Page 9 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
We didn’t talk about our omega running from us.
It had been nine months, and the best intelligence operatives money could buy. Men who could trace the metadata of a nuclear submarine. And we could not find one girl. Our omega. She had walked out of a five-star Prague hotel suite and ceased to exist. The only thing we know was she landed in Manchester, and vanished.
We were, by any reasonable assessment, a mess. Three of the most dangerous men in London, brought to their knees by a twenty-seven-year-old Irish woman in Prague, called Milly. I was wondering if that was a lie.
She also left with my black credit card. Though that was strategic. I’d tucked it into her coat pocket while she was half-asleep. I could have locked the suite when we left to sort out the problem we were in Prague for. I could have had Gregor stand at the door, which is literally what I paid him to do.
Instead, I gave her the card and whispered, "We’ll find you."
This was either the most romantic or the most strategically foolish thing I had ever done. Ivan had opinions about which one it was. But Ivan had opinions about everything.
The door to the boardroom swung open.
Mikhail stepped inside. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. Mikhail was a man who moved like a shadow. He ran the Russian leg of the operation. He had a presence that made you wonder if he’d been there the whole time and you’d just failed to notice. His face was unreadable, but his scent carried the sharp tang of urgency.
"She’s here," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Mary McCarthy is here with her family."
Ivan’s head snapped up, his sapphire eyes widening as the weight of the words settled over the room. He exchanged a glance with me, then Gregor, his bearded jaw clenching so hard I could hear his molars grinding.
"Who the fuck is Mary McCarthy?" he muttered under his breath.
My father’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile as he looked at me and then Ivan. "The woman who is about to join this family by marriage."
The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled and the thumb being the only thing stopping it from exploding.
Ivan’s face went slack.
Gregor’s fingers twitched toward the knife at his belt.
And me? I felt the first real spark of something in nine months. Not anger, but the promise of it, and it was simmering under my skin like a live wire.
My father stood, his chair scraping against the polished wooden floor. He stooped his shoulders slightly, as if the weight of the Bratva crown had finally begun to press down on him. His pale blue eyes flicked to me.
"Mary McCarthy," he said, as if the name alone should explain everything. "Daughter of Callum McCarthy, who is head of the McCarthy Syndicate in Dublin."
Ivan let out a low, disbelieving laugh. "You’re joking."
My father’s expression didn’t change. "The McCarthys control Irish routes into the United States. Ports, documents, private clinics, family registries. Their network is something we want to be part of. We control movement through Europe. Together, both sides become harder to touch."
"And the girl?" Ivan’s voice was a rumble, deep and measured.
My father waved a hand, as if the details were beneath him. "Eighteen. Unbonded. Healthy. The contract is already drafted. All you have to do is marry her, produce an heir for both families, nothing more."
Ivan’s laugh turned into something darker. "You want one of us to marry an Irishman’s daughter like we’re your latest deal."
"Not you," my father said, his voice smooth as aged whisky. "Just Artem."
The room went still. Even the rain outside seemed to pause.
I stood so fast my chair toppled backward. It hit the floor with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. "We haven’t had an arranged marriage in this family in twenty years."
My father didn’t flinch. "Times change. Alliances must be strengthened."
"Strengthened?" My voice was a blade, honed to a razor’s edge. "You think selling your heir strengthens us?"
"It’s not selling," my father said, as if the semantics mattered. "It’s a union. A merging of interests. The McCarthys bring the American routes. We bring Europe, money, and protection. Together, we control both corridors."
Ivan’s hands were clenched into fists. "And what does she bring, besides a last name?"
