?” she asks, her arms wrapped around my neck.
“You’re going to take a bath, and I’m going to order room service. It won’t be good Russian food,
but hopefully they’ll have something. Fish, chicken, beef?” I ask as I reach for the water faucet in the
bathtub.
She tilts her head to the side as if she is thinking about this question very hard. She wrinkles her
nose as the tub fills up with warm water, then she shifts her attention back to mine.
“Steak if they have it and it looks good, fish if it doesn’t.”
Laughing, I touch my mouth to hers, then lower her into the tub. She hisses as soon as she touches
the water. Breaking the kiss, I press my mouth to her shoulder. “The water will help with pain and
swelling. Just relax, I’ll order room service.”
“Thanks,” she breathes, her eyes closing as she leans her head back against the edge of the tub.
Softly, I close the bathroom door behind me, then I look at the sheets that are stained with blood.
The first thing that I do is call maid service to change the bedding, knowing that Zinaida would no
doubt be embarrassed by that. Then, I call room service for food, because I know without a doubt that
I am fucking starving and she must be too.
With all of that under control, I pull on my boxer briefs and pants before I take my phone out and
send Kazimir a text.

CONSUMMATED

KAZIMIR: GOOD. NEXT STEP IS THE TAKEOVER.

GOING TO BE UGLY.

KAZIMIR: YEAH. BE THERE SOON.

THANKS.

Tossing my phone onto the nightstand, I watch as the maids begin to change the bedding, then I slip
into the kitchen and pour myself a vodka before taking a cigarette out and lighting it.
Closing my eyes, I take a long drink from my glass and let out a sigh, then a drag. Fuck me, what a
day. I was not expecting any of this to happen today. This is going to be a long fucking ordeal.
I’ve never done anything like this before. I always wanted to be a Torpedo but was never able to
get into the field. Being a Pakhan was never on my radar and while Kazimir will still be my boss, I’ll
have to run not just a single crew, but a whole fucking army. I don’t know if I’m ready for this shit.
I don’t know if I’m ready for any of it at all.
 C HAPTER 8

ZINAIDA

I find a robe hanging behind the door and slowly stand from the bath after the water has gone cold,
then slip it on over my shoulders. Sucking in a breath, I turn toward the vanity and look at myself in
the reflection of the mirror.
I’m not sure why, but I expected to look differently… older maybe. I’m married and no longer a
virgin. Somehow, I thought that not only my looks would change, but so would my eyes. But they
don’t.
I look the exact same as I did yesterday.
Pressing my lips together, I turn away from the mirror as my stomach dips. I don’t have any
clothes. I have nothing. This robe and the outfit that I wore today are all that I have, along with the
phone that I gave Osip. I should have bought something at that dress store earlier today, even if it was
ugly.
Wrapping my fingers around the doorknob, I twist and tug it open gently. The room is dim,
thankfully. I don’t know why, but all of this feels extremely embarrassing all of a sudden. I wasn’t
embarrassed even an inch when he was touching me, when he was inside of me, not at all.
But this, right now, walking out of this bathroom with everything that happened, I don’t know why,
but I feel completely exposed.
“You’re well?” Osip’s deep voice rumbles.
I jump, turning my head to the side to see him standing just a few feet away. He’s wearing his suit
pants from earlier, but he’s bare-chested. He’s got one hand in his pocket, the other is extended with
his palm facing up.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I take a step toward him, then another, and slip my hand into his. He
smells as if he’s just smoked and his fingers curl around mine before he gently tugs me toward him.
He doesn’t touch me anywhere except my hand, his chin tipping down to look me in the eye.
He doesn’t say anything right away, and when his lips part, I think that he’s going to speak, but he
doesn’t. Instead, he takes a step backward, then turns, my hand still in his grasp. He walks out of the
bedroom and toward the living area of the suite.
There is a large table near some even larger windows, and I blink at the sight of the silver domes
that are in a line in the center. “Osip?” I ask.
 “Dinner, wife.”
God, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me wife in Russian, because it sounds sexy as hell in
English, I can imagine, Russian may make me melt. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. I think I’d prefer
him to stick to English at this point, I’ve already fallen for him, and I don’t know anything about him.
“It’s too much, we won’t be able to eat all of this,” I point out as he drops my hand and walks
over to a chair.
I watch as he pulls the chair out, then looks over to me and dips his chin in a silent gesture to sit
down. I do, feeling a little more comfortable in this situation than I did a few moments ago. It’s like as
soon as his eyes are on me, as soon as he looks at me, all of the apprehension and hesitation fades
away.
“I got a little of everything. I wanted to make sure you had plenty to eat.”
Shaking my head, I roll my lips together as he starts to take the silver domes off of all the plates of
food. There is a steak, some grilled chicken, fish, about four different kinds of vegetables, baked
potatoes, fries, scalloped potatoes, two different pasta dishes, rice, and a green wedge salad.
It’s amazing.
I want to eat it all.
Shifting my attention over to him, I shake my head. “This is crazy,” I whisper.
He laughs, sitting down across from me, his eyes finding mine and holding them. “You’ll discover
that I’m definitely not modest when it comes to some things, and food is one of them. Good food is
something that you can never have enough of in this life. It’s one of those simple pleasures that should
always be treasured.”

