Page 41 of Dark Desires (Chicago Bratva #1)

MAURA

“ Y ou're quite the vision tonight. A real shame your father isn't here to see this.” The man says. His gaze lingering on my neckline for an uncomfortably long time.

“To see what, exactly ?”

I’m confused by his choice of words.

As he walks away, he throws a cryptic comment over his shoulder. “Enjoy the big evening, Maura. It'll be one to remember.”

Sean O’Donnell is a low level mob boss closely tied with the Irish underworld.

The world I was born into.

His strange words hang in the air, heavy with an unspoken meaning that sends a shiver down my spine.

As I stand in the center of the grand ballroom, the emerald green of my gown in stark contrast to the sea of dark suits. The dress—though stunning with its fitted bodice and flowing skirt— feels like a costume in this world of shadows, sinister glares, and hushed threats.

The silk clings to my curves, a bold choice my stepmother insisted upon, saying it was time I looked the part of Irish mafia royalty—whatever that means.

The grandeur of the ballroom is overwhelming, with high ceilings adorned with elaborate chandeliers that cast a soft, golden glow over the crowd.

Mob bosses and their entourages move through the space, their conversations a low hum beneath the gentle sounds coming from the string quartet playing in the corner.

The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the subtle hint of danger that always seems to accompany gatherings like this.

I stand near a tall, arched window, admiring the night sky, wondering what is beyond.

I take a small sip from the crystal flute in my hand, the champagne cool and crisp on my tongue.

I can't help but feel out of place despite the elegance of my gown and the way it complements the grandeur around me.

As I look about, I realize my stepmother never actually told me why this party is being held. There's usually a reason for these gatherings: a celebration, an announcement, a ceremony. But no reason for tonight’s festivities was given.

What's more unsettling is the way people keep staring.

Not the usual looks I've grown accustomed to, those lingering, often lecherous stares from men who see me as nothing more than a potential trophy. No, these looks are different—curious, speculative, almost wary.

As if they know something I don't.

It sets my nerves on edge.

I'm about to take another sip of my champagne when I spot my stepmother.

She moves through the crowd with a grace that belies her true nature, her blonde hair styled perfectly, her blue eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing its territory.

She's dressed in a perfectly tailored evening gown with a low cut neckline.

The fabric is a deep navy that contrasts sharply with her fair skin.

Her jewelry—always expensive yet understated—catches the light as she moves.

There's a warm, almost charming smile on her lips, but her eyes remain cold and calculating.

As she approaches me, her smile widens.

Clearly forced.

“Maura, darling, you look lovely tonight,” she says, her voice dripping with a sweetness that I've learned to distrust.

I nod politely. “Thank you, Sharon. That’s very kind. I was just wondering what the occasion is for tonight's gathering?”

“Sharon…,” she says, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “How many times do I have to remind you to call me mom?”

It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes.

She’s not my mother.

The woman doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

“Will you please clue me in?” I ask, impatiently.

“Oh, you'll find out soon enough,” she replies cryptically, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling back on me. “Just enjoy the gathering, Maura. After all, it's not every day we have such a... special event.”

I narrow my eyes at Sharon's response. The patience for such games has long since left me. “I don't appreciate the mystery, Sharon,” I say, my voice firm.

Sharon's smile falters slightly, but she quickly regains her composure. Her eyes gleam with a hint of triumph as she leans in closer. “Very well, Maura. I suppose now’s as good a time as any for you to find out. The reason for tonight's celebration is quite simple—you're getting married.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I'm convinced I've misheard what she said. “Married?” I echo, my voice barely above a whisper. “That's impossible.”

“Trust me, it’s very possible,” Sharon replies, her tone smug. “It's all been arranged. You'll meet your fiancé soon enough.”

The room spins around me, the faces of the mobsters blurring into a mass of indistinct figures. “This is insane,” I protest, anger flaring up inside me. “What do you mean I’m getting married?”

“Married. You know—husband, wife, perhaps some kids.”

I feel like I’m in the middle of a sick prank, but Sharon’s calculating look makes it clear she’s not joking around.

“You can't just decide my life for me. I'm not some pawn in your games.”

