Traded to the Russian Bratva (Yuri Bratva Brides #3)

Chapter 1 - Iosif

I pull into the lot behind tonight’s decrepit warehouse.

My car blends right in with a handful of other vehicles.

The make and models don’t matter as much as their belonging to people who know better than to ask questions.

There is a reason the operation humming beneath the building doesn’t advertise.

Wherever word spreads about the Pit, it is all word of mouth—and whispered in backrooms, at that.

Most importantly, it’s exactly what I fucking need tonight.

I’ve earned it.

Not only do I have my eyes on Viktor Zakharov day in and day out, but I also can’t ever let him know I’m watching him. Gathering evidence in the shadows. If word gets back to him that a Yuri is building a case against him, who the fuck knows how he’ll react. He’s as unstable a variable as it gets.

All I’ve got for decompression is dingy, seedy places like this.

It’s been three months of this. Three months of gathering intel. Three months of absolutely no pussy, because I can’t afford the distraction. Can’t risk crossing paths with some mole when I’m anything but impervious to a fiery woman’s initiative.

Trifon was clear about it at dinner last week. “We can’t afford mistakes, bratishka,” he’d said. “I’m trusting you. If Viktor’s still at it, we need to have iron-clad evidence. We need to present it to Anton in a way that doesn’t look like a power grab.”

He’s living happily ever after with his warm wife with her heart of gold. Valentin went and fell head over heels for the woman he was surveilling. Leonid’s still recovering from the Zakharovs’ wrath. I can’t begrudge any of them.

But it does mean the onus falls to me, by proxy, much to Trifon’s chagrin. I’m Iosif, the reckless one. The wild one. The one my brothers worry about most—besides Nadya, baby of the family that she is, though I think she can handle herself just fine.

Let’s just say it’s been a long, long three months.

Tugging on my jacket, I kill the engine and head toward the entrance. My boots thud across the concrete all the way past the bouncers, guarding the maroon vaulted doors like sentinels. They don’t stop me.

We Yuris are nothing if not distinctive.

The outside is always eerily quiet. No loitering allowed.

It’s only once the doors open that the chaos spills out.

It assaults my senses in an avalanche of liquor, music, and the unique but various sounds of sharp objects being launched left, right, and center.

There’s nothing pretty about this place. But it’s got what I need.

“Oy, Yuri!” someone hollers from across the space. “Long time, no see!”

This place is busier tonight than usual. I raise my hand in greeting and dismissal at the same time, then keep moving.

I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.

It’s typically an added benefit, the fuckers that usually frequent this place.

It’s a great hotspot for gathering intel in a pinch.

The trappings aren’t glamorous, but the drinks are always strong.

Loose lips sink ships. Unfortunately, my attention is reserved for a particular ship these days—and I already know for a fact that it isn’t docked at this port tonight.

The Zakharov situation has been eating at me for months.

I need a break from Viktor’s shit, however brief.

To turn my brain the fuck off. And it can’t be with a woman.

I can’t afford to lose my head. Trifon’s made it clear how much is riding on this, as both my big brother and the Pakhan of the Yuri bratva.

I wade through the throngs of people to the throwing stations and reach for a different vice.

I pluck a weapon from the wall—a glorious hunting knife, with a glistening blade and a handle with intricate handiwork.

Something tells me it’s stolen, and I really don’t care.

The weight of it feels right in my palm.

I toss it from one hand to the other, twirling it between my fingers. Learning and absorbing its mass.

Once I begin to throw, the world narrows down to the distance between the knife and the target. I launch it forward, and it whistles through the air. Plunges into the target, dead center. I retrieve it, then go again. And again. Primal, uncomplicated satisfaction thrums beneath my skin.

I could be fifteen years old again, just dicking around with my siblings. That was back in simpler times, when this was just for fun. Before I could imagine a man’s throat being what I plunged my blades into.

“Iosif, you’re making the rest of us look like we’re standing with our dicks in our hands,” a man crows behind me.

I recognize Mick’s voice. He’s just a dealer with too much self-importance and not enough common sense.

From the slur in his syllables, I’d say he’s a few drinks in.

I don’t bother turning around. We’re not on the same level.

We’re not even in the same building. Yuris may not be a monolith in Boston, but my grandfather built a fucking empire.

My father maintained it. My brothers and I are making sure it survives whatever comes next. What the fuck can Mick offer for that?

It’s a better use of my time to keep throwing my knife. Watch the blade embed itself in the target dummy with a gratifying thunk.

I don’t get to relish it for long.