OSIP

I’ VE NEVER HAD a long-term lover. I’ve always been dedicated to my work, and sex was something
that I sought out when I needed it. Paid for it when I needed it. It’s never been anything more than that.
Just an itch that needed scratching.
But with Zinaida, it felt different. It feels different. Being inside of her felt like so much more than
just scratching an itch. She’s different, or maybe it’s just because she’s mine… all mine. And mine is
all she will ever be. Nobody has touched her but me. Nobody has even seen her naked body but me.
It feels bigger than anything else that’s ever happened in my entire fucking life. It is bigger than
anything.
We eat, and usually this is something that I would do in silence unless I’m in a meeting. But I feel
like it’s a good opportunity to get to know my young wife. I’ve loaded her plate with the first set of
food items in front of us. She happily starts eating and I can’t help but smile at her for a long moment.
“Tell me about yourself,” I finally ask as I start to dive into my own plate of food.
Her fork suspends in the air and her eyes find mine, holding it for a moment before she speaks.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she says softly.
Stabbing a piece of steak, I bring it to my mouth and chew a few times before I start to dig. She’s
not going to be forthcoming, it seems. Maybe I scare her, maybe she is afraid to tell me things based
on who her father is, hell I don’t know what the reason could be.
“Start small. Where did you go to high school?”
She shakes her head, tipping her chin down as she starts to scoot her food around her plate. “I
didn’t,” she finally whispers. “Well,” she begins, lifting her head so that her eyes connect to mine.
“When my mother died, that’s when we moved to America from Russia and I was never enrolled in
school here. I was twelve.”
“What happened?” I ask.
I knew her mother was gone. I did not know how or why. Their world, it wasn’t mine, so their
dramas were never part of our concern.
“She was killed in a car accident,” she says. “In Moscow.”
I can tell by the bite in her voice that she does not believe this to be completely true. I wouldn’t
either. Car accidents are easy to end someone. They aren’t my style. I’d much rather just finish the job
with a good old-fashioned hit.
“What happened next?” I ask.
She twirls some pasta on her plate, then lifts it to her mouth and chews it a few times before she
swallows it. She clears her throat, reaching for the glass of water in front of her. I didn’t buy wine,
not knowing if she’d ever had it before and wanting to make sure she was aware and alert for the rest
of the evening.
“My father pulled me from school, moved us here, and that was that. Girls don’t need to be
educated. They are only good for two things. Pleasing a man and bringing life into the world.
Nothing else will or has ever mattered.”
Shaking my head, I reach across the table, wrapping my fingers around her forearm and squeezing
gently before I speak. The words that are straight from her father are bullshit. Complete and total
fucking bullshit.
“You know that isn’t true, yes?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer me immediately. She shrugs a shoulder and looks down at her food. There is a
long pause, a silent moment between us and she doesn’t say anything, but neither do I. Eventually, she
lifts her head, her eyes finding mine and she shakes her head just once.
“I don’t know that, Osip. I was given to you, sold for the price of my father’s territory. I cannot be
more than that. I will never be more than that. I am your wife. I will make your children. I will be
whatever you need me to be, silently.”
“Nyet,” I bark.
She jumps and I feel like a dick for scaring her, but she is devaluing herself and that shit pisses me
off. It angers me. Because she is so much more than that and I’ve only known her for a few hours.
“Who has been controlling your father’s territories in his sickness?” I demand.
She blinks, tears filling her eyes, but I do not back down. I will make her believe by the end of
this conversation that she is more than a pussy and baby maker.
“I have,” she exhales. “But I don’t make any major decisions. I have just kept things running.”
Shaking my head, I narrow my eyes on hers, then my lips curve up into a grin. “You think I make
major decisions?” I ask. “I think you have grossly overestimated me and grossly underestimated
yourself, kukolka.”
“Osip,” she exhales. “You’re only saying that.”
I snort, my lips twitching into a grin as I continue to look at her. “I know that we don’t know one
another well, but I have to tell you that I am not a liar. I will not tell you something to make you feel
better. I will always tell you the truth, Zinaida.”
Her tongue slides across her bottom lip and she nods her head. “Okay, Osip.”
Instead of asking her any more questions about her past, I shift and start to tell her a little about
myself. I’m selective, knowing that she will probably have issues with my childhood. Though hers
was not easy, it was a horror story compared to hers.
The rest of the evening we eat, we converse, and I wonder why I never did this with anyone else.
It’s enjoyable, though I’m not sure that it would be with anyone else. There is something absolutely
amazing about my new bride.
 C HAPTER 9

