The Bratva’s Christmas Bump (Bratva Christmas Vows #1)

Chapter 1 Hollie

HOLLIE

“Hollie, where are you? The Lays arrived ten minutes ago and they keep harping on about the live music performance from my daughter, but you’re not here!”

Mom’s voice crackles in and out as I weave through the surge of traffic filled with people in exactly the same situation as me.

We’re all trying to get home for Thanksgiving, and every single person in each of these cars is as late as I am.

Grimacing, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and with a pounding heart ignore the blare of a furious horn behind me as I cut in front of a white sedan.

“I told you not to make promises like that.” Not that she ever listens. “You knew I was fully booked tonight and you started dinner so early.”

“Don’t act like this is my fault,” comes the indignant reply. “Far be it from me to expect you to choose your family over your job on Thanksgiving. No one else works on Thanksgiving.”

“That’s because everyone is having a dinner as fancy as the one you have prepared and everyone wants live music to complete the atmosphere. Which is exactly where I come in.”

“And despite knowing what I had planned, you fully booked yourself anyway!”

I’m not winning this argument. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve told her to stop volunteering me for things without my knowledge or tried to explain how this time of year is exactly how I make the majority of my income, but all Mom sees is my letting her down again and again.

At least I give her decent stories to tell her friends about how her daughter ruins the holidays.

“I’m thirty minutes away, maybe longer with traffic.”

“At this point, you’re so late, why even bother!” The line crackles and dies, leading to a momentary pause. Then my playlist resumes and Christmas music floods my car. The familiar tang of guilt rises like a burn in my chest. She’s right, to an extent.

Tiffany, my boss, presented me with a last-minute opportunity at one of the city's most elite restaurants. A chance like that is rare and the money was far too good to pass up. I made more money in that two-hour session than I’m likely to make all week.

Given how fleeting this career is, my entire financial year rides on the success of the holidays.

Gigs pick up around Halloween, then it’s a straight shot of monetary heaven all the way through to the New Year.

Around eighty percent of my income happens in these few short months, and yet my mother always acts like it’s brand-new information to her.

Deep down, she means well. This isn’t the most secure job in the world, and I could settle into a permanent contract with a hotel or restaurant, but I prefer the freedom of choosing my own clients. Every night can be different, if I’m lucky. Besides, Tiffany would spiral without me.

Settling back in my seat, I focus on the road as the world grows so dark and the city becomes so quiet that I soon feel like a lone fish swimming through the abyss.

Where I was once surrounded by like-minded drivers hurrying home, suddenly, the streets are empty and quiet as I head further out of the city toward the small town where my parents live.

Christmas Carols fill the car and with them comes a bead of excitement.

After Thanksgiving, it’s the home stretch to Christmas, my favorite time of the year.

Between the food, the lights, the snow, and the sheer joy that exists within festive music, I’m set up for a good run this year.

In fact, this year might be the year for me. I’ve been saving to leave New York for a long time, and if my plans pan out this year, this might be the last time I’m late for Thanksgiving.

As I drive through the dark streets, a passing shadow amid buildings containing the laughter and light from families finally together, a soft crackle rises from my phone, interrupting my soft humming along to the music.

Low battery.

Shit. Did I bring my charger?

Keeping one eye on the road and a single hand on the wheel, I cautiously begin rummaging around in my glove compartment seeking out the familiar smooth charging cable.

Nothing. It’s not in the dip next to my seat, either.

Dragging my hand back from the passenger seat and into my lap, I rummage around past my makeup, emergency toiletries, and wallet, but there’s no charger to be found.

The only place it could be is in my violin case, but there’s no reason for it to be there.

Did I forget it?

A memory suddenly bursts to the forefront of my mind of placing the charging cable down on the sink in the restaurant bathroom then being interrupted by a breathless manager begging me to start my set early.

It’s still there.

“Shit.” Puffing out my cheeks, I tuck my hair behind my ear and floor the gas. All I need to do is make it home and I can charge up there.

Three seconds after I speed up, something loud clunks in front of my car and a vibration moves through the whole chassis. Alarm spikes through me like a clap of thunder and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

Did I hit something?

Another clunk rises up from my car followed by a spluttering and chuffing sound, then with a long, low groan, there’s the painful sound of something snapping.

With another splutter and something akin to a wheezing gasp, my car dies and rolls to a stop, haphazardly parked against the sidewalk where I have enough sense to guide it as it slows.

“No way,” I whisper to myself as the lights on my dashboard flicker and die. The warmth blasting out of the heater is the next to go and within ten seconds, I’m shrouded in darkness inside a rapidly cooling car with no other soul in sight.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Snatching my phone from its hands-free stand, I gaze out of the window and try to take in as much of my surroundings as I can.

The outskirts of the city are dark and quiet.

A couple of orange streetlights sparsely illuminate the sidewalks on either side of the road.

There are a couple of parked cars covered in a light dusting from the earlier snow shower showing they haven’t been moved since, and all the businesses up the street are closed and shuttered.

Aside from the dark, ominous alley to the left of my car, it looks like I’m alone.

It should be safe to get out.

I tightly clutch my phone in my hand and ease out of my car, scanning around me as I do so.

There are too many stories of women being snatched or attacked just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My heart begins to race and each breath trembles out of me while I hurry to the front of my car and pop the hood.

A useless endeavor because as soon as it lifts, I realize I have no idea what I’m looking at.

