Chapter 4 #2
My father’s number two, who's always been like a strict if protective uncle to me, eyes me as I fold my large frame into his muscle car. “How drunk are you?”
I swat at the mini Manchester United F.C. soccer cleats perennially hanging from his rearview mirror as I turn to him. “Not very?”
Stepan rolls his eyes. “Have you ever considered the concept of moderation?”
“Have you ever considered buying a car from this millennium?”
“Nope. Buckle your seat belt.”
“Wow. This ancient thing has them?”
Stepan’s only response is to peel away from the curb so fast that I almost fall out of my seat.
Well played, sir.
“You look like shit.”
I think I was nine when I gave up hoping my father would speak to me like I imagined at the time that fathers spoke to their children. He was never going to ask me how my day was, or if he could help me with anything, or if there was anything I wanted to talk about.
At all.
Evie gets a bit of his softer side, being the princess of the family and all. But even she doesn't usually hold her breath waiting for a hug or a smile.
It’s just not in our father’s DNA—never has been, never will. But I suppose it’s that coldness and gruffness that’s got him to the head of one of the most powerful Bratva families on Earth, even commanding a seat at the Iron Table.
You don’t get there asking people how their day was, or if they want to talk about their fee-fees.
“Sorry, Papa,” I say as I meet him halfway across the floor of his study. He gives me a stiff, brief hug—not to show affection, but because this is how a man like him is supposed to greet his son and heir.
When we pull apart, his brow furrows and his nose wrinkles.
“You smell like a bar.”
“Apologies, Papa,” I mutter as we take seats across from each other on the two couches facing each other in the middle of the study. “I…had some business to discuss with the owners of a club.”
Behind him, Stepan rolls his eyes, but my father just nods. “Good. Good. My son, out there on the streets, getting things done and building his future.” He leers at me. “And having a little fun, too, eh?”
I smile. “I do my best.”
He chuckles. “I hear you were spotted at Laz Kislev’s club last night with a pretty little thing on your lap.” His mouth curls into a lascivious grin. “I assume that’s what kept you from filling me in on what you discovered at Vaughn Bancroft’s estate?”
My right eye twitches as I force a smile to my face.
“Guilty as charged.”
He laughs deeply. “Just like his Papa, hey, Stepan?” My father glances at his number two, chuckling. “Get us some drinks, da? For you as well. Let’s talk business.”
Stepan pours three vodkas at the bar across the room before joining us at the couches and sitting next to my father.
“Za zdorovye,” the three of us grunt as we clink our glasses together.
“Stepan already showed me the pictures you took that you emailed him.” Papa nods at me as he takes a sip. “I want to know what else you saw and heard there. I want the full breakdown of your night. Leave no details out.”
I knock back the contents of my glass in one gulp.
He’s not getting the full breakdown. And there will be several details left out.
“Our intel was right,” I growl. “Vaughn and the Syndicate are trying to cozy up to Cosimo.”
“Ublyudok!” Papa swears under his breath. “I knew that sneaky motherfucker would try to undermine our plans.”
For the record, they’re his plans, not mine—i.e., my impending arranged marriage to Dasha Lukashova.
Laz’s crude jokes aside, Dasha’s a very pretty girl. She’s also intelligent, driven, and is clearly as unenthusiastic about this disastrous arrangement as I am. But my father’s push for me to marry her isn’t about either of our enthusiasm levels.
It’s about the Lukashov Bratva being close with the Sangrini family—so close, in fact, that Cosimo Sangrini is Dasha’s godfather.
That is what my father is ultimately after: access to the underworld banker king himself.
The Sangrini family hasn’t remained an underworld institution and basically kingmakers since the fucking Crusades by playing petty favoritism games. Their whole thing is remaining utterly neutral.
But no man, not even Cosimo Sangrini, is above all influence. And his weak spot is Dasha.
Cosimo has no children of his own, which means his goddaughter has become a bit of a favorite of his. Thus, he who controls the princess, controls the purse strings, so to speak.
But here’s where it gets extra spicy: until a few months ago, the Lukashov family was eying someone other than me to marry Dasha: Vaughn Bancroft.
At the time, he was the Obsidian Syndicate’s number two, second only to the previous Marquis, who I’m sure also realized that a Dasha was an expressway into Cosimo’s good graces.