ZINAIDA

T his man.
He is something. I don’t know that I could even describe the man that he is. I’m not sure I can
even categorize him yet. I think I need a bit more time. He seems kind, maybe a bit sensitive, but at the
same time, I know that he must be dangerous.
I’m sure I will be at the receiving end of this danger at one point in my life, I just hope that it isn’t
going to be anytime soon.
Osip’s hand holds mine and we walk up my front steps. My former front steps, I suppose. I’m
wearing a dress that he had sent to the hotel. It’s completely and totally my style, too. It’s dark blue,
almost so dark that it’s black. The sleeves are to my forearms, and it is figure hugging down to my
knees.
It’s perfection.
I feel powerful and beautiful, even with no makeup on. I just hope that whatever happens here
today, we’re able to walk out alive. I know that he probably will survive this, but knowing my father,
he’s going to go after me first.
My father knows that Osip is protected by both Kazimir in Southern California, but also Nikita in
Russia. Nikita will not mess around either. This is his man, he backs this entire operation. If I know
my father and his men, they will ensure that one of us is collateral damage, and while I hold value, I
don’t hold more than Osip.
I know this.
I will be the first one to fall when this shit goes down. I just hope that I can make it out alive. If I
don’t, at least I won’t die a virgin. So, there is that, I suppose.
Standing in front of the closed door, I suck in a breath before I lift my hand and knock on the door.
It will be locked, it’s always locked. My father’s men will be walking around inside. Perhaps even
Motya will still be here.
There is no doubt that they have been looking for me. I disappeared from a public place. The fact
that I was allowed in a public place was out of the ordinary as it was, then I vanished. Before I can
knock a second time, the door flies open.
It’s the guard that I slipped away from yesterday. His eyes widen as he looks at me, then they
grow even larger when they flick over to Osip. There is a moment of silence, and I expect the guard to
say something, but he doesn’t.
Osip takes a step forward, his lips curved up into a grin. “I’m here to meet my father-in-law,” he
announces.
I almost burst out in laughter. If I wasn’t so damn scared, I just might. There is a moment of shock,
one where he doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t move either. Osip walks right past him as if he doesn’t
exist.
He tugs me along behind him, but I don’t complain. I have to practically run to keep up with him.
That is until he stops at the bottom of the stairs. He can go a few different ways, but I know where my
father is.
“This way,” I say and then begin to lead him toward my father’s room.
He is downstairs now, no longer able to make it upstairs to the master suite. It doesn’t take us long
to make it down the hallway. The door is ajar, which means that he is awake, or at least not sleeping.
Lifting my hand, I knock on the door slightly and it opens wider. Taking a step inside, I bite the
inside of my cheek, unsure of what to expect. I only take one step into the room before Osip brushes
past me, though he doesn’t release his grip on my hand and that means something to me. I’m not sure
what, but it means something greater than I could have imagined.
“Who the fuck are you?” Motya grinds out from his seat at the bedside of my father.
The asshole.
“And where the fuck have you been? Whoring?”
His words should feel like a punch to the gut, but they don’t. He doesn’t know me, he knows
absolutely nothing about me. All he wants is my father’s territory. He wants to be the Pakhan and he
simply will not become that.
I married the man that is going to take over this area. For better or worse, I don’t know for sure
which one that I got, but I’m going to stick with him, because there is just something in my gut that
tells me this is the right thing, this is my path, my destiny.

OSIP

THE OLD MAN is barely conscious, which, to be honest, makes this much less fun than it was before in
my mind. The little piece of shit standing vigil must be the man that Zinaida was set to marry. She
would not have been happy with him, mainly because he’s exactly the piece of shit that would have
treated her the way that she thinks all men treat women in the Bratva.
“Me?” I ask, turning to the little man. “I’m Osip Gusev. This is my territory now. My people, my
operation.”
“Says who?” he spits.
“Well, first it was Nikita, but I say it too,” a voice announces from behind us.
I don’t have to turn around to know exactly who has just walked into the room. It’s Kazimir. I
don’t know if Ruslan, Danill, and Grisha are with him or hiding out somewhere to kill someone.
Their guns aimed and ready to end their life. One can hope it will be this tiny man standing in front of
me. Because I would love to see him fall, down to his knees, in front of me.
I’m unsure as to why he’s here two days before he said he would be, but I can’t deny that I’m glad
for it. His support, his manpower, it causes me to breathe a sigh of relief.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Der Geist der
Gotik
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eBook.

Title: Der Geist der Gotik

Author: Karl Scheffler

Release date: September 9, 2023 [eBook #71602]

Language: German

Original publication: Leipzig: Insel-Verlag, 1917

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DER GEIST

DER GOTIK ***
 Anmerkungen zur Transkription
Der vorliegende Text wurde anhand der Buchausgabe von 1917 so weit wie möglich
originalgetreu wiedergegeben. Typographische Fehler wurden stillschweigend korrigiert.
Ungewöhnliche und heute nicht mehr verwendete Schreibweisen bleiben gegenüber dem
Original unverändert; fremdsprachliche Ausdrücke wurden nicht korrigiert.
Die Fußnoten wurden an das Ende des Texts verschoben.
Abhängig von der im jeweiligen Lesegerät installierten Schriftart können die im Original
g e s p e r r t gedruckten Passagen gesperrt, in serifenloser Schrift, oder aber sowohl
serifenlos als auch gesperrt erscheinen.
Der Geist der Gotik
Von

