HIS HEAVEN, HER HELL

A/N; This is a dark romance book involving CNC, torture, gore, Stockholm Syndrome, captor-captive romance, a lot of brutal BDSM sex, an unhinged Heroine and a psychopath Hero. Everything that happens in this book is not in alignment with real world morality and there will be no warning at the start of each triggering chapter. The pace initially starts fast—not a slow burn—but as it progresses it gets slower and sinks its teeth deeper into the characters' psyche.

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ANYA VESCOVI

THE TWELFTH frat boy I’d let in my bed this year was snoring into my neck when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting me awake. Twelve. Which would’ve made me feel less of a whore if we were halfway through the year—but it was only May, and I was already running out of names to forget.

His name was Chad—or Chase—some dumb, forgettable mouth-breather from the Alpha Rho house on Sycamore Street, University of Boston, which I’d gone to for the express need of finding someone to fuck me stupid enough to numb every other feeling. My graduation was in a few days, and the thought of returning to my parents’ house had me on the brink of losing my sanity.

After running from my fate as a Mafia’s daughter for years, I knew my father was finally waiting for me to return home to him. Either to be forced into marriage to an ally or rival or plunged into the work path of his demonic crime ways.

Both the former and the latter sickened me enough to render me useless with anxiety and even my endless puff of weed that afternoon couldn’t touch the tension in my chest.

It just made me roll over in bed, with a spiked heart beat, hair matted to my face with sweat, until I finally gave up and started looking for a better way to distract myself. That’s when I looked up where the frat parties would be. Frat boys were as easy as switching between underwear and I’d gotten accustomed to picking one up every time I needed something more physically distracting like hard, bruising BDSM.

Charles, Chad, or Chase had been very easy but just as disappointing.

I’d brought him to my place, taken his cock in my mouth for barely a few seconds before the spasms hit his thighs and he was cumming hot down my throat like he’d been waiting all semester for it.

My gut lurched with rage as he immediately pulled away, rolled to the other side of the bed and threw an arm over his eyes, panting some half-assed, “Damn, I’m sorry.”

I wiped both sides of my mouth and stared at his back.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just going to roll over and sleep?”

He groaned. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

“No, seriously.”

I’d straightened off my knees shamefully, tugging my camisole over my hardened nipples, almost shaking with anger. “That’s it? You nut in two seconds and tap out? Are you FUCKING STUPID?

Aggression, the blond fuck couldn’t miss the aggression in my tone even if he was deaf. He turned his head a little, brows creased over glazed eyes. “Bro, it happens. Chill.”

“Chill?”

“Yes, chill.”

My voice pitched an octave. “What the fuck do you mean chill?”

He didn’t even look at me again, and his selfishness stung.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I panted. “You wouldn’t even look at me now that you’ve gotten your relief?”

He sighed, like I was interrupting his sleep.

“I brought you here for a reason,” I went on, my words coming faster, my chest getting tighter. “So what you should be doing right now is getting me off. With your fingers, or your tongue, or your fucking dick? HELLO? Don’t you think that makes more sense than you slumping into my bed and telling me to chill?”

My breathing was picking up, and I hated that I could feel the heat rising under my skin.

Yet… He. Still. Didn’t. Move.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?” I exploded.

Finally, he pushed himself halfway up, turned to his side and watched me beneath knitted thick brows. “I said I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you in the morning. Bro, chill.”

And even before I could give my response, he’d slumped into bed a second time and his fucking snore hit—endlessy—for hours till the recurrent buzz of my phone joined the madness.

By the time the device buzzed for what felt like the tenth time, the sound blended into his snoring so badly that I couldn’t tell which one was pissing me off more.

I rolled to my side with a groan, smacking my hand across the nightstand until my fingers hit my phone. I dragged it toward me and squinted at the screen.

And just like that, every bit of anger I had toward the baby-faced boy beside me flipped into something colder.

The name flashing across my phone made my stomach twist.

Diane.

My mother.

And the first thing I caught in her voice when I placed the phone shakily against my ear was frantic sniffles. “Anya, it’s your father.”

I sat bolt upright, shoving the blond boy’s arm off my waist. "What did he do this time?"

The silence stretched. "He's gone, sweetie. He... he's dead.”

Relief—as much as I didn't want to admit it immediately—crashed into me in waves enough to make my head sway with dizziness.

He’s gone?

My eyes were as wide as saucer pans.

Dead?

Out of the blue?

I was dreading returning home in a few days or weeks—depending on when his men showed up at my door with guns, and he was just gone? My mind immediately leaped to the only conclusion that made sense: Murder. Who killed him? Malachi Vescovi was a terrible father, sure, and the rush of relief that hit me was shamefully ecstatic.

Still, curiosity gnawed at me as I tried to balance that relief with the pang in my chest.

I needed to know who my savior was. I needed to know who I had to find to give a fucking handshake for succeeding in something such as brutal as murdering Malicha Vescovi. I needed to find them to say, “Thank you.” With tears in my eyes and snot down my nose, I needed to let them know I owed them my life for this freedom they’d handed to me.

Mom’s voice crackled over the phone, reminding me that she was still on the other end. “Are you there?”

I huffed, “What would you have me say, mom? Thank God he died? I wish he’d died long before this? Dearest mother, I’m sorry you lost the man who made our lives hell?”

There was silence on the other end before her whisper, “He was murdered, Anya.”

I let out a shaky, hoarse laugh. “Oh. Shocking. Kill by gun, die by gun, no? You’re the Bible scholar, Mom—tell me which Commandment covers that.”

