by Nicole Fox
I shake my head, tossing back my whiskey.
Egor shrugs. “More for me, then,” he says. But I can tell he’s unnerved by my mood. He’s right about me and the Bratva being one and the same. My moods matter to my men, and to Egor especially, since he often acts as my right hand in all but name.
“Where the fuck is Timofey?” I ask after a while.
Egor gestures at the harem girl who obediently slides away at once. “I don’t know. Want me to find him?”
I give the subtlest nod of my head as I scan the dance floor for signs of Irishmen. It’s not above Cormac to attack somebody in public. But he’d be making a huge mistake if he hit this club tonight. Bratva soldiers would swarm him—or, more likely, his men—in a matter of seconds. It’d be a bloodbath for them, not us.
But I’m being paranoid. There are no Irish on the dance floor. Just the usual herds of prowling men—over-gelled, over-cologned, overeager—and the flocks of women they pursue. The women play the men for fools, coercing free drink after free drink from them with the promise of a slip of skin. Idiots tempting idiots with idiocy. I want no part of it tonight.
Egor returns a few minutes later. “He’s out the back, near the trash cans,” he says. “Says he wanted to speak with you alone, but was smoking a joint first. He knows how much you hate drugs, so he’ll be in soon.”
I don’t exactly hate drugs. I just think it’s a stupid decision for a second-in-command to make, putting that shit in his body, messing with his head when it should be on the work.
I stand up. “I need some air, anyway,” I say. “I’ll go and speak with him.”
Egor glances around nervously. “You need some company?”
I laugh, patting him on the back. I know I was just scanning the crowd for Irish, but I saw nobody and, anyway, our club is guarded from the outside as well as the inside. “We’re safe here,” I assure him. “Just relax, brother. Get back to your … business.”
He grins, sliding down next to the harem girl.
I make my way through the club, navigating the minefield of willing women and sycophantic men. They look at me like I’m a celebrity. I handle it well, I think, smiling politely. But I don’t stop long enough to listen to any of their bullshit.
Stepping outside, I get the scent of weed right away. I follow it around to the trash cans, where Timofey leans against the wall. He looks so pathetic and small, skulking around out here in the darkness, wreathed by the scent of the drug. But he has served me well over the years, I remind myself. It’s odd that I need to remember that. My mind is going to strange places this evening.
“You wanted to speak with me?”
He flinches, even moving as if to hide the joint. “Andrei, yes,” he says. “That business with Cormac … that wasn’t well-handled.”
I sigh. “Perhaps not, but tell me: do you believe his little fucking fairy tale?”
“Of course not.”
I raise my hands. “There we are, then.”
“But it’s no reason to start a war.”
I lift a shoulder. “That’s his decision. If he wants to give me proof that the Albanians have really increased the price, then there’s no harm done. Or he can agree to pay this fictional increase himself. He’s got plenty of ways to get out of this.”
Timofey nods, flicking his joint away. “I know, Andrei, but—fuck, look out!”
His eyes go wide. His gaze shifts to over my shoulder. Years of being hyper-alert have made me aware when people are sneaking up on me, so when I spin, I half expect nobody to be there.
But then I see, in a quick blur, that the motherfucker is wearing wraps around his shoes, muffling his footsteps.
Professional.
He raises the Taser, letting out a roar, clearly thinking his hiding place behind the trash can was good enough to sneak up on me.
But I’m quicker than he expects.
I dart out and grab his wrist, twisting violently.
The man—gray hair, wool hat pulled low, mean eyes—let’s out a scream and drops the Taser. With a sickening crunch, I flatten his nose with my fist. Blood sprays. He stumbles backwards.
I pull out my pistol, turning in a swift circle, but before I can complete the movement, two pairs of hands grab me from behind.
They came down the fucking fire escape.
I wrestle with the men by feel, not sight, hurling one over my shoulder and right into the trash can so hard his bones must break. But the other gets the Taser pressed into my torso and pulls the trigger.
