Little Bird: Chapter One reveal

copyright Jenika Snow 2022

Chapter One

Claudia

Fifteen years old

If my father knew what I was doing, he’d slap me across the face so hard I’d have a red mark there for days.

But even knowing I’d be punished if caught, I still snuck down the stairs, following the deep timber of voices that came from my father’s office.

My sister’s words played in my head, a warning, a scold, whenever I did something that would get me in trouble.

“Claudia, you have a fire in your veins that is going to get you hurt. Listen to Father. Tread lightly with him. I know you live by your own rules, and as much as I love you for it, I’m also worried about you because of the world we live in. If a woman won’t be submissive to the men in our lives…”

Right before I reached the bottom of the stairs, the grandfather clock chimed so loudly I froze, my heart jumping into my throat.

I was sure I’d get spotted. Even if the foyer was shadowy, all the staff had gone for the evening, and my father was in his office.

The clock chimed twelve times, signaling midnight had hit, and as soon as that last bell went off, I quickly descended the rest of the stairs and started making my way down the hallway.

I kept to the wall, my hands running over the textured damask wallpaper my father had imported from Italy. I slipped into the small room beside my father’s office, moved over to the French doors, and quietly opened one of them.

Light spilled out from the open patio doors from the room beside me, and I heard a deep, thickly accented voice fill the night air.

“You know this is the best option for both families.”

There was a long pause of silence, and then I heard some shuffling.

“And you can guarantee an alliance if I give you Amara?”

“She isn’t for me. She’ll be given to my younger brother, Nikolai.”

“Why wouldn’t I give her to you, the eldest?” My father sounded annoyed.

“My brother stands at my side and runs the Desolation Bratva. This is the only option for you and your daughter. But I can guarantee that the Bratva, aligning with the east coast Cosa Nostra, will have unbreakable ties.”

My heart pounded as I listened. Although it wasn’t unusual for arranged marriages, they were talking about giving Amara away, not just to an Italian man in the circles our family ran with, but with the Russians. And the only thing I’d ever heard my father or anyone else in the Cosa Nostra say about the Russians was that they were barbarians and savages. Never to be trusted.

I realized I had my hand over my heart; the organ beating hard and fast. What I felt was fear. Terror for my sister, who had just been given away to a man who would be worse than my father.

It was bad enough we were bartered off like pawns to other criminals within the Cosa Nostra, but this? This was madness. He was giving my sister away as if she were a piece of meat.

“So, do we have a deal or not, Marco?”

It was the one I now knew was Russian, who spoke, his accent so thick his words were almost indistinguishable. And I had a feeling it had to do with his annoyance over my father.

This man—if he was like any of the other men in my life—was used to getting what he wanted. They were used to people abiding by what they said without hesitation. My father continuously pausing, questioning him, was most definitely an insult.

“We have a deal. I’ll tell Amara tomorrow that she’s betrothed to your brother.”

“You can tell your daughter that her safety and happiness will be of utmost importance to Nikolai.”

My father snorted, and I curled my hands tightly into my nightshirt. The sound was very dismissive, as if he didn’t care. And his next words affirmed that.

“Non mi interessa. Una volta che Amara sarà sposata, suo marito potrà fare quello che vuole con lei.” I don’t care about that. Once Amara is married off, her husband can do what he wants with her.

I hated my father. He was an evil, cruel man. He only loved himself and the Family. The Cosa Nostra.

I doubted he even had any affection for Gio, our oldest brother. He kept Gio close because my brother would take our father’s place one day.

And hearing my father talk about how he didn’t care what Amara’s arranged husband did to her after they were married made me sick to my stomach.

I wondered if my father said that in Italian, so Dmitry wouldn’t understand. Although I didn’t know why he cared what anyone thought. Everyone had to know what an awful person Marco Bianchi was.

That’s why they were so afraid of him, why they did what he said, because they were fearful of the repercussions going against the capo.

I knew Amara and Gio wanted to protect me, but I had a fiery streak, talking back to our father when I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I had my face slapped so many times, and had borne more bruises than I could count throughout my life.

But there was no way I could just wait until he married me off. And I knew he would in three years. When I turned eighteen.

I’d then be the prime age for him to give me away to one of his gross, far too old mafia friends. I’d be used, abused, and treated as a vessel, just to carry children or be a pretty trophy on his arm.

That was, unless I changed my destiny. I thought about running away so many times, just escaping and moving somewhere far away where no one could find me. But then I thought of my mother and how weak she was. I thought about Amara and how I would hate to leave her alone to deal with that fall out of it all. And then there was Gio.

He would be so worried. He would probably search for me day and night, and when he couldn’t find me, he’d blame himself.

“Fine. He can have her. But… Se mi fotti, Dmitry, ti taglio le palle.” If you fuck me over, Dmitry, I’ll cut your balls off.

There was a harsh laugh, one full of amusement, but something dark was laced within the sound.

“Vai piano stronzo, i russi stanno estendendo la loro generosità verso di te con questa offerta.” Tread lightly, asshole, the Russians are extending their generosity toward you with this offer.

I felt my eyes widen at Dmitry speaking in Italian, his words thick with a Russian accent.

My father cleared his throat, obviously not expecting the other man to know what he’d said. I felt a smile spread across my face. I didn’t know who this Russian was aside from the name my father called him, but I liked him more by the second.

But then I hated that thought and quashed it. They were pawning off my older sister. Screw both of them. All of them.

Before either man could say anything, there was a knock, and I froze. For a moment I thought I’d been caught, but then realized it came from my father’s office.

I could hear one of my father’s men murmuring softly in Italian. I couldn’t pick up what he was saying aside from something about a phone call.

