Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) (3 page)

Well, for the first time.

Mikhail's men watched their boss carefully, waiting for him to give the order to grab me by the arms, drag me out of the bar and beat me senseless in a dark alley behind the old basketball arena.

The order never came. The big Russian tipped his head back and laughed raucously, a big belly laugh that reminded me of a jackal’s coughing howl, or the blood curdling screams of a pack of feeding hyenas.

"What did I say," he grunted, waving away his men as the humor finally subsided. "Big balls. Fucking big balls."

I saw my girl staring at Mikhail and I, her face aghast, and this time my stomach really did do a back-flip.

"Maya, come here, girl." The Bull roared, his voice turning hard and flinty. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Maya? Why’s he calling her that?

She padded toward us like a woman walking toward the electric chair – heavy legged, limp and broken. No, not broken – fearful.

Maya, or whatever her name really was, looked at me with pleading eyes, and I didn't have to be a genius to know what she was trying to say. She was begging me to pretend not to recognize her – or at least, not to make it obvious. I felt something stir deep inside me – something I hadn't felt in an awfully long time.

My heart.

M
aya

Conor once said to me that everything you need to know about a man, you can read in his eyes.

If that was true, then when I left him, I hurt him more than I could have ever imagined – maybe even more than it hurt me. But then, when I left at least I took a part of him with me.

He had nothing.

"Maya, come here girl," the Bull shouted across the room. I had to leave the no-man's land where I'd been hovering, trying to observe on the outskirts of his group of scarred and muscular henchmen without being seen and dive into the heart of darkness. I locked eyes with Conor, and the hurt, shock and pain I saw in his glittering, sea-green eyes was almost enough to sink me.

I walked over slowly, as if by tarrying I could somehow prevent the inevitable, but the Bull jerked his head angrily, and I scurried over like an obedient girl. I did the only thing I could think of to help manage the situation – I pleaded with Conor through the only medium available to me – my eyes. I knew that one slip, one loose sentence or even a stray facial expression could betray a secret I'd kept for years.

A secret that had caused so much pain.

A secret that could get Conor killed.

I only hoped he'd understand.

"Conor," the Bull blustered in a proud tone of voice that other men used to brag about their children's achievements. "Meet my daughter, Maya."

Conor blanched, his face betraying his shock as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. My head sagged forward, my chin meeting my chest. This was it – I knew it. The game was up. "Your…" He croaked, trailing off.

My father laughed, belching as he did so, and clapped the man I’d once almost married on the back. I held my breath, surprised by his reaction, but waiting for the inevitable explosion. My father was a proud man, as proud as he was penetratingly perceptive, and he didn't stand for being taken for a fool lightly. I knew he'd see through Conor's reaction for what it was.

"Yes, I know what it is that you are thinking," he said, sounding ever more Slavic as he laughed and rested his hand on Conor's shoulder. "How is it that a man like me can have a daughter that looks like this?"

"Something like that," Conor choked, sinking a large gulp of the almost untouched pint of creamy Guinness in his right hand to distract himself from the shock.

I didn't know what disgusted me more – the way my father was describing my physical attributes like he was my pimp, or his tone of voice. Like I said, other men reserve that tone for bragging about their kids at dinner parties.
Mine
uses it to flatter his own ego.

"I didn't always look like this, you know." My father chuckled. "And her mother…" He trailed off, bringing his fingers to his mouth and kissing them demonstratively, showing off what a catch my mother had been.

He made me sick.

She’s dead, you pig. And it’s because of you.

"Conor," he continued, tiring of focusing attention on me, or anyone other than himself. "I want you to think carefully about joining my crew. I have a significant, shall we say,
investments
in the CFL. We could do great things together." He looked toward me meaningfully, making sure that Conor saw exactly what he was looking at.

"You fight for me, you can have
anything
you want…"

What kind of father tries
to pimp out his own daughter?

His point made, he wheeled away with his arms around Conor's shoulders. As they walked toward the bar, he turned to me and said. "Don't leave this place without one of my men by your side. Understood?"