Vicious bolts of electricity move through me. I plummet to the ground, hitting hard. The impact knocks the wind from my lungs.
“Shit,” I groan, trying to sit up.
“Na-ah,” somebody snarls close to my ear, the unmistakable cold metal of a gun barrel kissing my neck. “Don’t be stupid, Russian.”
“This is a mistake,” I wheeze, the aftershock of the Taser making it hard to talk. “You’re dead if you do this. You know who I am. You know my men won’t stop, ever.”
“That’s none of our concern, buddy,” the man growls. “We’re just following orders.” He gives me another shock with the Taser. My vision blurs. I think I pass out, but I’m not sure. On the other side of the alleyway, I hear but don’t see Timofey being subdued. “Just sit quietly while my friend brings the car around, all right? Don’t make this harder than it needs to be—”
With a sudden burst of energy, I roll over, reaching up to grab this bastard by the throat and throttle him. I get my hands around his neck, seeing his eyes bulge, the panic in his expression. I’m weaker than I usually am, but still ten times stronger than this worm.
I’ve almost crushed him when another Taser sends fresh waves of agony through me—and him, since we’re touching.
We both spasm and wheeze and then he collapses on top of me.
“Shit,” another voice says, laughing. “You’re made of strong stuff, Russian. He passed out just ’cause he was touching you. But look at you, eh? Fresh as a daisy. Let me fix that.”
He brings the Taser to me again, for a damn long time. I try and fight it, I try as hard as I fucking can. But, eventually, it’s too much for my body to handle.
I pass out.
3
Jamie
I’m so glad that Molly is allowed to come to these Family events with me, because, otherwise, I might just lose it.
As the Irish princess, it’s expected that I show my face at all kinds of events: ribbon-cutting ceremonies, openings of new businesses, and, yes, auctions. But these aren’t art auctions or antiques or whatever.
No, these are slave auctions.
It’s the weirdest thing ever, and all I can really do is remind myself that these men are enemies of the Family: prisoners of war from criminal organizations.
The champagne helps me deal with it. God knows I don’t like to be thinking straight at these kinds of Family affairs.
“Is your uncle coming tonight?” I ask.
Molly shakes her head and murmurs something I don’t hear. Her uncle is in the Family, which is why she’s allowed here. We’re sitting high up in the large circular room, in semidarkness. In the middle, there’s a spotlight on a stage-like area, currently empty. Off to the side, just out of earshot, Dad sits with Rafferty and Declan. Declan keeps throwing me looks that really piss me off. I wonder how easy it’d be to push him over the balcony.
“Jamie?” Molly smiles, nudging with her hand. “I said, he’s working tonight.”
“I heard you,” I lie.
She shakes her head, making her jet-black hair sparkle in the light. She’s wearing it down tonight, a rarity. “Of course you did. I know what you were doing: thinking about that guy from the other night, right? Mr. Big. Mr. Giant, more like! What did you say you called him?”
“The Beast,” I chuckle, enjoying the banter. It’s easier than thinking about what we have to sit through tonight. I take a long sip of champagne. “But no, I haven’t been thinking about him at all.”
“What?”
“I’ve known you since third grade. You can’t lie to me, ever.”
The truth is, I may have let my mind stray to Andrei a few times over the past couple of days—or nights, more specifically. I may have let myself imagine what it would’ve been like to drag him into the back room and bend over the desk, looking at him over my shoulder.
“We need to make this quick,” I’d gasp.
“I can’t promise that,” he’d respond, stroking his massive manhood.
I shake my head. More champagne? Yep, that seems like a good idea.
“How’s your love life, anyway?” I ask, mostly to change the subject.
“My what?” Molly says. “Is that some fancy-pants Latin term I’m supposed to be familiar with. Luuva-laaaf? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Laughing, I say, “I was hoping for some more Tinder stories.”
“Well, there was this one guy last week, but it’s not really funny, to be honest. Just sort of sad.”