Karl Scheffler

Mit 107 Abbildungen

Im Insel-Verlag zu Leipzig
1917
 Vorwort

Die Gedanken, die auf den folgenden Seiten ausgesprochen

sind, haben mich zwei Jahrzehnte lang beschäftigt. In vielen meiner
Arbeiten sind sie schon erörtert worden, ja, wer sich die Mühe gibt,
danach zu suchen, findet sie in meiner ganzen Kunstauffassung. Ich
habe mich entschlossen, sie mehr systematisch nun
zusammenzufassen, weil die Zeit dafür günstig scheint. In den
letzten Jahren haben einige unserer besten Kunsttheoretiker
verwandte Anschauungen vertreten und sie — jeder in seiner Weise
— zu Werkzeugen der Forschung gemacht. Und es mehren sich die
Anzeichen, daß in der Kunstbetrachtung überhaupt ein
grundsätzlicher Wandel vor sich geht. Wenn mehrere gute Köpfe
gleichzeitig auf dieselbe Idee verfallen, so ist damit bewiesen, daß
es sich nicht um subjektive Spekulationen handelt, sondern um eine
objektive Erkenntnis. Es mag darum nützlich sein, das Problem
einmal in seinem ganzen Umfang wenigstens anzudeuten.
Zu der Wichtigkeit, die ich dem Gedanken von der Polarität der
Kunst beimesse, steht das Volumen dieses Buches freilich in keinem
Verhältnis. Ich benutze die Gelegenheit, das Bekenntnis abzulegen,
daß ich dieser Arbeit über den „Geist der Gotik“ gern viele Jahre
meines Lebens gewidmet hätte, daß ich sie am liebsten erweitern
möchte zu einem umfangreichen, auf genauen Spezialforschungen
und vielen Reiseerlebnissen beruhenden, von einem reichen
wissenschaftlichen Abbildungsmaterial erläuterten Werk. Die
Erfüllung dieses Wunsches ist mir dauernd versagt. Notgedrungen
begnüge ich mich, das schöne Problem aphoristisch zu behandeln
und intuitiv gewonnene Resultate vorzulegen, ohne sie im einzelnen
auch empirisch zu beweisen. Ich bin mir bewußt, daß dieses nicht
eigentlich ein Buch ist, sondern nur etwas wie eine Einleitung zu
dem Werk, das mir vorschwebt. Es ist nur eine Disposition; jeder
kleine Abschnitt könnte zu einem ausführlichen Band erweitert
werden.
Die Abbildungen sollen dem allgemein Gesagten als einige
konkrete Beispiele zur Seite stehen. Manches hätte
charakteristischer gewählt werden können, wenn alle gewünschten
photographischen Vorlagen in der Kriegszeit hätten beschafft
werden können. Um so dankbarer bin ich denen, die mir geholfen
haben, dieses Resultat wenigstens zu erzielen. Für einige schwer
erreichbare Vorlagen bin ich vor allem zu Dank verpflichtet den
Herren Otto Bartning, Professor Peter Behrens, Reg.-Baumeister
Ernst Boerschmann, Prof. Dr. Heinr. Bulle, Dr. Curt Glaser,
Geheimrat Dr. Peter Jessen, Karl Robert Langewiesche, Hans von
Müller, Stadtbaurat Prof. Hans Poelzig, Dr. Emil Waldmann, Frau
Hedwig Fechheimer und den Verlagen Bruno Cassirer, Georg Hirth,
Julius Hoffmann, Wilhelm Meyer-Ilschen und E. A. Seemann.
 I. Die Lehre vom Ideal

