An American Lion in Russia

Prologue

Oleg crouched on a ledge, cursing his miserable luck.

So soon after New Year's, the nights remained bitterly cold, and a frosty wind blew in from the Golden Horn Bay, freezing the old street thug on his rooftop perch.

He’d won this godforsaken watch in a poker game with Vitaliy—or rather, he’d tried to cheat his way out of previous losses and discovered, too late, that the greasy bastard was the slicker hand. Vitaliy had cleaned him out of the last of his rubles and, for good measure, saddled him with a full week of freezing nights on the warehouse roof, scanning the port for anything out of the ordinary.

Sighing out a plume of mist, Oleg drew a flask from his army surplus greatcoat and took a swig, wincing as the taste of rocket fuel assaulted his tongue.

He would have sold his soul for good whiskey, or even honest vodka, but here in Vladivostok, near the southern border, Chinese white spirit was a far cheaper alternative for staving off the chill.

Groaning, the aged Russki tugged his fur cap securely around his ears, fervently wishing he’d gone into public service like his father. The pay was nothing special, but the work was indoors and done in daylight.

Instead, he was here, shivering atop a warehouse roof with little to show for his years of loyal service but creaky knees, swollen knuckles, and a frozen ass.

The only spark of hope in the whole miserable night had come from a nervous little Port Authority clerk who owed money to some very bad people. Apparently, the young fool was worse at cards than Oleg.

In exchange for a promise of leniency, the spineless weasel had slipped him the manifest for an incoming ship.

The Songtress—recently renamed—was a Norwegian-built bulk carrier flying Argentinian colors. It was three hundred meters of salt-stained hull, officially carrying two hundred and sixty deadweight tonnes of textiles, machine parts, and agricultural goods from Tianjin.

Nothing unusual there; half the tubs at anchor these days hailed from Mother Russia’s southern neighbor.

What had caught the spineless bean counter’s eye—and dragged Oleg out into the cold—was the crew manifest.

A beast that size needed at least twenty able seamen to run safely.

The Songtress was making the twelve-day journey with only eight.

Either the captain had lost his marbles, or he was in dire financial straits. No matter which, a skeletal crew running a ship that large for any time at sea was courting disaster.

Oleg smelled something fishy.

And it wasn’t the trawlers resting in their berths, nets frozen to the gunwales.

He took another swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth, eyes narrowed on the shadowy silhouette gliding toward the pier lights.

It reeked of a smuggling operation.

And getting a line on valuable contraband would make all of Oleg’s suffering worthwhile.

Drugs, booze, weapons, girls… Oleg didn’t care so long as he got his finder's fee. The very prospect banished some of the biting chill.

The old enforcer eased his way down a fire escape, moving carefully on the icy steps. Upon reaching solid ground, he jogged through the forest of parked trucks, unmoving cranes, and dark warehouses to close on his target.

The harbor never truly slept, but at this late hour, he could move freely enough.

Crouching behind a forklift, Oleg cursed his aching joints. Squinting at the ship, he fumbled at his coat pocket, searching for the old PSO-1 military scope kept there.

“Vot eto pizdets!” He swore, nearly dropping the damn thing.

Mooring lines were thrown, caught by dockhands who secured them, before a gangplank was extended to the pier.

Raising the magnification lens in gloved fingers, Oleg watched as a stocky, grey-bearded sailor stumbled to the railing to yell at the shoremen.

He was bundled up in a worn marine jacket–entirely insufficient to ward off the inclement weather–with a battered skipper’s cap mashed onto his skull. The captain, Oleg figured, as the harried-looking man rained profanities on the lumpers in what sounded like Spanish or Portuguese.

Several delivered a return volley in the same tongue, with a few others thrown in for good measure.

Oleg grinned. Busy ports truly made the greatest melting pots. Experienced dockhands could curse fluently in a wide range of languages.

Capitalizing on the distraction, he slunk forward to a better vantage point behind the corner of a shipping container. Lifting the scope again, he frowned.

Additional members from The Songstress’s crew complement had joined their captain, equally vitriolic in their verbiage and similarly haggard in appearance. They numbered seven–not eight. Swaddled in tired blankets, their faces gaunt with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, weariness evident in their stooped postures.

He would’ve said they looked half-dead if not for the blistering verbal exchange.

Then somebody spoke, what must have been a command, because everyone fell silent immediately.

Oleg didn’t catch the words above the wind and harbor noises, but he felt them. They rooted him in place more surely than any anchor. Something about the voice, barely heard, demanded his compliance.

The crew, the shoremen, and Oleg himself all held their breath as a man stepped up to the gangplank.

And what a man he was!