She rolls her eyes when she sees the curious look in my expression, because even sort-of-sad Tinder stories beat talking about Andrei Bakhtin, sexy Russian mobster.
Focus.
It’s too bad, too wrong for me to be attracted to him. He’s Russian, for fuck’s sake. And I’m Irish. If Dad ever found out I was so much as thinking about him … I don’t even want to think about what would happen.
“Well?” I prompt, when Molly just keeps staring at me.
“Don’t ‘well’ me!” she snaps playfully. “You’re the one going off into the clouds every two seconds!”
“Well,” I say with extra emphasis, winking, “I’m here now. So?”
“So basically, this is it: we go back to his place and we start, like, making out and everything else. And it’s all going pretty great. He’s a good kisser and there’s lots of passion there, and then I suggest we should move it to the bedroom. He says no, let’s do it in the living room. Now I’m curious as hell, thinking he’s got a hidden camera in there or something.”
She pauses, taking a drink.
“Don’t keep me in suspense!” I laugh.
“He finally lets me into the bedroom,” she goes on. “And, I swear, Jamie, every single surface is taken up with this elaborate hamster cage. Tubes connecting each part. You couldn’t even walk from one side of the room to the other without ducking under or climbing over one of them. It was insane. Like one of those movies where you have to sneak past the zigzagging laser beams to get into a bank vault. And the weirdest part was every section of the wall—I mean every section—was covered in photos of this hamster, all blown up, in super high definition. You’d be impressed, I bet.”
“Oh. My. God.” I’m laughing so hard I almost snort champagne. Dad shoots me a searing look. It says that a Mafia princess should carry herself better than this. But I ignore it. “That’s nuts,” I go on, finally calming down. “I thought you said it wasn’t funny?”
“Yeah, but here’s the sad part. The hamster’s called Grace and Grace is the name of his ex-girlfriend who left last spring. He told me the two facts were completely unrelated, even though he got the hamster the day after she left. When I said that maybe he isn’t over this Grace yet, he looked at me like I was the batshit one. Can you believe that?”
“Jesus. I’m so glad I’m not on Tinder.”
“Preach,” Molly says. “I think I’m done with it. I’ll wait for Mr. Right the good old-fashioned way … and probably die a spinster surrounded by an army of cats.”
I raise my champagne glass. “Here’s to spinsterhood. And hamsters.”
We knock them together, but not before she quickly says, “Here’s to Mr. Giant.”
We finish our drinks in one fell swoop just as soft music starts to play, and we both sigh. The time for fun has passed. Now we have to sit like ornaments, statues, showpieces. That’s basically what we are tonight: the princess and her demure friend. I get ready to tune my brain to a different frequency, most likely my next photography project, which I still haven’t decided on. I know Molly will be doing the same with her event planning.
After this is over, we’ll exchange notes. But for now, the auction is about to begin.
“I hate this,” Molly whispers in my ear after the third man has been brought out and auctioned.
It goes like this: a man is brought out and paraded around, shirtless, on a chain by a woman in her underwear. The woman and the chain are just for show, since armed guards watch from the shadows, but I guess it’s meant to make the whole thing sexier. Then the Irish Family men sitting in the surrounding seats call out their bids, and the auctioneer stands off to the side with a microphone, officiating the whole thing. It’s seedy and gross and weird and I can’t blame Molly for hating it. I hate it, too.
The only way to get through it with my sanity intact is to tell myself the same thing that I tell myself every time I’m forced to attend one of these:
These men are criminals, enemies of the Family. They deserve this.
“It’ll be over soon,” I assure her. “Drink some water.”
She’s already finished a bottle of champagne, mostly by herself. I don’t want her drinking too much and saying something that will get her or her uncle in trouble. Dad takes a no-nonsense approach to people talking badly about anything the Family does.
She just rolls her eyes, but she does drink the water, which I’m grateful for.