Nach einem Ausspruch Goethes deutet alles Theoretisieren auf

ein Stocken oder Nachlassen der schöpferischen Kräfte. Dieses
Wort hat die Kraft eines Lehrsatzes und gilt ebensowohl für die
Völker wie für die Individuen. Aus ihm allein könnte man schon
schließen, wenn nicht andere Anzeichen noch in Fülle vorhanden
wären, daß es kritische Jahre für die schöpferischen Kräfte der
Kunst gewesen sein müssen, als jene groß gedachten Theorien
aufkamen, die nun schon einhundertundfünfzig Jahre lang das
geistige Leben Europas beherrschen und deren Schöpfer in
Deutschland so große Geister wie Winckelmann, Lessing und
Goethe gewesen sind. Die Theorien sind in dem Augenblick
aufgetreten, als in den Künsten mit den Formen des Barock und
Rokoko die ursprüngliche Gestaltungskraft abklang und als mit dem
Klassizismus eine kritisch abgeleitete Kunst, eine Bildungskunst,
heraufkam. Auch jetzt war die Theorie, wie edel die Gedanken und
Forderungen, wie genial die Vertreter immer sein mochten, ein
Notprodukt; ihre Verkünder standen im Dienste einer
Kultursehnsucht, sie fühlten sich — selbst schöpferische Geister —
unbefriedigt von der Zeit und wollten eine allgemeine
Vollkommenheit erzwingen. Wer die Kunsttheorien von Männern wie
Lessing oder Goethe kritisiert, muß betonen, daß sie und viele ihrer
Genossen als Persönlichkeiten und Begabungen viel mehr waren als
Theoretiker — selbst dann noch, wenn man von ihren poetischen
Arbeiten absieht. So strittig ihre Kunstlehren sind, so groß stehen
ihre kunsttheoretischen Schriften doch da als Denkmale eines
klassischen Schreibstils und einer vorbildlichen Methode,
Gedankenfolgen mit architektonischer Klarheit zu entwickeln. Diese
Männer werden nicht kleiner, weil sie in einem Punkte geirrt haben,
denn ihr Irrtum war der einer ganzen Zeit, er war eine notwendige
Folge des „Stockens oder Nachlassens der schöpferischen Kräfte“ in
den bildenden Künsten. Heute, wo diese Kräfte sich wieder regen,
würden so lebendige Geister ganz woanders stehen. Lessing hätte
in unsern Tagen wahrscheinlich mit seiner zielsicheren Logik einen
Anti-Laokoon geschrieben und würde orthodoxe Anhänger der
Laokoonlehre mit eben jenem heiteren Witz verfolgen, der seinerzeit
die Herren Lange und Goeze getroffen hat. Und Goethe würde
vielleicht den herrlichen Instinkten seiner Jugend glauben, würde
mehr seiner eingeborenen gotischen Natur folgen, die den „Faust“
hervorgebracht hat, und nicht einem abgeleiteten klassizistischen
Bildungsideal so unbedingt vertrauen.
Die Gefahr der von unsern Klassikern meisterhaft formulierten
Kunsttheorien, die den Deutschen noch jetzt heilig sind, besteht
darin, daß diese Lehren nur die Hälfte der menschlichen Kunstkraft
gelten lassen. Die Kunst ist von diesen großen Begriffsreinigern
nicht als eine Ganzheit mit zwei Polen erfaßt und dargestellt worden.
Sie lebten auf der einen Hemisphäre der Kunst und vergnügten sich
dort an ihren Spekulationen; die andere Halbkugel blieb für sie im
Dämmer, und sie sprachen davon mit einem gewissen Schauder.
Keiner glaubte, daß auch diese andere Welt einmal im Mittagslicht
daliegen könne. Und doch war unter den Gesetzgebern wenigstens
einer, der vor allen andern berufen gewesen wäre, eine neue Lehre
von dem Zusammenhang aller bildenden Kräfte zu geben: Goethe.
Während auf ihn mehr oder weniger alle Lehren zurückweisen, die
die Natur als ein unzerstörbares Ganzes nehmen, während er in der
Natur an Polarität und Stetigkeit, an Metamorphosen und an feste
Gesetze des Formwerdens glaubte, hat er die Kunst — die doch
eine zweite Natur, eine Natur auf dem Wege über den menschlichen
Willen und die menschliche Erkenntniskraft ist — nicht so umfassend
gesehen. Vielleicht weil er Künstler war und sich als solcher für ein
bestimmtes Klima entscheiden mußte. An die Formen der Kunst ist
er kritisch, ausscheidend herangetreten, hat sich für eine bestimmte
Formenwelt begeistert und eine andere verurteilt. Überzeugt,
durchaus objektiv vorzugehen, hat er — und mit ihm seine ganze
Zeit — tendenzvoll gewertet. Und so ist der Begriff zur Herrschaft
gelangt. Es war das Unglück jener Zeit, daß die Theorie nicht einer
lebendigen Kunst folgte, sondern eine neue Kunst schaffen wollte,
daß sie sich über den Künstler stellte, anstatt neben und unter ihn.
Auch waren die großen Werke der Vergangenheit, die den
Theoretikern als Muster galten, nur unvollkommen aus Kopien und
Nachahmungen bekannt; die bedeutendsten Beispiele waren noch
nicht gefunden. Es war fast unmöglich, von konkreten Vorbildern aus
ein wünschenswertes Ganzes zu denken. Im Gegenteil: von einem
für wünschenswert gehaltenen Ganzen aus wurden Forderungen für
alles einzelne festgestellt. Und dieses eben ist der Weg des
Begriffes. Nichts ist dem Denken über Kunst gefährlicher als Mangel
an Anschauungsstoff und Herrschaft des Begriffs. Denn jeder
Begriff, so grenzenlos er scheinen mag, ist hart begrenzt und stößt
immer irgendwo mißtönend mit der Unendlichkeit des Lebens
zusammen. Wogegen in jeder sinnlich geborenen Empfindung
immer das ganze Lebensgefühl enthalten ist, etwa so, wie in jedem
Naturausschnitt die ganze Natur zu sein scheint. Dieses ist das