Tall, rugged, with a dense mane of tawny hair dusting his broad shoulders, the newcomer radiated strength and power. Fashionably attired in a sable fur coat over a bespoke charcoal suit, he appeared unbothered by the cold, turning to address the captain, who wilted, skewered by his gaze.

Oleg cringed in sympathy.

To be the sole focus of someone like that Man–he emphasized the term instinctively–must have been torturous. Like a bug under a microscope, every flaw and shortcoming would be exposed, utterly raw and vulnerable when compared to Him.

Diamond links flashed at his shirt cuffs, another pinned to his silk tie. Gold glinted on his wrist—Oleg knew without doubt it would be an obscenely expensive timepiece—as the walking incarnation of masculinity gave the captain’s shoulder a single, almost paternal pat, leaning down to murmur in his ear.

The old seadog trembled like a frightened rabbit beneath that touch, before nodding and scurrying back into the ship.

“Who the fuck are you?” Oleg whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.

The stranger began issuing commands in a calm, resonant voice that carried across the pier with effortless authority. Dockworkers leaped into action, shouting into radios and operating their heavy equipment with abrupt, almost frantic efficiency.

The crew, by contrast, simply stood shivering in place. They looked ready to piss themselves, like a pack of toy dogs facing a tundra wolf.

No, not a wolf…

Before Oleg could finish the thought, two new figures appeared at the top of the gangplank, stealing every iota of his attention.

A pair of gorgeous blondes sauntered forward to flank the Man—one on each side—like living bookends of pure feminine perfection.

They wore pristine white fox-fur coats left deliberately open despite the bitter chill. Beneath them, their show-stopping bodies were poured into sleek black ski suits, unzipped just low enough to reveal generous, mouth-watering expanses of creamy cleavage. The outfits clung to their super-lean, beautifully busty figures, accentuating endlessly long, shapely legs that ended in black high-heeled snow boots.

The two perfect tens pressed themselves against him with open adoration, melting against his sides as though he were the only source of warmth in the world. Both women beamed up at the towering figure in sheer lovestruck worship.

Oleg’s heart skipped a beat.

With their fur-lined hoods lowered, the wind tossed their platinum hair around angelic faces. Just then, the moon broke through the clouds as though summoned, bathing them in silvery light that highlighted moist, kissable lips, diamond-sharp cheekbones, and elegant, angular jawlines that would have made a Renaissance master weep with envy.

Calling them mere tens suddenly felt like an inescusable insult. What the hell had he been thinking? These goddesses didn’t just break the scale—they obliterated it entirely.

Guilt slammed into Oleg, doubling him over as though he’d been gut-punched. His cock shriveled pathetically in his trousers.

“We are finally here, Darling.” One of the goddesses said in accented English. Her voice was melodic, carrying across the pier. “Thank you for indulging this old woman’s foibles. I know you were eager to arrive sooner.”

She stood a touch taller than her near-identical counterpart, her figure perhaps a fraction fuller and more womanly, yet she was anything but old. Her beauty possessed an ageless, almost supernatural quality—refined, graceful, alabaster-smooth. She could have been twenty-five or forty; it was impossible to tell.

Only the steel in her gunmetal-grey eyes hinted at a long life, hard-lived.

“You never need explain yourself to me, Love.” The Paragon of All That is Man sounded distinctly American. “Without my lioness, we might have stumbled into this viper pit unprepared. This way is better. I wish to savor the hunt.”

He slid a powerful arm beneath her fur coat and around her lissome waist, crushing her against his body for a deep, hungry kiss. The remaining crew members immediately began to cry—great, racking sobs of joy that echoed across the deck. Tears froze into glittering ice on their ashen cheeks.

Oleg sniffled too, blotting his eyes on his sleeve before he could stop himself.

He felt wretched for spying on such a tender, intimate moment. His feet began moving on their own, stumbling out from behind the shipping container, reeling him against his will like a hooked fish.

“Ugh. This is where you were born, Mommy?” The second goddess grimaced, wrinkling her perfect nose. “No wonder you left. It kinda screams post-industrial brutalist vibes. And the smell—”

“Britney…”

The low warning growl sent a jolt through Oleg’s body, threatening to liquefy his joints. One of the crew members fainted on the spot, collapsing to the deck with a heavy thud.

Britney simply smiled—a terrifying, wicked sight—and pressed herself tighter against the towering man’s side. Her delicate fingers trailed down the front of his crisp shirt, teasing playfully at his beltline.

She was unmistakably American, radiating that bulletproof self-assurance and spoiled arrogance so typical of her generation. Oleg should have hated her on sight, the way he despised all those fame-chasing sluts prancing around on Eurovision.

Yet her youthful, uber-fit body and mesmerizing beauty held him utterly enthralled.