The goods on sale tonight are Russian because, a few days ago, my father declared war on the Bratva. It started with a hit on one of their clubs and has spread throughout the city since then. I don’t know all the details, only what I can glean from Garret, one of the guards at the house who’s known me since I was a kid. But Garret isn’t as talkative as I’d like, and I’m not even sure which Bratva Dad’s at war with.
Until I see him.
The last time I saw him, he looked calm and in control. And here’s the funny thing: he looks calm and in control now. Even while wearing nothing but baggy gym shorts, his massive body streaked with sweat, his pecs bulging, his abs a solid block of rippling muscle, he doesn’t look like a prisoner.
He stands with his posture straight, intelligent eyes scanning the crowd. When he spots me, he smirks subtly. He doesn’t look scared in the least.
“Is that the Beast?” Molly whispers. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I whisper back, my voice choked for some reason. I take a long sip of champagne. “How the hell did they catch him?”
“Guns, knives, nuclear weapons, who the hell knows?” Molly says, shrugging. “I bet he gave as good as he got, though.”
“They would’ve had to sneak up on him.” Our eyes are locked across the auction room, even though I’m mostly in the dark. He won’t move for the woman in underwear, ignoring the chain as it tugs on his neck. He just stands there and, eventually, the woman gives up and starts gesturing at him instead. “Otherwise, they’d all be dead.”
“He’ll be dead soon,” Molly says sadly. “The leader of the Bakhtin Bratva? They’ll torture and kill him.”
I turn my gaze to her. “Why would you say that?” I ask angrily.
She smiles, putting her hand on mine to calm me down. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m drunk. That was mean. I just wanted to see if you cared.”
I snatch my hand away. “You are drunk. And I don’t care.”
She shrugs, and then we both turn as the auctioneer starts his speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored Family members, I present to you Andrei Bakhtin, the infamous leader of the Russian Bakhtin Bratva. A cowardly mutt brought low, as he deserves. Buy him and do with him what you will.”
The man does his job well. Already, the ladies are gasping, the men talking loudly about the various ways they’d torture and then dispose of Andrei. I feel sick as I watch, remembering our easy banter in The Clover.
I have to remember that there’s no way in a million yea
rs that I should care about Andrei.
One: he’s Russian and I’m Irish. Step aside, Romeo and Juliet.
Two: he’s in the Bratva. A criminal, an enemy to my Family.
Three: he’ll be dead soon. Necrophilia just isn’t my thing.
So then why the fuck won’t my foot stop tapping crazily under the table?
“Now, Andrei, if you’d be so kind as to flex those beautiful muscles of yours!”
Andrei turns slowly to the auctioneer, somehow looking in charge even as he stands there shirtless. Scars zigzag across his rippling body, faded and white.
“I’m not doing that,” he says calmly.
“E-excuse me?” the auctioneer snaps. “We can make you do it! I hope you realize that!”
Andrei shrugs. “I am no show pony. If we’re doing this, let’s do it. If you want a show, then bring me an Irishman to fight. Hell, bring me five. You won’t even have to take these off.” He lifts his cuffed hands. The chains look puny and ineffective on his giant wrists. “What do you think?”
Nobody moves. Nobody blinks. Nobody says a goddamn word.
Andrei sighs. “I didn’t think so.”
All around, Irishmen and women are muttering at the disgrace of this. But Andrei just stares at the auctioneer, not even paying attention to the outrage.
I wince when Declan interjects loudly. “Get on with it!” he roars. “I’ll buy the arrogant prick and make him pay for it, don’t worry!”
A round of applause goes up at that, and then a cheer. Declan basks in it, because of course he does. A shiver runs through me when I think about all the different ways Declan would use Andrei before he killed him. Declan isn’t just an entitled douche. He’s a sadist.
I look at Molly, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing,
“What are you going to do?” she asks as the bidding starts.
“What can I do?” I whisper. “It’s none of my business.”
She folds her arms. “Your decision,” she says. “But I know you. You don’t want them to hurt him.”