“Excuse me, Dmitry. I have to take this,” my father said. “Make yourself comfortable and help yourself to another drink.”

Although my father might’ve seemed hospitable, his tone was clipped and sharp. Cold.

It was the tone he used toward all of his children.

My father’s office door opened and closed, and a second later I heard the other man murmur in Russian under his breath. The words were gruff and sharp, and I was pretty sure there was nothing pleasant about them. There was the clink-clink of glass hitting glass, then of liquid being poured.

I waited a few seconds before I slowly slipped out the patio doors and crept toward my father’s office. I kept to the stone wall, my palms flat on the rock. It felt like my heart was in my throat as I moved slowly, trying to be stealthy.

I didn’t know why I was doing this. It was so reckless, but I wanted to put a face to the deep Russian voice who’d all but put my father in his place. I’d seen no one do that, and it gave me this rush.

One of the French doors to his office was opened, and I held my breath as I leaned around the corner to peek inside. My long hair fell over my shoulder and I quickly gathered it up and kept it pinned to my nape with a hand, not risking him seeing the movement and knowing I was here.

My breath caught as I saw the Russian. He was huge, with massively broad shoulders and biceps that seemed as thick as my torso, and the dark suit he wore didn’t hide the raw power he held. His hair was short and black, but with his back to me, I couldn’t see what he looked like.

I could see he held a square crystal glass in his hand, his fingers so masculine. Long and thick, and tattooed. His glass held a couple fingers of dark liquid and ice inside. I watched as some condensation held onto the glass before slowly trailing down.

But I didn’t see him actually drinking the liquor, and instead, he set the glass on my father’s desk.

Without using a coaster.

I bit my lip and felt another thrill move through me. My father was so anal that even water rings on his Italian imported desk threw him into a fit. And I knew from experience. I swore I still felt the sting of his palm cracking against my cheek when I’d set my glass of orange juice on his desk and he’d found out.

I would have thought the Russian wasn’t aware of what he did, because honestly it was so minor an infraction, but when he ran a thick, tattooed finger over the rim, then lifted the glass an inch above the wood and let those droplets of water fall onto the desk, I smiled.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

This strange sensation moved through me, one I wasn’t sure I could even place a name on.

And then he turned around, and I knew what I felt.

Desire. Attraction.

Dmitry wasn’t what I’d call handsome, not classically that would have his face splashed across a magazine. He was too brutal looking, and this savage air surrounded him. He was also far too big and muscular, looking like a tank dressed in expensive material because he wanted to appear like he wasn’t a beast.

He was painfully handsome to me, though, with striking blue eyes that seemed to clash with his dark features. Dmitry might wear a suit, but I could see more tattoos creeping from under his crisp button-up shirt. I also spied dark ink snaking from the back of his hands and disappearing under his cuffs.

I knew—just knew—his entire body was covered in dark shapes and lines.

I could hear the low buzzing coming from the pocket of his jacket and held my breath as he pulled out his cell phone. He turned partially toward me, his profile now clear.

His brows were furrowed as he stared down at what was clearly a text. And when he faced me fully, I could see that he couldn’t be more than in his late twenties, maybe only thirty years old. But despite his younger age, there was this hardcore experience that surrounded him. Yes… this man knew about death and violence. He surrounded himself with it. He no doubt relished it.

He slipped his phone back in his pocket and picked up his glass, moving over toward my father’s bookshelf, where he kept his collection of Faberge eggs.

The Russian snorted in an almost irritated way as he reached out and touched one, lightly shifting it so it wasn’t in the same position. I covered my mouth with my hand to suppress my laughter. Oh yes. He knew exactly what he was doing by messing with my father’s things. Because the slight deviations in Marco’s perfect little life wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

My father’s angry voice was like a whip against my skin, and I snapped my head in his direction.

“You stupid fucking girl. Now you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night, eavesdropping?”

I’d been so focused on staring at Dmitry that I hadn’t even realized my father had entered the room, or that he spotted me. I couldn’t move, fear keeping me frozen in place as my father stormed toward me until he stood right in front of me.

I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say, but his palm rose, successfully having me snap my mouth closed.

Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion, time crawling at a snail’s pace. I felt my eyes widen, my heart dropping to the pit of my stomach.

I’d been hit plenty of times by my father. I knew how much it hurt, how the sting wasn’t just superficial, that it burrowed itself deep down inside of me, taking away another layer of hope I had that one day my father would look at me and tell me he loved me.

I braced, felt my body tense. I even flinched to prepare for it. And then I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the slap. But as the seconds ticked by, I opened my eyes to see Dmitry towering over my father. His tattooed hand curled around my father’s wrist, Marco’s his palm still open in preparation to lay into me.

The two men glared at each other, and I was shocked that Dmitry, who didn’t even know me, who I knew was just as dangerous as my father, had stepped in to intervene.

To protect me.

“This is not what we’re going to do, Marco.” The Russian said in his thickly accented voice that wrapped around me like a cocoon. We don’t go around hitting children.”

I didn’t like the way I felt when he called me that. A child. Although it was a foolish thing to pass through my mind. He was a grown man. I was barely a teenager. And as I stared up at him, I felt a strange sensation in my belly.

My father glared at the Russian for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight, his nostrils flaring.

Finally, he exhaled and jerked his hand out of Dmitry’s grasp. “Claudia. Leave. Go upstairs to bed.” Marco’s nostrils flared again. “Never eavesdrop again.”

I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to keep staring  at Dmitry, yet my feet were moving on their own as I turned and left. But not without looking over my shoulder once more.

My heart gave this strange little flutter as I noticed he was looking right at me, this hard expression on his face.

That was the first time I saw Dmitry. And I hadn’t been able to get him out of my mind since.