große Geheimnis des reinen Gefühls: daß im Augenblick das Ewige,
im Beschränkten das Unbegrenzte, im Zufälligen das Gesetzmäßige
aufglänzen. Nur wer die Kunst aus der Erfahrung der sinnlichen
Empfindungen denkt, hat sie in ihrer Totalität; wer sie begrifflich
meistern will, besitzt sie immer nur in Teilen. Darum haben die
schaffenden Künstler, in all ihrer Einseitigkeit, ein so fruchtbares
Verhältnis zur Kunst. Sie wählen, gruppieren und werten aus dem
Instinkt, ihre Gedanken werden von der leidenschaftlichen Liebe
geboren, während sich beim Theoretiker nicht selten die Liebe erst
am Gedanken entzündet.
Als Kind eines genialisch gesteigerten Denkens über die Kunst
ist nun vor anderthalb Jahrhunderten eine Idee hervorgetreten, die
freilich etwas Blendendes hat und die darum auch heute noch fast
unumschränkt herrscht. Sie spricht sich aus in dem Lehrsatz, der
Endzweck der Künste sei „das Schöne“, und die Wirkung der Künste
auf das menschliche Gemüt müsse ein Vergnügen sein. Lessing
sagt im „Laokoon“, daß bei den Alten die Schönheit das höchste
Gesetz der bildenden Künste gewesen wäre, und daß darum alles
andere, auch von uns, der Schönheit untergeordnet werden müsse.
Diesem Lehrsatz ist die Frage entgegenzustellen: Was ist
Schönheit? Ist Schönheit etwas ein für allemal Feststehendes? Fragt
man die Kunstgeschichte um Rat, so zeigt es sich bald, daß die
Schönheit, wie unsere Klassiker sie verstanden, nicht das Endziel
der Künste sein kann, sondern daß sie eine Begleiterscheinung ist,
ähnlich etwa wie die Wohlgestalt des menschlichen Körpers nicht
der Zweck, sondern eine von selbst sich ergebende Eigenschaft der
organisierenden Natur ist.
Gäbe es eine absolute Schönheit in der Kunst und dürfte
folgerichtig nur sie gelten, so wäre alles andere neben ihr niederen
Grades. Das haben unsere Theoretiker ja auch behauptet. Man ist
sogar so weit gegangen, zu sagen, diese Schönheit wäre nur einmal
einem auserwählten kleinen Volke, den Griechen, gelungen, und die
Nachgeborenen könnten nichts Besseres tun, als sich nach ihnen
richten. Das kommt aber einer Bankerotterklärung der Menschheit
gleich. Es ist unmöglich, das Wesen der Kunst von der Schönheit
aus zu bestimmen. Der junge Goethe war dem Zentrum des
Problems näher, als er, hingerissen von einem Erlebnis des Auges,
vor dem Straßburger Münster stand und das Wort fand: „Die Kunst
ist lange bildend, ehe sie schön ist, und doch so wahre, große Kunst
ja oft wahrer und größer, als die schöne selbst.“ Mit diesem Wort ist
das Wesen der Kunst wie mit einer einzigen Linie umschrieben. Der
Wille der Kunst ist es, bildend zu sein und ein Inneres so
auszudrücken, daß es ein Äußeres wird. Der Ausdruck eines inneren
Zustandes, das ist das Entscheidende. Die Schönheit umfaßt nur die
Hälfte, sie zielt auf den Genuß, sie befriedigt
Glückseligkeitsbedürfnisse und das Verlangen nach ruhiger, heiterer
Harmonie. Das Glück aber ist in der Kunst ebensowenig das
Höchste wie im Leben. Um ein Wort Lessings zu variieren: auch in
der Kunst ist das Streben nach Glück und Schönheit mehr als der
Besitz von beiden. Der Welt des Kunstgefühls gehören ebensowohl
die Empfindungen des Schreckens, die Dissonanzen des
Charakteristischen, die Monumentalität des Erhabenen an. Auch die
Formen des Willens, die das Groteske erzeugen, gehören zur Kunst;
denn die Kunst ist vor allem ein Akt des Willens und darum ihrer
Natur nach elementar. Auch sie setzt vor die Form das Chaos, vor
die Harmonie das Übermaß und die Urkraft vor die Schönheit. Die
Kunst entsteht im kleinen nicht anders, wie die Welt im großen
entstanden ist. Wie die uns heute umgebende Landschaft kaum
etwas gemein hat mit der von der menschlichen Hand noch
unberührten Landschaft, wie die kultivierte, in soziale Rhythmen
gebrachte Landschaft etwas anderes ist als die vorgeschichtliche,
aus Gottes Hand hervorgegangene, und wie die Schönheit der
vermenschlichten Landschaft nicht höher gewertet werden darf als
die Gewalt der ursprünglichen, so darf auch eine klassizistisch
geglättete und veredelte, so darf auch die „schöne“ Kunst nicht
absichtsvoll der ursprünglichen Kunst als etwas Höheres
entgegengestellt werden. Es darf nicht heißen: dieses ist richtig und
jenes ist falsch, sondern es muß heißen: die Kunst geht lebendig in
Metamorphosen durch die Zeiten dahin, sie kennt nicht „Ziele“, sie
kennt nur Bewegung, und auch für sie ist der Weg das Ziel. Wie kein
einzelner Sterblicher die ganze Wahrheit hat, wie die Wahrheit
vielmehr unter alle ausgeteilt ist, so ist auch die Kunst als Ganzes
nie im Besitz eines einzelnen Volkes oder einer bestimmten Zeit. Alle
Stile zusammen erst sind die Kunst.
Aus der Lehre, das Endziel der Kunst sei die Schönheit, hat sich
folgerichtig die Verkündigung eines Ideals ergeben. Nun hat aber
jedes Ideal etwas Autokratisches, etwas Ausschließendes. Es duldet
nicht seinesgleichen neben sich, es kann seinesgleichen gar nicht
geben, wie die Pyramide nur eine Spitze haben kann. Daneben ist in
jedem Ideal etwas Einschmeichelndes und Betörendes. Es pflegt
den Wahn, es gäbe im Leben und in der Kunst etwas Absolutes, wo
doch alles Sterbliche und von Sterblichen Geschaffene irgendwie
