Chapter 7 Miko
MIKO
“A toast,” I say, raising my glass of top-shelf whiskey we found in Pyotr Novikov’s impressive stash. “To our first victory on our path to revenge.”
Gio, Sandro, and Raf follow suit, as they recline in the hunting-lodge-themed cigar room of our temporary, new home.
The house is back in order, the working staff who have been vetted were allowed to return to their tasks, and we’ve settled into our new accommodations without a single visit from the Chicago PD—proof that at least some of our connections there haven’t turned on us completely.
But as we sit in the lounge after dinner, where we should be soaking up our triumph, Raf still looks subdued, his eyes dull—muted by the pain of grief, much like what I’ve grown used to seeing in Gio’s eyes these past eight years since he lost the love of his life.
“We’ll get them, Raf,” I promise, leaning forward to brace my elbows on my knees. “We’ll make them pay. I intend to kill every last one of the devils who hurt our family.”
He nods, peering down into his tumbler of whiskey before downing the rest of his shot, and Gio shares a glance with me before silently pouring him another.
“You think this is what the Tanakas bought Pyotr’s alliance with?” Raf asks, lifting the Hibiki to peer at it in the golden lighting. “You think a bottle of liquor was all it took for the Russians to turn on us?”
“The Novikovs have hated our family for years,” Gio says gently. “We might have done business with them on occasion, but we all knew that relationship was hanging by a thread.”
“Gio’s right,” I add. “Besides, Pyotr was always something of a loose cannon. He might have had the upper echelons fooled, but that man was a psychopath just looking for an opportunity to spill blood.”
Gio nods. “The Tanakas just gave him an excuse—and enough support that the coward knew his inferior numbers wouldn’t get completely crushed for once.”
“Screw them all,” Sandro says, his fury roiling just beneath the surface. “We’ve started with the Novikovs, but we won’t stop there, Raf. The Tanakas and the Murrays will pay for what they’ve done, right, Miko?”
“That’s right.” Conviction floods my veins at his righteous anger.
I failed the Don in a way I’ll never be able to make amends for—but I will see that my brothers get their revenge.
“Avenging Don Augusta’s death was just the start, but killing the man who murdered our father, is a major first step.
And we’ve delivered a devastating hit to the Bratva.
They’ll be in turmoil now that we’ve killed their Pakhan.
Pyotr didn’t have an heir or even a strong second in command, which means, after today, they’ll have bigger problems than trying to reclaim what we took. ”
“Huh,” Gio says, cocking his head.
“What?” Raf glances up from his drink, the pep talk seeming to lift him slightly from his misery—if only for a moment.
“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it before, but Miko’s right. Strictly speaking, in the Bratva culture, when there is no apparent heir, the man who defeats the current Pakhan would take over.” Then his eyes shift to mine. “Technically, that would be you, brother.”
I bark a laugh at the notion of becoming Pakhan, and Gio and Sandro join in.
“I’m sure that would go over well,” I say sarcastically. “Russians kneeling to an Italian Pakhan.”
Even Raf snorts at that, but then his expression turns thoughtful. “I mean, it’s not the worst idea in the world,” he says. “Let’s face it. Miko wasn’t supposed to take over the Chiaroscuro empire anyway, since he’s not a legitimate heir—so, maybe this is your chance to claim your own territory.”
The room falls silent as my brother’s observation hits like a punch to the gut.
I know he’s right—we’re all perfectly aware that the Don never intended to leave his legacy to me.
In fact, he intentionally overlooked me to name Leo his heir, so just because Leo’s chosen to give up his crown does not automatically put me next in line.
I share a glance with Gio, Don Augusta’s second natural-born son.
Tension crackles to life between us as we seem to realize at the same moment that, if our father is dead and Leo doesn’t want the title of Don, we would be the two most viable candidates.
But in truth, I have no claim over the Chiaroscuro legacy.
Because unlike Bratva customs, which favor strength over lineage, Mafia royalty is chosen in a very different way.
We’re ruled over by a capo dei capi, who has to give his blessing before a new heir is named.
And I highly doubt the very traditional Don Parelli wouldn’t look favorably on a stray like me taking over the Chicago territory.
Loath as I am to admit it, Raf is right.
I would be far more likely to succeed at taking over the Novikov Bratva than becoming the new Don of our family.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Gio says, speaking up before I can think of what to say, “Miko is as good as a blood brother to us—and he’s the oldest. You’re who we should be fighting to put back on the throne.”
My chest tightens at my brother’s words.
They mean more to me than he could know, because while I’ve always seen the don’s sons as my brothers, I know that I’m the imposter in their family.
Don Augusta took me in to help protect his family—not become one of them, even if he gave me his name.
And it doesn’t feel right taking the place that any of them would rightfully inherit if he hadn’t been so generous.
“I’m not in this for the power,” I state, “I’m doing this for revenge, to right the wrong and avenge our father’s murder—and Genevieve’s,” I add, gesturing to Raf to acknowledge his wife’s death.
The atmosphere of the room turns grave again as Raf’s eyebrows press together, and I want to diffuse the tension that continues to swell.
“Besides, I was built for spilling blood, not sitting behind a fancy desk,” I say with a smirk.
My brothers chuckle as the strain between us releases.
“Once we’ve had our revenge, I fully intend to back your claim as Don, Gio,” I add, clapping my younger brother on the shoulder.
He flashes me a grin and taps his glass against mine. “Then, I couldn’t hope for a better right-hand man.”
“Salute,” the twins toast, raising their glasses as well.
We finish our drinks, and without discussing the matter, we all seem to agree it’s time to turn in for the evening.
It’s been a long day, and we’re just getting started on our plans.
It’s going to take all our effort and determination to reclaim what we’ve lost, and a good night’s rest will serve us better than another sleepless night.
We disperse in different directions, each heading toward a separate wing of the house—something we seem to do naturally after living on the Chiaroscuro estate our whole lives.
I climb the stairs toward the hall of rooms where Anika is currently being held, and I’m glad to see Marco standing steadfast at her door.
Not that I don’t trust my men to follow orders, but when it comes to Pyotr’s Russian bride, I find my protective instincts a bit on overdrive.
“She give you any trouble?” I ask, stopping in front of Marco.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t heard a peep since I took over for Vittorio.”
My eyebrows furrow, my heart fluttering anxiously in my chest as I frown at the door. “You’re sure she’s in there?”
“She was when Vittorio delivered her dinner.”
My spike of agitation calms, and I silently chide myself for getting worked up over nothing.
Dinner wasn’t more than a few hours ago.
And if Anika hasn’t come through this door, she couldn’t have escaped.
I inspected the room myself before leaving her in it. I’m just being paranoid. Still, my urge to check on her is almost overwhelming.
I consider it for a long moment, hesitating in the hallway, sorely tempted to go inside.
But Anika has been through enough for one day. Her life has been completely turned upside down—she witnessed me killing her husband in cold blood.
She deserves a bit of time to wrap her mind around her new fate.
With a curt nod, I leave Marco to finish his shift in peace, heading down the hall toward the bedroom I picked out for my new accommodations.