Mafia Daddy (Midnight Bratva Kings #1)

1. Maxim

MAXIM

The night draws closer as I pace the living area of my downtown apartment. Outside, the city’s gleaming skyline begins to light up before my eyes as they sky above darkens and brings with it a sense of foreboding.

I’ve been here before.

Not just once, but many times.

Somehow though, this time feels different.

I might be in my forties now, but I still feel my senses come alive when I’m waiting for news of a peace deal.

Maybe I should be numb to this kind of thing.

Maybe I’m pretending to care more than I do.

Or perhaps the fact that I still feel that surge of nervous energy shows why I have been able to rise to the rank of Pakhan…

And stay there too.

It wasn’t like I was born to become a general either.

The Kovalev family have always been around the Bratva underworld, whether it was back in the home country or here in the US.

But our story was always one of spies, thieves, street hustlers, and lower ranked generals.

My father’s dream, like so many others, was that I would become an accountant or lawyer for the bosses.

He saw that I was good in school, that I had a different kind of mind.

But my father never once foresaw that I could become a leader.

However, the way I rose through the ranks, assisted by a touch of deadly fate along the way, left no one in any doubt that this would be my destiny. From a street soldier to assassin, and then a rapid ascend to Pakhan, I’ve made the most of all the opportunities that have come my way.

In the end, I didn’t even graduate high school.

But I didn’t need to. Everything I learned was on the streets or listening to the old generals discuss matters of politics, life and death, and delicate negotiations as they sipped espresso or downed shots of vodka, depending on the time of day or night.

Now when people heart the name Maxim Kovalev, they know that the time for playing is over. My associates can trust that I am loyal, logical, and can spot a rat coming from three blocks away.

My enemies? They know that once a line is crossed, there is no going back. I take disloyalty personally, and I will spare no man or woman the ultimate punishment if they act against the business. It is the only way that this life of ours can work.

Доверие.

Вера.

Преданность.

These three words are tattooed across the nape of my neck. Written in my mother tongue, they ground me but they also serve as a warning to others…

Trust.

Faith.

Loyalty.

Three seemingly simple words can decide whether a man lives or dies, whether he can work for me, or whether our relationship will end with one of our bodies dumped off the great western bridge.

The deadline for this agreement was set to midnight. I can only hope that the answer is delivered before then. Because if it is not, I will have no option but to notify my lieutenants—and they will not need any further instructions at this stage.

My men know what I expect of them.

They know that when I call a strike, it is to be delivered in the most ruthless and cold-hearted fashion that the mind can conjure. I don’t relish violence. Far from it, in fact. I would far rather work to negotiate solutions that are satisfactory to all parties involved.

But if violence is required, then my reputation proceeds me.

I will deliver violence and do so remorselessly.

“Still time,” I mutter to myself as I check my understated vintage Rolex before proceeding to walk through my living area, down the corridor, and toward the apartment’s large bathroom over on the east wing.

The marble floor is smooth and immaculately polished underfoot as I walk, my eyes flitting back and forth between the old paintings that hang on the corridor walls. Aside from one or two trinkets from the old world, the furniture in my home is sparse.

My art collection is probably the only concession I make to filling the place with a personal touch. That might make it sound cold or even an unpleasant place to live, but it’s just the way I’ve always done things. I don’t need material items, and never have done.

I have a reliable watch for keeping time.

I have a modest collection of well-tailored clothes.

I have a secure and private residence to live.

Oh, and I have a fast, compact sports car should I ever need to leave in a hurry and not look back.

It always amazes me when I see other pakhans across the city flaunt their wealth and power like it’s some kind of mark of success.

The kind of people who will be impressed by five thousand dollar bottles of champagne, elaborate clothes, or ridiculously ostentatious sports cars are not the kind of people I want to attract. Quite the opposite.

My kind of ally will be understated. They will go about their business quietly and without causing a scene. Pakhans and rising generals who want nothing more than to show off and display their money are rarely the kind of men you can trust when blood is in the air.

Trust me, I’ve learned that the hard way.

I know that when money and status start to take over, a man’s ego can spin out of control with dire consequences. I’ve lost good men to that curse, through no fault of their own but down to the poor decisions of egotistical men above them.

My soldiers and generals know that they might die under my command.

But it will never, ever be because of my ego.

I never ask one of my men to do something that I wouldn’t do myself.

And that is a principle that I will live and die by if necessary.

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” I whisper, looking at my watch once more.

All I want is to receive word that the Lentini family have agreed to our new territorial split…

It is a fair deal.

A tough deal, yes.

But fair.