“I’m sowwy, Daddy,” Britney mewled, her baby talk insincere. She pulled the entwined couple aside so dockworkers could hurry past, burdened with loading chains and turnbuckles. “I didn’t mean anything by it. But you can punish me later… if you like.”

The playful twinkle in her sea-green eyes betrayed her contrite tone. So did her hand, which boldly slid lower, cupping and stroking the growing bulge in the Man’s trousers.

“No, no. She is correct, husband.” The bombshell he’d called his lioness sighed. “The city has not much improved since my maidenhood–”

“I think Mommy means girlhood.” Britney chuckled.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear one.” She patted the younger woman’s head affectionately. “Since my girlhood. But beneath the grimy exterior, it has its charms. You will see.”

Oleg’s fritzing brain scrambled to make sense of the dazzling trio; were they a family? They certainly addressed each other as though they were. But the one called Britney, that shining jewel of womanly youth, was… was… touching her father in a way no daughter should.

“We certainly shall.” The Man rumbled. “Ah, and here is Capitán Ignacio with our documents.”

The captain reappeared, clutching a thick sheaf of papers. He was shivering violently, frost already whitening his grey beard. The rest of his crew looked no better—lips blue, bodies trembling beneath their thin blankets.

It really was a horribly cold night.

“Muchas gracias, capitán,” the Man said, accepting the bundle with a gracious nod. “Kindly take your crew, supervise the unloading of my cargo, then dive into the bay. Swim out to that marker over there.”

He waved indifferently toward a distant bobbing buoy, its blinking red light barely visible through the gloom.

“Never fear—your precious ship is in good hands now. Though any hands are an improvement on a bunch of human trafficking scum.”

Stark relief washed over Capitán Ignacio’s craggy face.

“Sí, señor. Gracias, señor! Enseguida.”

He actually bowed, sweeping off his battered hat. The rest of his crew followed suit, grinning and laughing like schoolchildren hearing classes were cancelled.

They quickly bustled off, resembling nothing so much as a merry band of half-frozen beggars, towing their insensate companion by the ankles.

Britney squealed with girlish glee–the sweet, bone-chilling sound cut through Oleg more keenly than the winter wind.

He gaped, watching them go. Conflicting emotions churned in his gut.

There was almost zero chance anyone could survive even a brief dip in those dark, icy waters—let alone a prolonged swim. It was suicide.

But He had ordered it in that irrefutable tone that commanded absolute obedience. How could they do otherwise?

The truth was self-evident: they couldn’t.

No more than he could stop himself from stumbling forward toward the wondrous family like a moth drawn to a blindingly bright flame. He didn’t even register the blaring horn of the semitrailer that screeched to a halt inches from crushing him.

“And who do we have here?” The Man asked, tucking the papers into his jacket. “A local representative come to greet us?”

It took Oleg a moment to realize he was being addressed. Directly. By the godlike figure and his two divine consorts. His spirit quailed under the crushing weight of their scrutiny.

“I… I–I…” Shame scalded the aged enforcer as his tongue betrayed him.

“Hm? Oh, it appears to be a street tough.” The mother deigned to glance in his direction. “A washed-up one at that. They’re such a nuisance. Shall I dispose of him, Darling?”

She pronounced his doom as though it meant nothing more than swatting a pesky insect before returning her assiduous attention to her husband. Moaning beatifically, she undulated her hips against him. A delicate hand glided down to join her daughter in caressing the disconcertingly large lump distending his pants.

“No, Daddy. Please… let me do this for you.” Britney purred, grinding herself against his other side, cheeks heating with desire. “Let me prove how much I love you. I need the practice–”

The clamor of a crane motor and heavy chains clanking swallowed the rest of her words, followed by the resounding clang of a shipping container settling into the truck trailer right behind Oleg.

Dockworkers swarmed past, jostling and cursing at him as they secured the cargo. A scar-faced laborer drove an elbow into his ribs on the way by.

He accepted their abuse. Numbly. Dispondently. Feeling smaller than the measliest flea.

Oleg wasn’t religious. Men in his line of work rarely were. Yet somehow he knew, he’d been judged by a higher power and found wanting.

His life was forfeit.

So the old Ruski wept. Standing in the falling snow on those forsaken docks, he sobbed for a life misspent, hopelessly grateful for a fleeting glimpse of transcendent perfection before the end.

Until salvation was delivered in a deep basso tone.

“A wise man creates more opportunities than he finds.” The Epitome of Male Mojo declared. “Take him. Kitten and Dolly will have prepared our accommodations. We can question him there.”

Oleg’s tears turned to ones of pure joy. He went limp with relief as strong hands seized him, deaf to the distant splashes as the ship’s crew threw themselves into the freezing bay.

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