Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan (Nikolai Bratva Brides #8)

Chapter 1 - Irina

The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoed through the empty hallway like gunshots in the silence.

Irina Nikolai had perfected the art of walking with purpose, even when she had absolutely nowhere important to go.

It was all about the image, the presence, the way people stepped aside when they saw her coming.

Being a Nikolai meant something in this city, and she’d learned early that if you didn’t command respect, you became a target.

She paused outside her brother Ilya’s office, pressing her ear to the heavy oak door.

Voices drifted through, muffled but urgent.

Her brothers were discussing something big again, something they’d inevitably try to keep from her because she was “too young” or “too precious” or whatever bullshit excuse they’d come up with this time.

At twenty-four, she was hardly a child, but try convincing four overprotective brothers of that.

“The shipment from Moscow is compromised,” Kostya’s voice filtered through the wood. “We need to move fast before they trace it back to us.”

Irina’s pulse quickened. This was exactly the kind of information she needed to stay relevant, to prove she belonged in their world instead of being treated like some delicate flower they needed to shield from reality. She pulled out her phone, quickly typing notes as she listened.

“What about the warehouse on Fifth?” That was Viktor, always the strategist.

“Too exposed. Fedya suggested the docks, but I don’t like them.”

She was so focused on capturing every word that she almost missed the footsteps approaching from behind. Almost. Years of living in a house full of paranoid criminals had taught her to always be aware of her surroundings, even when she was breaking the rules.

“Having fun, little sister?”

Irina spun around, her heart hammering as she faced Fedya.

Of all her brothers to catch her eavesdropping, it had to be the one who looked at her like she was made of spun glass and dynamite in equal measure.

His pale blue eyes held that familiar mixture of exasperation and reluctant fondness that she’d grown accustomed to over the years.

“I was just…”

“Spying on a private conversation?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he used when he was trying not to lose his temper. “You know better than this, Irina.”

She lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. “I know better than to let my brothers make decisions about our family business without me. This affects me too, Fedya. Everything you do affects me.”

“Which is exactly why we keep you out of it.” The door opened behind her, and suddenly she was surrounded by all four of them. Ilya looked annoyed, Kostya seemed amused, and Viktor just looked tired. “The less you know, the safer you are.”

“Safe.” The word tasted bitter on her tongue. “I’m so fucking tired of being safe. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be treated like a liability in your own family?”

“You’re not a liability,” Ilya said, but his voice held that patronizing tone that made her want to scream. “You’re our responsibility.”

“I didn’t ask to be anyone’s responsibility.” The frustration that had been building for years finally bubbled over. “I asked to be an equal member of this family, but you treat me like I’m some helpless little girl who can’t handle the truth about what we do.”

Kostya laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “You want to know what we do, Ira? We kill people. We break bones and ruin lives and sleep with blood on our hands. Is that really what you want for yourself?”

“It’s what I was born into,” she shot back. “You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

“Actually, we do.” Viktor’s quiet voice cut through the tension like a blade. “As long as you live under this roof, as long as you carry our name, we absolutely get to make that choice. And we choose to keep you alive.”

The worst part was that she understood their logic. She really did. The Nikolai name came with a target painted on her back, and being the only daughter made that target even bigger. But understanding their motives didn’t make their suffocating protection any easier to bear.

“I’m not asking you to put me on the front lines,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I’m asking you to stop treating me like I’m invisible. Let me help with the business side, the logistics, the planning. I’m good at that stuff, and you know it.”

“The answer is no.” Ilya’s tone suggested the conversation was over. “End of discussion.”

But Irina had never been good at accepting defeat, especially not when it came to something this important. “Fine. Have your little boys’ club. But don’t expect me to sit in my room like a good little princess while you make decisions that could get us all killed.”

She turned to leave, but Fedya caught her arm. His grip was gentle but firm, and when she looked up at him, she saw something that might have been regret in his cold blue eyes.

“We’re not trying to punish you, Ira. We’re trying to protect you.”

“I know.” She pulled free of his grasp. “But maybe it’s time you realized that I don’t need protecting as much as I need trusting.”

The conversation followed her as she stalked down the hallway toward her room. She could hear them talking in low voices, probably discussing whether they needed to increase security or limit her movements even more. The thought made her stomach twist with a mixture of anger and claustrophobia.

Her bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts, decorated in shades of black and silver that reflected her mood more often than not.

She threw herself onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to process the familiar cocktail of frustration and helplessness that seemed to define her relationship with her brothers.

They meant well. She knew that. In their twisted, violent world, love looked like armed guards and bulletproof cars, and never being allowed to go anywhere alone. But knowing their intentions didn’t make their methods any less suffocating.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Valentina: “Coffee tomorrow? I have gossip about your favorite brooding cousin.”

A smile curled on her lips despite herself.

Valentina had a way of doing that, piercing through Irina’s icy defenses with ease.

Over the past year, she had gone from Ilya’s wife to Irina’s confidante.

Someone who understood the game they were born into, the sharpness it required of women, and the softness it forced them to hide.

The café was nestled on a quiet corner, warm light spilling from its windows, the scent of espresso and sugar thick in the air.