Her voice trembled. “Anya, please. At least some sympathy.”

“Sympathy is a soft emotion–”

But, she wouldn't let me finish.

“—no matter how bad Malachi had been, he was still your father—”

And I wasn't having it.

I gritted, cutting her off. “He was more of a demon than a father, you know that.”

I heard Mom losing her patience; her frantic sniffles had turned to ragged panting.

Then suddenly, her voice pitched. “ANYA, LISTEN TO ME!”

I wasn't going to.

“NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME!” I screamed back, the sound shaking the room and cracking my own throat. “I won't let you impose on me feelings that are not mine! YOU LOVED HIM! YOU DID! That doesn’t mean I have to. I will not afford one single, damn tear for a man that was literally a monster—”

Again, I was interrupted.

“I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU!”

And I paid no mind to that.

“You'd taught me years ago that we don't afford soft things to monsters. I’ll save my tears for the victim. Which, for the record, was US, mom! Not him! Never him!”

Surprisingly, my mother went… silent.

And shortly after, so did I.

My own chest was heaving, sucking greedy gulps of air that did nothing to clear my head.

My free hand was clawing at the sheet, ripping the fabric tight against the mattress.

​  We were just what? Two? Three minutes into the call? And we were already back to this familiar, tearing fight. The college boy next to me groaned roughly, steering with a heavy sigh before settling back into his stupor. The brief distraction made my rage stall, reminding me of the pathetic life I was leading. This was why we hadn't really talked in years; this was the dead end we always hit.

​  Mom’s voice, now utterly drained, returned with an occasional burst of pants.

“Just… listen to me, okay?”

I said nothing.

“I need you to leave Boston as soon as you can. Run. Hide. Do whatever it takes to stay off the radar. Judea’s already gone underground, Anya. And if Jude is running…” She paused, her voice shrinking into a terrified whisper. “Then you know what’s good for you.”

I HAD a deep hatred for my father.

That had been established ever since I was a child.

But yet, my chest ached tremendously following the news of his death, and for the next few days, I found myself counting in my apartment.

Not sheep, or money, but bullets.

I used pennies, lining up one for every hole they’d put in him.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five… twenty.”

According to the news, twenty slugs were what killed him. Knowing that number, seeing it represented by the copper coins, somehow calmed me. Numbers made more sense than grief. If I stopped counting, I’d start thinking. If I started thinking, I’d cry, and I wasn’t about to mourn a man who once made me clean my own blood off his shoes after a beating while he hummed Sinatra in the background.

His body had been found in a warehouse off the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and given the details of the bullet wounds, I could almost imagine the mush of his brain and his insides spewed onto the tarmac floor.

So, I counted, “Five. Six. Eight…. Twenty.”

Sipped on black coffee, pushed the pain of missing daddy away, counted again, lips muttering numbers while endless thoughts spiraled through my head.

Judea was my older brother, and unlike me, the one who escaped to Boston to bury the Vescovi name under a college life, he had stayed behind with Dad, being the golden son, while I, apparently, was the prodigal daughter.

Our father, Malachi Vescovi, ran one of the most feared arms networks on the East Coast. He handled illegal weapons trade, debt collection, assassinations, organ harvestation, and protection deals that stretched from New York to Moscow.

All the filthy jobs you can think of, he had been a part of.

He trained Judea himself.

Brutally, if I might add.

I remember watching through the window of our old house when I was twelve, seeing my brother forced to fight grown men in the yard until he was bruised, bleeding, and barely breathing.

By the time Judea was sixteen, he’d already pulled his first trigger…. at a maid who forgot to sweeten his tea.

By twenty, his name made people disappear.

If Judea, ruthless and unshakable Judea Vescovi, had gone into hiding, it meant whoever had killed dad had to be the devil from hell.

Mom was right, I knew I had to run too.

And exactly three days before graduation, I began packing the few things I needed when the bangs came against my door.

VIOLENTLY.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

It had been so sudden my soul almost left the shell of my body behind and the laptop in my hands dropped with a clatter that instantly shattered its screen.

My breath seized and my eyes widened, flight or fight mode instantly triggered.

First rule as a mafia's daughter had always been: never hesitate at the first sign of danger.

Second: As a girl, flight before fucking fight. You needed to know, to see what you were getting yourself into, before trying to attack.

I hadn’t even got my chance to gauge the situation or secure an escape route when the bangs became violent, vibrating the cheap veneer of the apartment room.

BANG!

BANG!

Muffled deep voices followed after.

“Zdes’, ya uveren!” one barked. She’s here, I’m sure of it.

Another answered impatiently. “Boss said alive.”

And then a third voice, “Alive doesn’t mean unharmed. If she fights back, pull the trigger, we’ll tell the boss that it was defence.”

My blood ran cold.

Bloody Russians.

The Morozov men.

I knew that accent anywhere.

The first attack was on my sixteen years old birthday, everyone important had made it alive, except most of my father’s guard who’d died from the gunfight.

They were ruthless.

At eighteen, my father tried to force me into marriage with their leader, Aleksei Morozov, a man double his age. Father signed a treaty to deliver me in exchange for peace, but he never kept to his promise.

Panicking, I hoisted my worn backpack onto my back, leaving the duffels and rolling travel bags I had packed scattered on the floor. They’d fucking slow me.

The handle rattled violently, but in contrast, the man leaned against it purred very softly, “Open this door gently, devochka... unless that is, you like it rough.”

My brain screamed one thing: run.

But before I could even cross to the windows of the room, a kick sent the door bursting inward.