In my periphery, the ambient clamor has changed its essence. What was white-noise chattering has become commotion. The drunken laughter has teeth now. It isn’t my business. I’m only here to work out the restlessness. I’ve got enough on my fucking plate.

Yet my ears are perked, and I can’t deny it.

Call it an occupational hazard. Curiosity has always been a weakness of mine.

Despite my siblings’ ribbing, I haven’t been cured of it yet.

Besides, something isn’t right. I could swear I hear a—what, a child sobbing?

Who the fuck would bring a child to this place?

My feet are moving before I’ve even made up my mind. I slip the knife into my gun’s holder, unwilling to part with it just yet. My hand stays on the handle, just in case. Only when I’ve shouldered past a handful of idiots does my hand drop to my side, stunned by the sight.

Kroshechnaya devochka.

It isn’t a child, though it’s worth noting that she’s basically five feet tall.

There are tears streaming down her face.

The only parts of her body in motion are her mouth, quivering like a kitten in a thunderstorm, and her hands, clenched into white-knuckles fists by her sides.

She stands surrounded by a whole troop of men who are various degrees of wasted.

Well, this wouldn’t be a first for this place.

And I’m not one to judge what people get their rocks off to.

I’m ready to turn away until I get a closer look at her.

It isn’t just that her arm is disturbingly slick with blood.

Though it isn’t an insane amount. She won’t be bleeding out any time soon.

Still, it’s enough to tell me someone’s hurt her in a way she’s never been hurt before.

There’s an element of shock to her features, like she can’t believe this is happening to her.

I’ve seen that look before. As another occupational hazard, I’ve caused it on enough faces—albeit none like hers. All softness, and wide, wet, expressive eyes that conceal nothing. She looks a little like that children’s cartoon, Bambi.

Her face, at least. The rest of her is..

. Well, does it make me a sick fuck to admire the voluptuous curves of her body in that flimsy red dress?

It crosses over her chest, tied together with sashes that meet in a bow tied at her ribs.

The deep V of her neckline leaves little to the imagination, revealing the deep valley between a magnificent pair of tits.

My attention splinters when someone sways into me. I shove them away with a grunt.

When I look back at the woman, that’s when I spot the targets.

An array of what looks like small wooden boards is positioned all around her—atop her head, by her right hip, one by each of her thighs.

One by her left shoulder… The red circles painted on the crudely cut boards are still glistening, signaling fresh paint.

“Who’s next? Whooo’s next? Step right up! Who’s gonna step up and take a shot next? Who thinks they can win this?” a voice is booming from the corner, egging the crowd on.

I track the sound and find him off to the side—the ringleader of this circus, if the wad of cash in his fist is anything to go by.

He pumps it in the air enthusiastically.

His other hand comes up to wipe at his nose.

His movements are jerky. His hand tremors, too—but for a different fucking reason.

One I know well. I don’t need to get a look at his pupils to know he’s high as a fucking kite.

Besides, I know him. Cillian Driscoll. He’s the founder and owner of the Pit.

Realization slots into place, like a dagger finding its mark. That girl—young woman, I’m sure, despite her height—is his daughter. That’s his fucking daughter, he’s looking at the way my brother Leonid’s Dobermanns look at his steak.

His antics only rile the crowd up. I have to move to catch sight of her again. My momentary pivot is all it takes for Mick to spot me again and take the look on my face as an invitation to approach me.

Bad idea.

He ambles over cheerfully. When I look away, he follows my line of sight to cock his head over the bleeding mess of a girl. “You want in, man?” he drawls, eyes too eager. “Only five hundred. That’s fuckin’ chump change for ya, huh?”

“What’s the prize?” I ask flatly.

His clumsy grin unveils most of his teeth. “Her.”

A dark cloud gathers in my chest. Before I know it, I’m digging into my jacket pocket and fishing out my wallet.

Mick wasn’t wrong. It’s chump change to me.

In my world, cash is the only thing that flows freer than the blood.

And I’m not the Yuri with a talent for negotiation.

I slap a stack of bills into his chest, shoving him out of my way.

“Sure,” I sigh. “Go tell Driscoll I’m in.”

“Aight, aight,” he says, words tumbling over one another. “You gotta hit every target though, man. All of ‘em. And if you draw blood, you’re out. That’s how Kavinsky got tossed outta the competition.”

Despite the black fury rotting my guts, it’s my lips that curl into a smile now.

I may not be the Yuri with a talent for negotiation.

But I have plenty of others at my disposal.