bedingt sein muß. Und indem es angeblich zum Streben nach dem
Höchsten auffordert, lähmt es von vornherein die Flugkraft, weil es
den Strebenden immer mehr oder weniger zur Nachahmung
verdammt und ihn unselbständig macht. Nur unproduktive Menschen
und Zeiten konstruieren das Ideal, sie geben sich mit seiner Hilfe
eine Wichtigkeit, die sie nicht haben; naive Menschen,
willenskräftige Völker tragen ihre Ziele im Instinkt, niemals aber
drücken sie sie begriffsmäßig mit Idealforderungen aus. Wie es denn
auch bezeichnend ist, daß unsere großen Dichter wohl
Idealforderungen für die bildende Kunst aufgestellt haben, nicht aber
für die Kunst, worin sie selbst Meister waren, für die Poesie. In
unserm Falle hat die Idee vom absoluten Ideal in der Kunst unser
Volk, ja, unsere Rasse lange Zeit hindurch blind gemacht für das
eigentlich Bildende der Kunst. Besonders die Deutschen haben
schwer gelitten unter der Idealisierungstheorie, weil sie alle geistigen
Dinge immer bis zur letzten Konsequenz verfolgen und gründlich
sind bis zur Selbstvernichtung. Noch heute ist dem Deutschen das
Wort „Idealismus“ etwas Heiliges, vor dem die Kritik anhält; das Wort
bezeichnet etwas Sittliches. Und doch lehrt die Erfahrung, daß dem
unbedingten Idealismus zumeist der Jüngling verfällt, der Werdende,
der noch nicht mit sich selbst einig Gewordene, der Sehnsüchtige, ja
Unzufriedene. Wendet man diese Erfahrung auf das Ganze an, so
zeigt es sich, daß der deutsche Idealismus, der uns in unseren
Augen über die anderen Völker erhebt und uns zu dem
auserwählten Volke zu machen scheint, auch ein Produkt der Not ist,
ein Mittel, um über eine gewisse Unfertigkeit und Unbegabtheit
hinwegzukommen, und ein Zeichen dafür, daß das Wollen noch
bedenklich größer ist als das Können. Der deutsche Idealismus ist
das Werkzeug einer Schwäche, die Kraft werden möchte. In der
Kunst hat gerade das Ideal die Deutschen seit anderthalb
Jahrhunderten verhindert, das Nächste zu tun, hat ihre Blicke nach
Wolkenkuckucksheim schweifen lassen, wo es besser gewesen
wäre, einfach, vernünftig und besonnen vom Handwerk auszugehen.
Der Idealglaube hat die Tradition verdorben. Er macht das deutsche
Volk ehrwürdig, aber er hat es auch problematisch gemacht; er
verleiht uns — vielleicht — „Wichtigkeit vor Gott“, aber er verhindert
den Einfluß auf die Menschen. Er macht im Inneren unsicher und —
in der Folge — begriffsüchtig, lehrhaft und hochmütig nach außen.
So fruchtbar ein lebendiger Idealismus sein kann, wenn er still und
unbewußt in der Brust des Individuums glüht und alle Taten adelt, so
gefährlich ist er, wenn er als Begriff zum Bewußtsein erwacht und
sich Herrschaft anmaßt. Geht man die Geschichte der deutschen
Kunst in den letzten hundertundfünfzig Jahren durch, so zeigt es
sich, daß das griechische Vollkommenheitsideal zwar eine Kunst aus
dritter und vierter Hand nachhaltig gefördert hat, ja daß es sogar
allgemein eine gewisse edle Afterkultur zu schaffen fähig gewesen
ist; zugleich aber hat es die eigentlich schöpferischen Kräfte, die
naiven Talente bedroht und sie gezwungen, sich abseits zu
entwickeln, es hat die geniale Begabung einsam gemacht und in die
Verbannung getrieben. Und so ist eine tiefe Kluft entstanden, die
quer durch unsere Kultur geht. Dieser stolze Idealismus erweist sich
als ein Danaergeschenk; er macht oft blind für die Grenzlinie, die
Wahrheit von Lüge scheidet und echte Empfindung von
Schwärmerei; er peitscht auf und verhindert doch zugleich das
Schöpferische, er predigt das Absolute und läßt nur das Bedingte
entstehen. Während die Zeit ganz unharmonisch war, ja eben weil
sie es war, hat dieser Idealismus die Harmonie gepredigt. Da aus
sich selber aber niemand imstande war, harmonisch zu werden, so
wurde als Muster in der Kunst der griechische Stil aufgestellt.
Ein Stil! Es ist das Eigentümliche des begrifflichen Idealismus,
daß er lieber von einem Stil redet, als von bestimmten Kunstwerken.
Oder er macht das einzelne Kunstwerk zu einem Stilsymbol. In
Deutschland sind zum Beispiel die einflußreichsten Theorien an ein
Kunstwerk geknüpft worden — an die Laokoongruppe —, das
keineswegs zu den guten griechischen Arbeiten gehört, in dem die
spezifischen Eigenschaften des griechischen Formwillens nur sehr
bedingt enthalten sind, ja das recht eigentlich dem Formenkreis des
griechischen Barock angehört und dessen Lobpreisung von seiten
Lessings, Goethes und ihrer Geistesverwandten beweist, wie sehr
dieses Geschlecht, das so viel von der „edlen Einfalt und stillen
Größe“ der Antike sprach, im Instinkte noch den
Barockempfindungen des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts unterworfen
war. Es ist damals der grundsätzliche Fehler gemacht worden, Stil
und Qualität miteinander zu verwechseln; man meinte, ein
Kunstwerk sei schon wegen seiner Zugehörigkeit zu einem
bestimmten Stil — zum griechischen Stil — gut und besser als jedes
andere. Darin liegt eine folgenschwere Verwechslung der Art mit
dem Grad. Die Art kann überhaupt nicht kritisiert werden, weil sie gar
nicht vom Willen abhängig ist, sie kann nur konstatiert werden,
kritisieren kann man allein den Grad. Kunststile lassen sich