But Sharon's smile only widens, like a predator baring its teeth. “My dear, you'll find that I certainly can make decisions for you, and I have. And you are my pawn.”

I turn on my heel, my heart pounding in my chest. I need to get out of there, away from this marriage madness. Pushing through the crowd, I focus only on reaching the exit and on escaping this nightmare.

In my haste, I collide with a solid wall of muscle.

Stumbling back, I find myself staring up into the face of Rory Murphy, Sharon's personal bodyguard.

He's a towering figure with weathered features that silently tell the tale of a lifetime spent in the underworld of the Irish mafia.

His burly frame blocks out the rest of the room.

I look down at his huge, calloused hands, forced to recall the bruises they left on my body whenever Sharon ordered him to rough me up, always careful to avoid my face. The memories of those encounters make me shiver, a mix of fear and resentment boiling inside me.

As I attempt to make my escape, Rory’s hand clamps down on my arm with an iron grip. “Let go of me! “I scream, struggling against his hold, but it's like trying to move a mountain.

My protests seem to fall on deaf ears among the party attendees. Their amusement is evident in their smirks and raised eyebrows as they watch my futile attempts to free myself.

Rory, unphased by my resistance, steers me back toward Sharon, who stands watching the spectacle with cold satisfaction. “You see, Maura,” she says as I'm brought before her, “you really don't have a choice in this. Your father's gone, and I'm in charge now.”

“You have no right to speak of him,” I spit back at her, my voice laced with venom.

As Rory's firm grip prevents any escape, Sharon leans in, her voice dripping with malice. “You shouldn't act so high and mighty. After all, I've done more than just speak your father's name,” she sneers, her eyes glinting cruelly. “I've screamed it.”

Her words hit me like a slap, a crude and biting reminder of her intimate relationship with my father. My cheeks burn with anger and humiliation, a turmoil of emotions that leaves me momentarily speechless.

“Take her to her dressing room,” she orders, her tone dismissive. “The ceremony will begin soon.”

Rory's grip tightens as he leads me away, his expression impassive. The reality of my situation sets in with each step I take. I'm about to be forced into a marriage I never wanted, a token in Sharon's game for power and control.

I’m locked in a small, tastefully decorated dressing room, a surge of claustrophobia mixed with despair overcoming me.

The walls—adorned with elegant wallpaper and soft lighting—seem to close in on me, a gilded cage mocking my predicament.

I sink into an ornate chair, my mind racing as I grapple with the reality of my situation.

I could've tried to run, vanishing into the night, leaving this life of crime and manipulation behind.

But the harsh truth is inescapable; without Sharon's resources, without the Flanagan name and its accompanying wealth, I am nothing in this city.

Sharon controls everything—the finances, the connections, the power.

On my own, I'd be a lamb amongst wolves, vulnerable and exposed in the merciless streets of Chicago.

My hands tremble as I think of the unknown man I'm about to marry, a man no doubt steeped in violence and danger, a man I've never even met. The thought of being bound to him, of being at the mercy of his whims and desires, fills me with a deep, unsettling fear.

I have to find a way out of this somehow. I can't let this be the end of my freedom.

I barely have a moment to myself before the door swings open again. Standing there—framed in the doorway—is Sharon, her expression a combination of smug satisfaction and cold practicality. My heart pounds with both fear and fury, the unfairness of my situation boiling over.

“What is going on? Who is he? And why am I being forced to marry a stranger without any prior notice?” I demand, my voice trembling with anger.

Sharon steps into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “I suppose you deserve to know at least that much,” she concedes with a shrug. “Your soon-to-be husband is Lukyan Ivanov.”

The name hits me like a wave of icy water. Lukyan Ivanov, the eldest of the Ivanov brothers, a name whispered in hushed tones of fear and respect in the underworld of Chicago. Just hearing it sends chills up my spine.

“As for why , it’s Carter,” Sharon continues, referring to my stepbrother. “Your stepbrother has found himself in quite a bit of trouble with the Bratva, better known as the Russian mob. He owes them a significant sum.”

“What the hell does that have to do with me?” I nearly spit.