Page 20 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Fedya was no stranger to chaos.

The moment the shot rang out, his hands were around Maeve, securing her firmly behind him.

The gunshot hadn’t come from the crowd, but near the bar, where Kostya stood with a snarl on his face and a smoking pistol in his hand, aimed at the chandelier above another man’s head.

Crystal shards rained down onto the floor like hailstones, scattering like ice across the room.

There were a few gasps here and there, but no significant screams. As much as the Nikolais knew how to put themselves together and manage chaos, situations like these weren’t unusual.

Maeve was deathly silent behind Fedya, but he could feel her anxiety, the tension rolling off her shoulders as her chest heaved behind him.

Fedya didn’t need to go closer to realize what had happened.

His brother had been provoked, a common experience with the cousins, by family members who didn’t think they were up to the proper Nikolai standard.

The brothers and cousins themselves were never really at odds with each other, but the extended members liked to pick up fights where there was none, cook up tension for their selfish entertainment.

“Kostya!” Ilya’s voice—Fedya’s oldest brother—boomed across the hall. His hand left his wife’s waist as he strode towards the scene playing out in front of everyone.

It had been a while since Fedya had seen any of his brothers lose control like this, especially in public.

But Kostya was angry—so angry he barely turned at the sound of his brother’s voice.

His eyes were locked on the other guest, a broad, dwarf of a man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Entitlement was written all over his sneer, all over his relaxed stance, as if Kostya hadn’t just attempted his murder.

He was merely a long-time associate, privileged enough to be accepted into the family, judging by his accent and thinly veiled arrogance.

Fedya was genuinely disgusted by the nerves he had.

“Back the fuck up, Julio,” Ilya warned, his voice low but traveling across the room. Fedya’s eyes moved to Mikhail, who stood next to his consigliere, watching the scene unfold.

“Is this how the cousins behave now?” Julio mocked, turning his attention to Mikhail.

He was bold, alright. Extend your elbow to a man, and he wants your entire arm.

“Firing shots over spilled drinks and bruised egos?” He had a good mind to take a cautious step back when Ilya stepped between them, but his shoulders were still raised high.

“You’re not your fathers. You never will be. ”

Irina and Viktor had flanked Kostya and Ilya from the side. Fedya would have, but his siblings would be fine without him. His primary purpose was to protect his wife, and he wouldn’t leave her side, no matter what.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Ilya said calmly, taking another step towards the angry guest. “You should leave before you embarrass yourself any further.”

But Julio didn’t budge. Instead, his eyes flicked past Fedya’s siblings, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone, and then they landed on Fedya, on Maeve, who was now standing by his side instead of hiding away.

“And now strangers walk freely into our family’s walls,” the man sneered. Fedya thought it’d be fun to watch him beg for death. “What’s next? Bringing in the press? Or is she just your newest conquest, Fedya?”

All eyes turned to them, and Maeve went rigid beside him.

And for the first time in Fedya’s life, his anger was directed solely at the Pakhan.

Julio would not be standing with them, spewing heavy words like ‘our family’ if Mikhail hadn’t let him in.

Fedya did admire Mikhai’s leadership and how he seemed to form eternal bonds with outsiders whose loyalties forever belonged to the Bratva, but assholes like Julio were the exception.

Assholes who had no regard for his wife.

Julio wasn’t just speaking with contempt. He was testing him, testing how far the cousins could be pushed. How much disrespect they’d take.

“I will let this slide tonight,” Fedya said calmly.

The looks of surprise that came his way didn’t surprise him.

Only a few people in the crowd had heard his voice before, let alone threatening a man.

“But if you ever speak about my woman like that again, I will not hesitate to rip out your vocal cords and send them to your wife and her newborn.”

Julio’s jaw throbbed, malice and a hint of fear flashing through his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Fedya swiped out his gun. Mikhail was already beside Julio, his fingers clenched around the man’s arm like a vise. The atmosphere shifted, and Julio went as white as a ghost.

“That’s enough,” Mikhail warned, his voice dark and tight. “Outside. Now.”

