Page 2 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

To Fedya, he said, “I hope you don’t mind,” he gestured towards the stripper under the table. The sound of a zipper flying open echoed around them. “I like a little motivation when I’m dealing. Nothing better than your cock down a whore’s throat. You agree, don’t you, Jonathan?”

Fedya nodded. “Agreed.”

Donnacha leaned back in his chair just as Liam laughed raucously. The third man had yet to say anything. He simply observed Fedya’s mannerisms, most likely looking for a slip. Fedya was one step ahead of him.

“I bring quality,” Fedya carried on, his accent so rich you’d believe his family was American. “No knockoffs, no surprises. You wouldn’t have invited me if you didn’t think I had something worth your time.”

Liam swirled his whiskey, considering. The stripper was taking his cock deep in her throat under the table, and he seemed unaffected by it. For a split second, Fedya wondered if he was actually enjoying it or if it was just a habit.

“That remains to be seen,” Liam said. He leaned forward, curling one of his fists around the stripper’s hair, tugging tightly as he forced her deeper.

His eyes darkened―not out of lust, but anger—as the next words left his mouth.

“We’ve been burned before. Feds, backstabbers, amateurs trying to push off shite that jams when you need it most.” He nodded at the package Fedya had laid on the table.

“You say your stock’s reliable. How reliable? ”

“Reliable enough to put your enemies in the ground before they take their next breath.”

The tension in Liam’s jaw eased a bit. He chuckled at that, but Donnacha’s gaze remained unwavering. “That so? And tell me, what’s an independent dealer like yourself doing sniffing around our business? I don’t know Americans to work alone.”

His Rs grew even harder with every word.

Fedya held his stare, unflinching. “Not every man answers to a God. Not every American answers to a syndicate. I work for myself. Fewer chains. Fewer problems. Easy peasy.”

Donnacha’s lips lifted incredulously when he heard the last two words. Liam exchanged looks with all three men before leaning back in his chair. His throat worked as the muscles in his jaw shifted, and then he yanked the blonde off him.

She staggered to her feet, wiping her mouth clean as she swallowed.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes watering, and Fedya tried not to pity her, not to pity the fact that she was being treated like an object just because she was a stripper.

Fedya couldn’t imagine how they treated their women here, but that wasn’t his business. He’d come here with a goal in mind.

Infiltration.

And he was slowly getting there.

“Leave us,” Liam barely nodded at the woman as he looked back at Fedya. “Alright, Jonathan. Let’s see if you’re worth the trouble.”

Just as he said it, a door at the far end of the bar swung open and Fedya could feel it in his bones―the immediate shift in the atmosphere, the dulling of conversations, the posture alignment, the thickness in the air.

Fedya didn’t have to look back to know their Boss had walked in.

Cormac “The Butcher” O’Rourke.

As prepared as Fedya was for this undercover operation, as prepared as he was for the worst that could happen, Cormac was the least of his options.

He’d heard from reliable sources that Cormac rarely showed up at meetings like this, especially not ones with new arms dealers that were lobbying for an alliance with the Irish.

Fedya had seen ruthless men before, and there was Cormac.

For such a small mob, Cormac was a menace.

He wasn’t called The Butcher for the fun of it.

He was involved in the worst possible shit you could think of―killing for fun, trafficking women and children, buying and selling what shouldn’t be.

Activities like these weren’t uncommon in the mafia, but Cormac had a reputation. A dirty one.

One that Fedya wasn’t prepared for. But he’d already gone this far, and he couldn’t afford to slip now.

So, he maintained his usual bravado as Cormac stepped into the room and approached their table.

He was a thick, bald, broad-shouldered man with green eyes so cold they were like icicles puncturing your body.

Unlike his men, Cormac wasn’t wearing a suit.

He wore dark slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, forearms littered with scars and tattoos.

Every inch of his head was lined with tattoos, and his right earlobe was split in half, like he’d forcefully ripped an earring out of it.

There were two men behind him, hauling something―or someone. They dumped the body on the floor like it was nothing but a sack of potatoes before leaving.

All three men in front of Fedya stood up, and Fedya followed, but not without sparing a quick glance at the body next to him.

And just like that, his blood ran cold. Every muscle in Fedya’s body coiled tight with tension as he observed the body on the floor that belonged to no other than one of his own men.

