Page 4 of Sold to the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #6)

Maeve’s throat burned with thirst as she snuck into The Grotto . It always happened like this whenever she slipped into her father’s bar without his permission, which was incredulous considering she was a fully grown twenty-four-year-old.

But she had never really lived a normal life. She hadn’t grown up in a sane, normal family. She was living, walking proof of parental neglect, and even though she was old enough to pack her things and leave, to become her own person, her father wouldn’t allow that.

Things worked differently in the mafia family. Especially when a man like Cormac fathered you.

There was nowhere in this world she could hide from her father.

She slipped through the back entrance of the bar, her fingers still cool from the graffiti cans she had just used on the walls of the building.

Cormac wouldn’t let her paint―he wouldn’t let her do what she wanted to do.

So, she channeled her love and craving for art into any outlet within her reach.

Even if that meant vandalizing the walls of her father’s bar in the shadows.

Besides, he couldn’t care less. The bar was strategically placed, owned, not exactly in the area where the cops would patrol and arrest juvenile teens for vandalism. So, she did as she pleased.

The familiar warm, smoky air of the bar wrapped around her, the smell of whiskey and sweat and leather a trademark smell in her life.

She kept her black hood up, her steps light as she weaved through the narrow hallways until she slipped into the dim glow inside the bar, and found Margot behind the counter.

Margot was the only thing, the only person who allowed Maeve to remain sane under the glorified captivity of her father.

She had been six years old when she lost her mother and had lived a dreary life devoid of her father’s warmth.

Because Cormac cared too much about his business, reputation, and power to notice a grieving child who knew nothing of how to navigate the world without her mother by her side.

And when she was ten, Margot was Cormac’s newest staff member at the counter of one of his numerous bars. Maeve had snuck in just like now, and Margot had found her lingering by the door with wide green eyes, listening to sensitive information that was well beyond her years.

Margot had picked her up, and one look at the girl’s eyes told her whose child she was. She’d been standing in her mother’s gap since then, filling shoes she never asked for, but shoes she wanted to wear simply because she loved Maeve. She treated her like her own.

A sneaky smile tugged at Maeve’s lips as she approached the older woman who was polishing a glass, her eyes low on the counter.

Margot was a woman in her late forties with dark hair that was gradually starting to thin and grey at the corners.

Frown lines were engraved on her forehead even when she wasn’t frowning, and her fingers were stubby, the ring finger on her left still wearing the gold band from her late husband sixteen years ago.

“I thought you weren’t coming tonight,” Margot murmured, keeping her eyes on the counter, but there was a smile in her voice.

“I could never bail on you, Margot,” Maeve whispered back, her gaze darting towards the main floor. “Who will keep you company if I do?”

Margot turned around and pressed a finger to her lips. It reminded Maeve of the times she used to do it to her as a kid, warning her to be silent so Cormac wouldn’t know she had snuck in.

Maeve rolled her eyes but lowered her voice anyway. From her hidden spot near the back, she had a clear view of the table where her father sat. His henchmen were seated around him―Liam, Donnacha, and Cillian—and there was one man across from them.

A stranger with unfamiliar brown eyes. He was bald, had a rough beard, and looked as average as possible. But there was a cold glint in his eyes that Maeve could spot even if she was standing a mile away. She recognized that look―that quiet, calculating gaze her father used to tame his men.

A slight frown touched her brows as she watched him.

He was very composed, and there was nothing in his expression that gave his thoughts away.

Her eyes moved from him to the body on the floor next to him: a man beaten and bruised, kneeling close to the table, his head bent low, his eyes cast to the floor.

Maeve’s heart clenched, sympathy touching every nerve in her body as her eyes reluctantly left him and darted to the package on the table. Guns, weapons, and a lethal grin on her father’s face.

It was the same sick cycle every time. The same sick deals she’d watched her father offer all her life. She couldn’t hear them from here, and frankly, she didn’t want to. She wasn’t interested. She had never been.

Margot followed her gaze just as Maeve took it away, and she sighed, setting down the tumbler she’d been cleaning. “Another night, another deal, another poor bastard who doesn’t know what he’s getting into,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper.