I nodded my head mutely, broken by not just the tension of the last few minutes, but of all of the last four years, and collapsed onto the nearest couch – scattering a few nearby party goers, who hurried away from me like I was a leper.

My life was a gilded cage. Ordinary people were terrified of even making eye contact with me lest my father's men pay them an unwanted visit in the depths of the night; and the city's criminal classes treated me like a princess – but only because they equal parts feared my father, and hoped he'd marry me off to one of them.

They don’t understand him at all
.

He was a criminal and a sociopath, but only looking at him through those lenses was like calling Genghis Khan just a troublemaker. It was too small – it didn’t even come close to scratching the surface of the man’s violent, all encompassing ambition. To my father, I was a business asset – a piece to be pushed around his chessboard with as much free will as an enamel bishop or an ivory pawn. That is – none.

In Mikael Antonov's eyes, marrying me off to some local thug would be a criminal waste of his twenty-five year investment. No, he had far bigger plans for his only daughter. He'd choose a husband for me – that much was certain, but his eyes were on a bigger prize than just solidifying his already impregnable control over Alexandria, and I had more than an inkling of what, exactly, that prize was.

My father's recent fascination with mixed martial arts was no passing fad. If I knew my father – and years of skulking about with one eye constantly attuned to his brooding presence meant that I knew him better than most – then he meant to dominate the sport as thoroughly as he dominated my life, my city, and my every waking moment.

At least when they put you in your cage you can fight your way out, Conor
.
All I have is an ax, held by a thread, forever dangling above my head.

I looked up, only to see my father's man staring balefully at me – clearly under orders to prevent me from departing alone. Big surprise. My dad wasn't just controlling, he was meticulous to a point – and he had the resources to make sure I did exactly as I was told. After
the incident
a few years ago, it had taken months before I’d been able to take a shower without some bumbling halfwit Russian gangster following behind me like a dog.

The first two years had been the hardest. Anchored in Alexandria by circumstances out of my control – though circumstances I wouldn't change for the world – I'd desperately wanted, perhaps even needed to find a way out, and not just for my sake.

But hour after hour, day after day and year after year spent living in closely-monitored quasi-captivity, with every attempt to escape callously knocked back, would be enough to wear even the sternest character down to the bone. Hope is like a flower – it grows in the unlikeliest of places, but it doesn't last long under a boot.

When my memories of freedom faded away, so did my desire to reach out and grab it – I hadn't felt hope flower within me for a long, long time.

Until now.

But Conor's surprise appearance changed everything. It reminded me of who I'd once been – a girl who had been filled with life, a girl who was bold, confident and unafraid to grab the world by the horns. A far cry from this retiring wallflower who sat hiding herself from the world in a leather armchair in a room full of mobsters.

Careful not to get myself caught staring, I let my eyes flicker over toward the bar and saw where Conor stood with a half-empty pint of Guinness in his hand, and my father's arm still draped possessively across his lower back.

Even now, so many years later, Conor was still the same wary street-fighter I'd first met – he had his weight on the balls of his feet, lithe and ready to make a quick escape at any moment. And he didn't like the fact that my father was touching him. Not one little bit.

I watched as he brought his drink up to his mouth, his thick forearm bulging, and drained the rest of his pint, and kept staring, spellbound as he handed the glass to a nervous-looking bartender. He looked older than I remembered, a perhaps unsurprising revelation, but also harder – a few more pounds of lean muscle, a couple more inches on his taut biceps, and a short, thick beard on his chin.

The biggest change, though, wasn't anything physical – it was barely even detectable. I was probably the only person in the room, or perhaps even the state, who would or even could have noticed it. Conor carried himself more seriously now – with his shoulders pulled back, his gaze held firmly in front of him, and a calm sense of undisputed authority.

You’re a long way from from the funny kid from the streets of Dublin I fell in love with.

Then again, I guess, so am I.

I kept my eyes on him, couldn't tear them away. I watched as he dismissively shook my father's hand off his back like another man might flick a speck of dust from his jacket. I saw the surprised, cold anger on my father's face, and I watched as Conor sauntered toward the restroom without so much as a word of farewell. As he passed the bar I thought I saw him stop and grab something out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn't be sure.