I negotiated the terms of the deal myself along with my most trusted advisors, two men who have the breadth of wisdom and intellect that would be enough to run any multinational or tech company in the world with ease.

On the one side I have Kobek, my cousin. Ten years older than me, Kobek is a deep thinker. Once an assassin, he has long retired his gun and now advises me on all matters strategic. And he is as ruthless in negotiations as he was with his silenced pistol.

In my other ear, I have Michael Harrington. A Yale law graduate with a fiery temper, Michael knows how to push a deal over the line. Tough, uncompromising, and with a heart so strong it means he won’t ever give up, Michael is one man I can always rely on in the toughest of times.

Both Michael and Kobek can be trusted. And that in itself is a prize worth its weight in gold.

Over the years I have seen many so-called allies fall by the wayside either through a lack of courage, flaky heart, or even on occasion a streak of treachery.

But I know that with my two most trusted associates, I’m well covered.

And speaking of Michael…

“Talk to me,” I say, taking my phone out of my pocket and answering immediately.

I listen as Michael delivers the news. The Lentini family have agreed to the deal. But that’s not all…

“Interesting,” I continue, my voice cold and calculated but my heart skipping a beat. “It shows their commitment. But… Michael, you think we can trust them?”

I listen to Michael and don’t hear a single flicker of doubt in his voice. He believes the Lentini family are genuine in their agreement to the deal, and also genuine in their demonstration of good faith.

A boy.

Given as a gift, but intended as a sign of loyalty and a desire to make this transaction cast iron. I’m no fool. I know he could be a spy, or even an assassin. And that is why I will be keeping him close and on the tightest of tight leashes…

I wake up the next morning and slide out of bed in nothing but a pair of silky boxer briefs. My head is still a little cloudy as I walk over toward the wall to wall windows and open the heavy curtains to the panoramic view of the city.

“Good morning,” I mutter, stretching my arms above my head and clasping my hands together. “Here’s to another day of peace.”

I allow myself a sly grin. I know that even in times of truce in the city, there is always the stench of death and mayhem just around the corner.

In fact, the longer things go without a high profile killing or kidnapping, the more likely it is to happen the next day.

That’s just the world I live in. And no amount of strategizing or diplomacy is going to change that.

But this deal with the Lentini family? It’s not nothing.

The Lentini clan have long been a thorn in my side. They’re aggressive, territorial, and have a long history of wildcard bosses and generals who are prone to acting way outside the normal protocols. In other words, they more often than not have brought plenty of unwanted drama into the city.

However under their new boss Paolo Lentini, things have changed. Slowly but surely they have managed to ease out the old guard, the men who shot first and asked questions later. Paolo has modernized the way the family operates and expanded them into more legitimate business.

I’m not saying that we’re likely to cross that Russian and Italian divide fully any time soon.

Certainly, I don’t think I’ll be vacationing with Paolo and his family or hitting the gym together for a workout.

But I do think that a long term agreement between us will help strengthen both of our respective positions.

If the Kovalev family can rise to the top of the Russian hierarchy, and the Lentini family do the same with the Italians, then I see absolutely no reason why either one of us would want to break the truce or do anything to jeopardize our hold on the city.

A wave of optimism washes over me as I drop down into a squat and gently open out my hips. I might be in my forties now, but I’m still flexible enough to give a man half my age a run for his money.

I let out a light grunt as I rock from side to side, my elbows high on my inner thighs as I feel the stretch. This is all part of my morning routine, another one of my non-negotiables.

“Enough,” I say, springing up from my deep squat and walking out of the bedroom and pacing down to the kitchen. “Time for a fucking strong coffee.”

And as my espresso squirts out of the machine, my mind flips back to the images of the boy that Michael sent over to me late last night.

Despite being part of the Lentini family, there are a surprisingly high amount of images of him out there online.

Club night launches, gallery openings, all the usual places that a young city boy would be spotted.

His name is Milo Pirlo-Lentini, he’s Paolo’s nephew, and from what my intel says he is twenty-three years old, dropped out of Harvard, and likes to spend his trust fund on cars, clothes, and partying.

I let out a sigh.

Milo might be a handful.

But I’ll keep him in check, that’s for sure. And despite his youthful partygoing ways, I’ll be extra vigilant about the potential for all this being some kind of trap.

Milo is young, pretty, and full of life. But if I pick up the slightest hint that he’s part of a conspiracy against me, then I’ll make sure that he won’t be full of any life for a single second longer.

The formal agreement between Paolo and myself will be made later today. Midnight in fact. Milo will be present for the handover. And when I take his hand in mine, there will be no going back for either of us…