She spotted Valentina immediately, curled into the corner booth like she owned it, dark brown hair pinned back in a sleek twist, manicured fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup.

“Running late, bratva princess?” Valentina teased as Irina slid into the seat opposite her.

“I’d rather be late than risk sharing a car with Viktor again,” Irina said with a shudder. “He kept trying to psychoanalyze me. I don’t think he blinked once.”

Valentina snorted. “God. That sounds like hell.”

“It was.”

They both laughed. It was easy with Valentina, easy to forget the world they came from, the weight of their last names, the scars their men carried and gave.

“I saw Zia yesterday,” Valentina said after a sip of her cappuccino. “She’s thinking of cutting her hair. Lev nearly had a stroke.”

Irina arched a brow. “Lev? The man who took a bullet without flinching? Zia waves scissors around, and he panics?”

Valentina leaned forward conspiratorially. “Apparently, he begged her not to. Said it was a ‘symbol of her femininity.’”

Irina burst into laughter. “What century are we in?”

“Right?” Valentina smirked. “Then Adrian walks in and starts giving Zia recommendations for hair salons in Prague. The man’s all ice until someone mentions a makeover.”

“I swear, your family’s more dramatic than mine.”

“You take that back,” Valentina said, feigning offense. “Your family is the gold standard of dysfunction. Maeve and Fedya alone could be their own HBO series.”

Irina rolled her eyes. “She stabbed him with a fork once.”

“Foreplay,” Valentina said with a straight face.

Irina choked on her drink, laughter spilling out. “You’re evil.”

Valentina grinned. “Flattering, but I prefer accurate.”

After another half hour of gossip, laughter, and subtle complaints about the suffocating love of overly dangerous men, Irina pushed back her cup and stood.

“Restroom. Be right back.”

Valentina gave her a lazy wave as Irina made her way toward the back of the café. The hallway was dim and quiet, the air cooler here. She pushed open the restroom door and stepped inside.

One of the stalls was already occupied. At the sink, a woman with vibrant red hair stood facing the mirror, dabbing powder onto her pale skin. Her makeup was precise, lips painted a deep crimson, but she didn’t glance up as Irina passed behind her to enter a stall.

The woman was still there when she emerged, blotting her lipstick now.

Irina washed her hands slowly, casting a quick glance at the mirror. The woman’s green eyes met hers briefly, then dropped again. No smile, no words. Just an odd silence that made Irina’s skin prickle.

She dried her hands, giving the stranger a polite nod, then turned toward the door.

“Oh,” the woman said suddenly, her voice soft and accented. “Is this the way out?”

Irina turned slightly. “Yeah. Just down the hall, back into the main café.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped toward the door. Irina moved to follow, and then, in a flash, something heavy cracked against the back of her skull.

The pain was white-hot. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled. She grasped for the sink, missed, and hit the tile floor with a dull thud. Through her swimming vision, she saw a smear of red hair, wild and coiled like fire, towering above her.

And then everything went black.

When consciousness returned, it came with a splitting headache and the nauseating realization that she was moving.

The surface beneath her was rough and cold, metal that vibrated with the rhythm of an engine.

A van, she realized. She was in the back of a van, and her wrists were zip-tied behind her back.

Panic hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath and making her heart race so fast she thought it might burst. This was exactly the kind of situation her brothers had spent years trying to protect her from, and now she was living it.

The van hit a pothole, jarring her injured head and making her bite back a groan. She needed to think, to assess her situation and figure out a way to escape. But all she could think about was how utterly unprepared she was for this moment.

Her brothers had taught her about guns and strategy and how to read people’s intentions in their micro-expressions.

But they’d never taught her self-defense.

They’d never shown her how to escape from restraints or fight her way out of a kidnapping because they’d been too busy making sure she’d never need those skills.

“She’s awake,” someone said from the front of the van. The voice was unfamiliar, rough with an accent she couldn’t place.

“Good. Boss wants her conscious for the handoff.”

Handoff. The word sent ice through her veins. They weren’t planning to ransom her back to her family. They were planning to sell her to someone else.

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice came out stronger than she felt, which was something.

The men in the front seats laughed, and the sound made her skin crawl. “You’ll find out soon enough, princess.”

Princess. The word stung because it highlighted everything she’d been fighting against her entire life. She wasn’t some helpless royal waiting for rescue. She was a Nikolai, and Nikolais didn’t go down without a fight.

But as the van continued its journey into the unknown, Irina couldn’t shake the terrifying realization that for the first time in her life, she was truly on her own. No brothers to call, no family guards to rely on, no safety net of wealth and power to catch her if she fell.

Just her wits, her will to survive, and the growing certainty that whatever waited for her at the end of this ride would test every assumption she’d ever made about her own strength.

The van began to slow, and through the small window, she could see lights. Lots of them. They were entering some kind of compound or facility, somewhere that looked far too organized to offer any hope of easy escape.

“Welcome to your new life, princess,” one of the men called back to her, and Irina closed her eyes, trying to summon every ounce of Nikolai steel in her blood.

Whatever came next, she would survive it. She had to.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.