♛Chapter Thirty three♛
Lola
At twenty-two years old, I’ve become a millionaire. Not because of my talents. Well… that’s debatable. I guess the blade counts as a talent now. Not something I can put on a résumé, but it’s effective, sure.
My father didn’t leave me everything out of sentiment. It wasn’t love. It was just tradition. A habit passed down from his great-great-grandfather. The kind of generational wealth built on legacy and power, designed to keep everything in the bloodline—even if the bloodline hates you.
He was a traditional man. That’s all he was.
I sit in the front row of his funeral, wearing a pressed black dress. I force a tear out. Literally squeeze my eyes shut until one leaks down my cheek.
Mikhail’s hand is wrapped around mine. I give it a light squeeze.
He tries not to look bored. His mouth is set in a straight line, respectful.
He plays the part better than I do. My father’s colleagues are here.
His connections. Some political, some legal, most not.
Some distant relatives we haven’t spoken to in years are here too.
I didn’t plan this funeral. Didn’t even lift a finger.
His PA did everything, from the flowers to the speech to the framed black-and-white photo sitting above the closed casket.
He looks so noble in it. So respectable.
It’s almost funny. No one here knows what really happened. Not a single soul. Well, except Mikhail. And Lara. And Sergei. And the Bratva.
Lara showed up not long after what I did.
No questions, just gloves on and bleach in hand.
She cleaned everything: walls, floor, between the tiles.
Apparently, Lara has many skills. One of them is crime scene cleaning.
Sergei helped Mikhail with the disposal.
They drove hours away, dumped him in a ditch, and staged the whole thing. No suspects. No leads.
And now here I am, pretending to mourn the father I carved open like a holiday roast. That’s the perk of your man being wrapped in the mafia. They rewrite stories. They have access. Connections. Power. They can take your mess and make it disappear.
I glance around the room. People whisper and dab their eyes and talk about what a stern but respectable man he was . What a shame. What a loss. They offer their condolences like I’m some fragile thing in mourning.
I reach over and take Mikhail’s hand again, curling my fingers into his palm. His thumb brushes the back of my knuckles. I’ve never felt more free than when we stood to leave.
The assistant approaches me, her nose red, eyes swollen. She’s thirty years younger than my father, yet I know she was sleeping with him. His stench is still all over her.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, eyes darting nervously to the floor.
Her act is suffocating. The only thing she’s sad about is losing her cash cow, and possibly sad about not getting a penny from the inheritance too. What did she expect? That my father would write her the mansion and the company just because she spread her legs for him?
The thought of them sleeping together makes my nose scrunch like I just stepped in shit. I force a sad smile and let Mikhail steer me to the car.
When I finally slip into Mikhail’s Range Rover, I can breathe. The act is off. The second the door closes, the weight lifts. I slump back in the seat, eyes closing as I finally let myself relax.
Mikhail glances at me with a soft smile. “Where to?” His voice is smooth. Calm.
“The Bratva.”
He frowns, glancing at me. “Are you sure? We could go have ice cream. Or back to the apartment so you can rest.”
“No, Mikhail. I need this.”
His frown deepens. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—concern? No, not concern. Protectiveness.
I reach over, brushing my lips against his cheek. “I’m okay,” I assure him.
He nods once and pulls out onto the road, the car humming as we head toward Roman’s mansion. I walk in like I’ve earned the right to be here. Mikhail’s behind me, close enough that I can feel his tension even without looking.
Roman’s sitting in the lounge, some papers in hand, legs spread. His expression flickers with something between amusement and caution.
“I heard about your father,” he says, pushing his reading glasses up his nose with his middle finger. “Tragic. You must be… gutted.”
“Devastated,” I say. “Really. I almost smudged my eyeliner crying.”
Sergei, half-shadowed near the wall, lets out a low whistle. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
Mikhail shoots him a look that could silence a riot. “She doesn’t have a bad side.”
I walk past them, heels echoing against the marble. I head to Roman’s bar, grab a bottle, and pour myself a drink. I sit, legs crossed, spine straight, eyes locked on his.
“I’m here for a reason,” I say. “I want in.”
Roman raises a brow. “You’re already in. You forged for us. Hell of a job. We’d be happy to keep you on full-time.”
“No,” I say, sipping my wine. “I want higher. Something permanent. A seat. I now have a hundred million in liquid funds. A marketing firm that practically runs the PR for half of New York’s underground scene.
Half a dozen properties, all clean, with history that checks out.
And I’ve already killed a person with my bare hands. ”
“Jesus. You think this is a startup pitch?”
But it’s not him I look at.
It’s Mikhail.
He’s standing rigid, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a coiled storm.
Roman blinks once. “You’re serious.”
“She’s not,” Mikhail snaps from behind me.
“I am,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” Mikhail growls. “You’re talking out of adrenaline. This isn’t a fucking game, Lola.”
“You think this is sudden? You think I haven’t thought this through?”
“I know you haven’t,” he snaps. “You’re not built for this world.”
“I killed my father with a steak knife,” I bite. “Don’t talk to me about what I’m built for.”
He slams his hand on the arm of my chair. “That was survival. Revenge. Not a lifestyle.”
“And this is yours.”
His mouth opens, then shuts.
I keep going. “This is where you belong. You move like it. Breathe like it. Your blood runs with it. And I can’t stand watching from the side while you walk into fire.”
I know what this life takes, and I’m not afraid of it.
I’ve studied every angle, and this is my best bet.
I’ve already made myself known in the underworld, so I might as well own it.
Standing in the shadows doesn’t make me safer; it just makes me an easier target.
I want control. I want power. I want in.
He’s hyperventilating. “So your answer is to walk in with me? To what? Be a target? Have your name in rooms filled with killers?”
“My name is already in those rooms,” I say quietly. “I’m just done pretending it isn’t.”
Roman is clearly enjoying the show. “I have to admit, watching you two fight is entertaining.”
“Shut up, Roman,” Mikhail snaps, eyes still locked on me.
“I’m not letting you in,” he hisses.
“You know I’m right,” I say softly.
His nostrils flare. He looks like he wants to throw something. Or punch a wall. Or throw me over his shoulder and lock me away. Instead, he leans down. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the pulse behind his restraint.
His voice is almost a growl. “You want this? Then you do it my way. You don’t go anywhere without me.
You don’t meet with anyone I don’t approve.
I’m stuck to you like your fucking shadow, Lola.
I breathe when you breathe. If you’re in, I’m in.
But if one drop of blood touches you, I will drown this city for it. ”
I nod slowly, eyes on his.
“Deal.”
And there it is.
The moment Roman’s eyes shift. The exact beat I see the smirk drop for something real. It’s what he wanted all along—his brother back in. I’m just a bonus.
“Now that,” Roman murmurs, “changes things.”