Page 4 of Marked By the Mob

Resilient.

Someone capable of surviving not just the world we live in but the three of us. A woman who can stand beside us without breaking.

The women paraded across this stage tonight have all been broken already. Hollow-eyed and compliant. Not at all what we were looking for.

Our contact swore tonight would be different. That someone special was coming.

Eduard, Artur, and I practically grew up together. The three of us were inseparable. Until our fathers had a falling out and we were forbidden to see each other.

But that didn’t stop us.

We still found ways to hang out, which wasn’t easy considering all three of our fathers were pakhans of our families.

I was twenty-two when my father died in the shootout that also killed Artur’s and Eduard’s fathers. The night we stood over their graves, we made a promise.

We would rebuild what our fathers destroyed. We would unite the three families again, stronger than before.

And we would do it the right way. Through a shared wife who would help us unite our three families.

We’ve been looking for years, with no luck. So, we decided to try this bride auction.

We’ve never been a fan of the auction and this is the first time any of us have been to it.

It’s a desperate attempt to find that one special woman, and it doesn’t look like this hairbrained idea was going to work either.

“Next offering,” the auctioneer announces, his voice booming through the speakers. “This one is special, gentlemen. Very special.”

I straighten slightly, my attention sharpening as movement stirs near the stage entrance.

Two handlers drag a woman forward. Even from this distance, I can see she is different. She is not crying. She is not begging.

She is fighting.

The handlers struggle to control her as they force her onto the stage. Heavy shackles circle her wrists and ankles, connected by short chains that rattle with every movement.

Her long dark hair hangs in waves around her face, partially obscuring her features, but I catch a glimpse of sharp gray-green eyes that blaze with fury.

The auctioneer continues. “Twenty-six years old. American...”

My entire focus narrows on the woman kneeling on the stage. There’s something about the way she moves, the raw power in every gesture, even while restrained.

She’s not just angry.

She’s unbroken. Where other women have surrendered to their circumstances, she burns with a fury that refuses to be extinguished. I shift with excitement.

Beside me, Artur leans forward slightly. “Look at her.”

“I see her,” Eduard says quietly.

The handler holding her chain yanks it hard, trying to force her head down in a show of submission for the buyers.

The woman’s response is immediate and brutal. She surges to her feet despite the short chains and drives her fist directly into the man’s face.

Bone crunches.

Blood sprays across the stage. The handler drops like a stone.

The entire warehouse erupts. Some men laugh. Others shout encouragement. A few lean forward with renewed interest, clearly intrigued by the display of violence.