There are enough knobs and tubes to confuse me instantly, and my heart sinks.

Mom is going to kill me.

The biting November air wraps its long, cold arms around me, seeping through my short coat and biting at my bare knees above the hem of my boots.

Any warmth lingering inside me quickly fades even as I stamp my feet on the frozen ground and peer down at my phone while quickly scrolling through my apps for my mechanic.

Getting anyone on Thanksgiving is painfully unlikely, and I’ll have to eat whatever extra charge they throw my way for making them work, but it’ll be better than facing the wrath of my mother for letting her down.

Again.

The number dials with a tap of my trembling thumb and I press my phone to my ear. The street remains dark and empty, so dark, in fact, that I catch the twinkle of stars above me somehow not swallowed by the light pollution of the city.

Beautiful.

The line clicks and a rasping voice comes across the line. “MacMillan’s Break Down.”

“Hi! Oh, thank goodness! My name is Hollie Wolfe. My car has broken down on the corner of…” I pause and peer around at street signs, but nothing jumps out at me. “Hold on, I’ll check my—”

Click.

Did they just hang up on me?

Lowering my phone, my heart sinks as the empty battery image flashes up on the screen and then fades to darkness.

“No! There’s no way! Not now! Oh my fucking God, this is turning into a nightmare!” As panic rises inside me like an overboiling pot, the sound of a car engine freezes me to the spot.

A sleek black sedan pulls around the corner and crawls slowly down the road toward me.

Every orange streetlight reflects off its black tinted windows as it slowly drives closer and closer to me.

Something about the car plus the looming dark alley beside me turns my frustrated panic into a spike of cold feet, and reflex takes over.

I duck down behind my car and throw a hand over my mouth.

What are the chances it’s someone who can help me? Low, given this neighborhood. But what other choice do I have? Walk back into the city and try to find a place willing to let me charge my phone? Or sit here until daylight and hope everything looks less scary in the daylight?

Neither choice sits well with me, and I mentally kick myself for not being more proactive with my battery life. If I wasn’t rushing around so much, this wouldn’t have happened.

I huddle next to my car’s front wheel and wait for the car to crawl past and out of the street until a soft squeak of brakes greets my ears. They’re not driving past.

They’ve stopped.

Given the state of my own vehicle parked at an angle with the hood wide open, there’s a chance they’ve seen it and decided to help me, so I place one hand on my wheel and try to nonchalantly act like I know what I’m doing should anyone come around my car and spot me.

No one does.

Rising from my haunches, I peer through the window of my own car to spy on the sedan that’s parked exactly opposite me in front of a closed restaurant.

Vinny’s Pizzeria.

Three men in dark clothing have climbed out of the car. Two stand at either end of the vehicle while the third pulls up the shutter to the restaurant. Seconds later, the neon sign bursts to life with red and white colors when the third man opens the door and heads inside.

Then a fourth man climbs out of the car, and my frantically pounding heart screeches to a painful halt in my chest.

I know him.

He stands a good head taller than the other two men, illuminated in the glow from the pizzeria lights.

His shoulders are almost as broad as he is tall, and alarmingly thick muscles flex along his thick arms as he raises one hand and points to one of the other men, briefly engaging in a conversation I can’t hear.

Even in the brisk November air, he only wears a white T-shirt that looks seconds away from bursting at the seams across his thick, broad chest. Those arms are entirely covered in tattoos.

There are far too many to count from this far away, but the ink weaves an intricate pattern over all his exposed skin, telling a story that vanishes under his clothing.

His large hand moves to caress the thick, neatly kept medium-length beard that hugs his thick, square jaw, then he turns and strides into the restaurant.

My last glimpse of him is as he runs that same hand through his jet black hair.

The two men left outside turn and follow him in, returning the street to its eerie silence.

I’m still frozen in place, staring after him in a mix of awe and disbelief.

Two months. I’ve spent two months trying to track him down and then he just drops right back into my lap like this? I can’t lose this chance, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be kind enough to let me charge my phone. If I’m super lucky, he’ll even be able to help me with my car.

Ensuring my car is locked, I dart across the street and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window.

It’s enough to make me quickly run my fingers through my crimson hair to try and look less haggard as a nervous flutter enters my heart.

The last time I saw Maxim, those massive arms were wrapped around me like two warm logs and I was soaring higher than I’ve ever been in my life.

Despite my relief at finally finding him again, there’s a note of frustration too. How can someone just vanish after a night like that? I roll my eyes faintly while hauling open the door to the pizzeria and heading inside.

The short entranceway opens up into a humble eating area with six tables all covered in the same checkered cloth. Salt, pepper, and chili flakes stand proudly at the center of each table while I weave through them toward the voices in the back of the restaurant.

I’d recognize the sexy gravel of Maxim’s deep voice anywhere. It’s replayed in my dreams often enough.

Raising both hands, I push through the red double doors into the kitchen with a small smile fixed on my face and Maxim’s name on my lips. But just as the doors slip from my raised fingertips, a deafening bang rings out in the kitchen and I jump out of my skin.

Frozen in place, I’m just there to watch as the severely beaten, bruised, and bloody body of a man flops to the ground like a dead fish and lies there with wide, unseeing eyes fixed upon me.

Above him stands Maxim holding a smoking gun in his right hand.

I’ve spent two months searching the city for Maxim.

And he’s just murdered a man in front of me.