As much as Maeve wanted to agree, she returned her gaze to the strange arms dealer and wasn’t so sure.

There was something in his eyes, in the way he sat, and in his posture that didn’t make him look clueless.

He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He didn’t look like the usual rats that Cormac sweet-talked into his cage.

She was just about to look away again when she caught him taking a gun from her father’s hands. Her eyes narrowed when the stranger turned to the hostage on the floor and pointed a gun towards his upper torso.

Her father always did this―made men prove themselves in the worst way possible. So she wasn’t sure why she was so surprised in this case.

Maybe it was because of the wicked tilt of his lips when he clicked the safety off.

Maybe it was in the cock of his head, like the hostage on his knees was nothing more than an animal for the slaughter.

Or maybe it was because there was barely any hesitation in his gaze before he pulled the trigger.

So easily. So efficiently. Like it was breathing.

Maeve barely saw the blood before a wave of nausea slammed into her, wrapping around her throat and forcing her to look away. Her skin prickled with discomfort, her guts twisting with the same feeling she experienced when she watched her father take a life like it meant nothing to anyone.

They wore the same look―her father and that stranger. The same cold, dead glint in their eyes as they pulled the trigger. The same nonchalance as they barely spared the corpse a glance before looking away.

It made her sick.

And as always, it filled her with hate. Hate that ran deep in the marrow of her bones, that she locked deep in her mind when she remembered one of the men in question was her father.

She turned on her heel and bolted, pushing into the restroom. And she barely made it to the sink before she gagged and heaved. Her stomach lurched, and she tasted the pancakes she’d had earlier that day as it rushed out of her throat. She gripped the porcelain edges as she tried to steady herself.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image of the man, the dull thud as the hostage’s body slumped to the floor. She flicked the tap on and rinsed her mouth before splashing water on her face.

Her reflection stared back at her―red hair that peeked out of her hoodie, pale green eyes, flushed cheeks, and nose.

For God’s sake, she was used to this. She was used to violence, to the blood her father spilled. But it didn’t matter because she could never really get used to it, get to accept this as her own normal. There was nothing normal about murdering someone else. Not now, not ever.

The door swung open behind her, and she barely had time to straighten up before Margot stepped in and slammed the door shut.

“Margot?” Maeve said as she watched the woman hurriedly check the stalls like she was trying to confirm that it was just two of them. “What’s going on?”

Margot looked grim. “You need to leave. Right now.”

Maeve blinked, still wiping her mouth with a shaky hand. “What? I don’t―”

Margot stepped closer, grabbing Maeve by the shoulders.

Her eyes were wide and blue, and for the first time since she’d known Margot, there was fear swimming in the ocean of her eyes.

“Your father,” she gritted out, like the words physically pained her to say aloud. “ That bastard is selling you off.”

Maeve’s head recoiled back, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to process Margot’s urgent information. They sounded like Xs and Qs. They made no sense to her.

“Margot, what are you saying?”

Margot’s grip on her shoulders tightened. “The arms dealer, Jonathan. Your father’s giving you to him as part of the deal. He asked for a trophy, and your father offered you.”

Maeve’s eyes widened like a deer in the headlights. Her chin wobbled, and her hands curled into fists. She shook her head, taking a step back like she was in denial.

“No, no―”

“Maeve, listen to me,” Margot chided, her voice rising with an urgency that kept Maeve’s feet rooted to the floor.

“Now is not the time for you to pretend like you don’t know he can do this, because he very well can and has.

I know you don’t like to hear it, but he sees you as a weight.

A problem to be handed off, just like everything else he’s done in this business. ”

Maeve’s heart ricocheted in her chest. She could feel her stomach turning all over again.

Margot gave her a small shake, forcing her to meet her eyes. “There’s no time to argue or think about why he’s done this. If you don’t get out now, you won’t get out at all.”

Margot was asking her to escape. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed her mind before. It had―way too many times than she would ever admit. But knowing Cormac, knowing what he could do, what levels he could reach to find what he was looking for, always made her hesitate and think twice.