Especially since my father was now striding toward me…

The man was as predictable as a child. Except at least kids had some sort of excuse. He had no control over his emotions – the moment something angered him, he lashed out. Except for him, unlike a child, lashing out didn't mean resorting to tears, it meant hurting someone.

Hurting
me
.

Oh Conor, couldn't you have just humored him, for me?

"You're just going to sit there?" He sneered. My head dropped half an inch as another of his verbal assaults washed over me.

"I'm sorry, father," I said, hauling myself to my feet. I'd long ago learned that the best way to mollify him was to submit entirely. Fighting didn't help – it just made things worse. "Did you want me to meet someone?"

"Why the hell would I want anyone to meet you?" He snarled, his narrow lips curling with anger. "Look at you – you're pathetic!"

"Yes, father –"

He hissed softly, venomously, careful as always to abuse me in secret. It wouldn't do, after all if the great and the good and the bad and the worst of Alexandria saw him cussing out his own family. "– sitting here with your head in your hands. How do you think you
cowering
here makes me look?"

Conor's lilting, dulcet tones appeared from nowhere. "Everything alright with youse?"

My father turned on his heel, his face puce red with rage as he searched for the offending voice, for the person who dared interrupt
him
in his own domain. I cringed, waiting for the inevitable explosion of rage, a volcanic eruption which I'd experienced many dozens, if not hundreds, of times before. Even my father's own men hung warily a few paces behind him, skulking out of sight in an attempt to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

It didn't come. If anything, my father blinked, like a long-serving alpha male of a lion pack coming face to face with a true rival for the first time. Any man might have felt the same – after all, Conor towered so far over the squat mobster that he could have been mistaken for a child.

"Nothing," he blustered, finally reasserting control over himself. "None of your business."

It was a weak, unconvincing reply, and judging by the looks my father's men were exchanging, they'd recognized it to. Judging by the wary looks they were shooting Conor, they were also weighing up what to do if they were ordered to attack him. And judging by the color – or lack of it – in their cheeks, they didn't much fancy their chances…

"In that case," Conor smiled thinly. "I'd best be going. Nothing tires a man out more than beating another man unconscious, you know?"

"I'm – I'm sure," my father croaked.

I was flabbergasted. I'd seen my father go toe to toe with a dozen men both broader and taller than Conor, and they'd backed down every time. Reputation went a long way in this town, and my father's was black as mud. Conor couldn’t have cared less.

He has an aura about him now. Men are terrified of him… Even men like dad.

He turned aside, ignoring my father. "And Miss?" He said, smiling warmly now.

"Maya," I squeaked, my voice betraying my nervousness no matter how hard I tried to conceal it.

"Maya," he repeated, savoring the word. "That's a lovely name…"

What are you saying, Conor?

I felt trapped between two giant, unstoppable forces – a former lover who would do anything to have me, and a father who wanted me for himself.

My father cleared his throat threateningly. Conor didn't so much as bat an eyelid, his icy green eyes seeming to reach into my soul at will. I couldn't look away, even though I knew how severe and endless my father's rage would be once Conor had left. It was worth it. I could take it, now. For this.

"That's a lovely name," he said in his lilting Irish brogue. "Anyway, like I said – I must be off." He leaned forward, cupped my waist familiarly with one of his broad hands and kissed me on the cheek, the wiry hairs of his beard brushing against the soft, delicate skin of my cheek. I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and lean in, breathe deeply that familiar scent and let him nibble my ear, just like the old days. Of course, I couldn't.

He pressed the solid, warm weight of his hand against my waist for just a second too long, and behind him, my father's men began to stir.

And then, before they could do a thing about it, he was gone. I let out a long, deep breath – one that I hadn't even realized I was holding in, and – dazed, let my father's cold rage wash over me. I didn't care.

What neither my father nor his men had noticed was that Conor's whole routine had been nothing more than an act – the sleight of hand of a man who'd spent his childhood pickpocketing the honest people of Dublin just to put food on the table. The thing is, the exact it takes the exact same skills to take something out of a pocket as it does to put something in.

So when I realized what he was up to, there was only one thought in my mind.

What did you slip me, Conor?