Security surrounded Julio after that, bundling him out like he was a weight that needed to be discarded. Before they disappeared, Mikhail shot Fedya a passive look.

“We need to talk,” he said, his eyes falling to Maeve, who was, surprisingly, looking Mikhail in the eye. “Later.”

Fedya gave a curt nod, and just like that, the spell of tension broke in the hall. Conversations resumed in hushed tones. Waiters scurried to sweep up the glass. Music started again, and everything went back to normal.

From the corner of Fedya’s eyes, he saw Ilya frowning at Kostya, his jaw tight as he spoke. Viktor was standing right next to him, and Irina turned, meeting his eye with a similar frown on her face.

Fedya nodded towards the door, indicating that he was leaving, and Irina nodded, still managing to wave at Maeve, who was uncharacteristically silent beside him.

Fedya mirrored her silence as he guided Maeve out. His hand only left her after he opened the door of his car for her to slide in. He felt her eyes on him as he shut the door, went around the car, and got into the driver’s seat.

Fedya’s mood was soured and bitter. Sulking was his least favorite thing to do.

In fact, he barely did it—barely had time for it.

But right now, he was sulking, pondering the drama from a few minutes ago.

His brothers never complained, but the segregation had always gnawed at him, always silently bothered him.

He hated that Julio’s goal was accomplished tonight, just like a few others who had constantly tried to drive a wedge between the brothers and the cousins.

The streets were quiet, save for the sound of Fedya’s wheels tearing through the asphalt.

The silence inside the car was deafening.

He didn’t want to make her any more uncomfortable than she already was.

He didn’t know how she was feeling after what had happened.

The attention they’d received when they first walked in was one thing, even though it was expected.

Yet, to be called out in front of everyone and referred to as a conquest was another.

Fedya’s grip tightened around the steering wheel.

The regret he felt was a rage that pulsed in his throat, angry at himself for not finishing Julio off the moment he uttered those words.

He let him walk away with words when he could have shattered his mouth with a bullet.

Then again, Nikolais never killed their own, whether or not they were related by blood.

Though Fedya doubted that Julio would remain accepted by the family after the stunt he pulled tonight.

Maybe he could still get his revenge after all. If Mikhail cut ties with him, he could make Julio forever regret ever calling his wife a conquest. Or better still, he could kill him out of sheer irritation at seeing him alive. That would be better.

“Is that a regular thing?” Her voice came, softer than he’d ever heard it.

Fedya glanced at her. She was staring at the black street straight ahead, her eyes focused on the illumination of the road that the headlights provided.

His jacket was still draped over her shoulders, and her already short dress had ridden up even higher now that she was seated.

The fair skin of her thighs was exposed, and Fedya remembered that he’d just kissed her prior to the chaos that followed.

He’d just gotten the chance to taste her again, to feel her mouth against his, to hear her breathy little moan when he squeezed her ass.

He’d barely had time to savor it before Julio—fuck knows what his last name was—ruined everything.

He became even angrier.

“Not always,” he said, exhaling hard through his nose. “Every once in a while.”

“What was that about anyway?”

Her voice wasn’t hard or malicious like he was used to.

She was actually curious, and even though it had just begun, Fedya felt a noticeable relief in his chest that they were having a normal conversation, even though he detested the topic at hand.

He did like it when she shouted at him or cussed him out.

But he liked it even better when she spoke to him like a human being.

He could be an asshole, say something, or tease her about how they weren’t fighting for once, but that could probably shatter this sudden progress—if he could call it that.

“Some of the Bratva families, especially the ones tied to old bloodlines and even longtime business associates like the bastard from earlier, have this perceived notion that we’re not real Nikolais. Like we’re illegitimate because we’re cousins and not direct sons.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense. You’re still family.”

“Not enough for them, apparently,” Fedya shrugged. “They smile at us in front of the Pakhan and spit when his back is turned. But it’s never been a problem between us, my siblings, and our cousins. We’ve got our backs. People just like to stir up shit when they’re bored.”

“But it builds conflict.”

“We try not to let it get to that stage.”