ebensowenig kritisch vergleichen, wie man die Buche mit der Tanne
qualitativ vergleichen darf. Man sagt ja auch nicht, der Granit sei
besser als der Sandstein, man sagt nur, er sei härter. Der Stil eines
Volkes ist der Abdruck seines Willens, seiner ganzen Eigenart, wie
sie im Wind und Wetter der Geschichte geworden ist; auch der Stil
ist ein Naturprodukt, er kann nicht anders sein als er ist und muß
darum hingenommen werden wie ein Schicksal. Er kann nur
naturgeschichtlich beurteilt werden. Es geht ebensowenig an, zu
sagen, der eine Stil sei richtig und der andere sei falsch, wie man
eine Sprache richtig oder falsch nennen darf. Es gibt begünstigte
Kunststile, die sich in einer, viele Hemmungen beseitigenden Umwelt
entwickeln, und es gibt andere, die sich mühsam durchringen
müssen und die dabei eine mehr knorrige Formenwelt
hervorgebracht haben — wie es vokalreiche und konsonantenreiche,
harte und weiche, mehr wohllautende und mehr charakteristische
Sprachen gibt. Man mag so weit gehen, zu sagen, daß es talentvolle
und weniger begabte Völker gibt und daß dieses Mehr oder Weniger
sich deutlich in den Kunststilen ausdrückt. Selbst damit aber hat das
von einem begabten Stil getragene Kunstwerk nichts
Entscheidendes gewonnen; das Entscheidende bleibt immer die
schöpferische Persönlichkeit. Auch eine Sprache kann den Dichter
fördern oder hemmen, sie kann für ihn bis zu gewissen Graden
„dichten und denken“; aber sie kann nicht den Dichter machen. Ein
Stil kann mit seinen Regeln bestenfalls das Schlechte verhindern,
Kunstwerke aber kann er nicht spontan hervorbringen. Kurz: die
Qualität des Kunstwerks ist in den wesentlichen Punkten vom Stil
unabhängig, ja sie beginnt erst jenseits der Stilform. In dieser
Hinsicht ist es von tiefer Bedeutung, daß die großen Kunstwerke
aller Zeiten und Länder einander verwandt erscheinen. Homer ist
dem Dichter des Nibelungenliedes, Sophokles ist Shakespeare
näher verwandt, als Schiller es einem seiner mittelmäßigen
Epigonen ist. Damit ist nicht gesagt, der Stil sei unwesentlich, denn
er ist ja das Formenklima, in dem der Künstler heranwächst; nur darf
die Zugehörigkeit zu bestimmten Stilformen nicht zum Kriterium des
Wertes oder Unwertes gemacht werden. Und das eben ist in
Deutschland, in Europa im letzten Jahrhundert geschehen. Dieser
Vorgang ist um so unnatürlicher, als es eine fremde, in einer
südlichen Kultur einst gewordene Formenwelt gewesen ist, der die
Deutschen sich zugewandt, die sie als Vollkommenheitsideal
verkündet haben. Soll schon ein Stilideal aufgestellt werden, so liegt
es doch am nächsten, die im eigenen Lande organisch
gewachsenen Kunstformen als vorbildlich zu bezeichnen. Der auf
germanische Initiative zurückzuführende gotische Stil aber ist von
den Gesetzgebern unserer Ästhetik geradezu verfemt worden. Als
unsere Literatur auf ihrer Höhe stand, wurde den bildenden Künsten
von den Schöpfern einer klassischen deutschen Schriftsprache eine
fremde Formensprache gezeigt, mit der Forderung, diese müsse das
den Deutschen eigentümliche Idiom werden. So war es, wie gesagt,
in ganz Europa. Aber die anderen Nationen haben verstanden, das
Griechische mehr zu französieren, zu anglisieren, zu italienisieren;
wir allein sind so „objektiv“ gewesen, daß wir nur schüchtern eine
Verdeutschung des Griechischen gewagt haben. Wir haben
geglaubt, glauben es wohl noch heute, es gäbe einen Normalstil.
Wohin diese Meinung geführt hat, das liegt vor aller Augen: sie
hat eine Epigonenkunst gezeugt. Eine Epigonenkunst, die als
Bildungsresultat bewundernswürdig ist, die bei alledem aber wie ein
Laboratoriumserzeugnis erscheint. Aus den Theorien ist eine Kunst
hervorgegangen, die lehr- und lernbar ist, eine gelehrte Kunst, kurz:
die Akademie. Das Streben nach der absoluten Schönheit hat zu
einem trüben Eklektizismus geführt. Und hat zu gleicher Zeit einen
temperamentlosen Naturalismus aufkommen lassen. Denn beides,
Stileklektizismus und Naturalismus, sind einander keineswegs
entgegengesetzt, sie sind miteinander verwandt. In Zeiten, wo aus
den Meisterwerken der Vergangenheit und der Fremde Einzelformen
losgelöst und in anderem Zusammenhang, zu anderen Endzielen
verwandt werden, wo die einst genial gebildeten Formen der Alten
mit gelehrtem Wissen nachgeahmt werden, macht sich der Künstler
auch von der Natur in subalterner Weise abhängig. Das griechische
Ideal konnte nicht eine neue Klassik heraufbeschwören, denn diese
fließt allein aus dem elementaren Willen, es hat nur den
klassizistischen Stil geschaffen. Und das große Naturgefühl der
Alten hat nicht das moderne Naturgefühl selbständig gemacht,
sondern unfrei. Das neunzehnte Jahrhundert ist eine Epoche der
stückweisen Kunst- und Naturnachahmung, der Formflauheit, der
sentimentalischen Ideologie gewesen. Es haben in ihm die Künstler
der mittleren Linie geherrscht, während die wahrhaft Selbständigen
verfolgt und vernachlässigt worden sind. Wir haben uns gewöhnt,
inmitten einer abgeleiteten Bildungskultur zu leben, als sei dieser
Zustand normal. Das heute lebende Geschlecht weilt, vom ersten
Tage seines Daseins ab, in einer unerfreulichen klassizistisch-
naturalistischen Umwelt, entstanden aus dem Kompromiß, den der