Cormac’s hostage was Luca―one of the men Fedya had sent to spy on the Irish a few weeks ago.

His body was battered, bloodied, and decorated with sick marks and burns.

His eyes were a sickening shade of purplish black, and his bottom lip was split in two.

His nose was broken, and his neck was painted with clear reddened shades of fingerprints―suffocation.

Luca was barely conscious, but he was alive.

Fedya’s mind began to run a mile a minute, working with lightning speed to come up with a plan at this unexpected turn he could never have seen coming.

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Though his mind was a minefield of possibilities, Fedya’s face remained impassive as they all bent their heads towards Cormac―a greeting and submission. Cormac took his time studying him as they sat down, then spoke, his voice gravelly and unimpressed.

“I hear you got weapons for sale.”

Fedya nodded, meeting his territorial gaze. “I do.”

This man in front of him―this thing ―had spoken up for the rest of the Irish after the stunt with Aleksander. He’d outed his own blood brother for forming a rogue faction to gain favor with Aleksander. He barely put up a fight to defend his kind.

So, Fedya was even extra cautious. Cormac stared at him like he could see past his disguise, like he knew Fedya’s real identity.

But Fedya refused to be intimidated. He knew hard stares like that were nothing more than a technique to search for loopholes.

Fedya kept his Jonathan identity intact while being acutely aware of Luca’s slow, heaving presence on the floor next to him.

Cormac blinked after a hot minute, after realizing Fedya wouldn’t crack under his gaze. His lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was like a predator about to bare its canines. He nodded subtly at Donnacha, and Donnacha moved around the table to crouch next to Luca.

He fisted Luca’s hair and jerked his head up so hard it was a surprise his neck didn’t snap. Luca groaned, weakly opening his swollen eyes.

Fedya’s guts twisted violently.

“See, here’s the thing, Jonathan ,” Cormac said, still looking at Fedya. “I don’t trust men I don’t know. It’s that simple. You wouldn’t either, agreed?”

Fedya nodded. “Agreed.”

“That means I cannot buy weapons from a stranger without proof they work.” He nodded towards the package on the table, and Liam leaned back in his seat, watching with mild amusement as Cormac grabbed one of the guns and pressed it to Luca’s temple.

“I found this one lurking around two weeks ago,” Cormac smiled as he twisted the gun around Luca’s temple, digging deep into his skin until blood trickled down. With every harsh breath and weak grunt of pain from Luca, the knife in Fedya’s heart twisted deeper.

Cormac laughed. “He won’t speak, you know? He’s one impressive lad, I tell you.” Then his smile died. “But I’ve grown bored of him.”

He looked at Fedya now. “So, here’s how it works. You take this gun. You shoot him. If it fires clean, we buy. If it doesn’t―” He tilted his head, pouting his lips like a puppy, which was ironic since Fedya thought of him as a rabid dog. “Well, you won’t be walking out of here, Jonathan.”

Fedya didn’t move. His insides were tense, every instinct screaming at him to think of something, to do something. He couldn’t blow his cover, not in front of Cormac, but killing one of his own was absolutely out of it.

But he had to do something.

He had to get out of this mess with both himself and Luca alive.

And Cormac was staring at him with a grin, like he could see Fedya declining his offer. His grin stayed, even as Fedya took the gun from his hand and flipped the safety off.

Donnacha leaned in to whisper something in Liam’s ear, and Liam dragged a hand over his jaw in response, his grin stretching from ear to ear like this was entertaining.

Think , Fedya’s subconscious told him. Be calm and think .

But he couldn’t think for too long. He had mere seconds to act, and the heavy, anticipatory silence in the room was already weighing down on him.

Fedya looked away from Cormac and leveled his gaze at Luca instead. Luca’s gaze was on the floor, his jaw slack like he’d already accepted defeat. It was good. Fedya didn’t need Luca to see him and make any indications that he knew him.

Fedya adjusted his grip on the pistol. Usually, holding a gun was as natural to him as it was to people holding a coffee mug. But tonight, with the Irish wolves staring him down, waiting for him to break so they could pounce on him and have their fill, the gun felt heavy.

He wasn’t going to kill Luca. Not now. Not ever. He’d sacrifice himself for him if it came to it, but his death wasn’t a sure warranty for Luca’s safety.

So they both had to get out alive. In other words, he had to make this kill look as real as possible. No hesitation. No mercy.