But then said preceding Marquis, a man named étienne Veyrac, was…removed from power. And it’s been heavily implied that this change in leadership was entirely put into play by Vaughn himself.
At that point, the Lukashov family pulled back and announced they’d be looking elsewhere when it came to a husband for their dear Dasha.
That’s when my father set things up with me, and it’s one thousand percent why Vaughn invited Cosimo to his mountain retreat for dinner last night.
There are criminal empires, and then there are criminal fucking empires. Families like mine, or Bane’s, or the Barone, Drakos or Kildare families are powerful in their own right.
But there’s another level to this game that even huge empires like ours don’t come close to touching: dynastic seats of power that have been around for centuries. The d’Auvrelles of France. The Torvallés family in Spain. The founding families of the Italian Camorra.
That’s the prize here: get in Cosimo’s good graces, and doors that don’t open for anyone magically unlock for you.
“Cosimo attended Vaughn’s little soiree last night,” Stepan growls, “because he’s a man who enjoys parties and being the center of attention.” He shakes his head. “It takes more than flattery and fawning to get into the good graces of the Sangrini family. Vaughn should know that.”
“I think he does know that,” I mutter. “He invited him anyway. That says something.”
My father scowls as he slowly shakes his head. “Vaughn is a formidable opponent. Thank God his brother's a fucking queer.”
My attention snaps to him as I blink rapidly. “What?”
“Vaughn’s brother,” my father shrugs. “You know, the little pansy who dances with your sister.”
For some reason, my brow starts furrowing and my jaw tenses. The black, venomous snake coils in my stomach as I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Vaughn on his own is bad enough,” my father scoffs. “Imagine if his brother was a real man.”
For a second, I’m frozen in place as I stare at my father.
A real man.
Instantly, my mind flashes back to Vaughn's party two nights ago. To the sensation of being utterly and completely pinned down. Of having my control and my strength taken away from me. Of feeling totally immobilized by the sheer power in those muscled arms and big, veined hands…
“We should push Lukashov to accelerate the wedding plans,” Papa growls, his attention swiveling to Stepan. “Set up a meeting.”
“Da, pakhan.” Stepan nods curtly back, pulling out his phone and tapping quickly on the screen.
My father clears his throat as he turns back to me. “I know you don’t want this marriage, Roman.”
I don't say anything.
“I know you’d rather be out and about like you were last night, with pretty girls you meet at bars warming your bed. But this marriage…” He shakes his head. “This is what kings do, my son.”
I nod stiffly. “Of course, Papa.”
He grins. “Plus, it’s not like I’m marrying you off to some troll, eh?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “The tits on that girl…”
Bane’s right: I’ve never really been a boob guy. But fuck me, where my future wife is concerned, everyone else seems to be.
“Roman!”
Behind the frosted shower door, Evie shrieks as I flush the toilet in her ensuite bathroom.
“Such a dick!”
I chuckle deeply before calmly filling the water glass at the sink with cold water. Then I proceed to dump it over the top of the shower stall onto my sister, who immediately squeals again.
“C’mon, Roman!!”
I grin. “Just wanted to say hi before I took off.”
“Don’t go yet!” she calls back. “I’ll be out in a sec!”
“Cool. I’ll be in your room.”
As much as I enjoy teasing her, I fuckin’ love my little sister.
We have a great relationship, we can tell each other everything, and I am fiercely protective of her—maybe a little too much.
That’s partly because I’m seven years older than her, and partly because Evie is…
well, sheltered isn’t maybe the strong enough word to use.
That said, she’s also quite possibly the sweetest, kindest, gentlest, most honest person I’ve ever known.
I step back into her room and close the door to the bathroom behind me while she finishes up in the shower. A smirk plays over my lips as I take in her bedroom.
I’ve always joked that Evelina is the little princess of the family. But fucking hell does she lean into it well.
Pink.
“Pink” is how you would sum up my sister’s entire personality in one word. Not neon in-your-face pink. Not spoiled-brat Barbie pink.
Princess pink.
And by “princess”, I mean a singing, dancing, talks-to-cute-forest-animals Disney princess.
Her bedroom is a total extension of that. It’s pink, obviously, complete with a four-poster, gauze-draped princess bed, a huge, high-backed chair in her reading nook, shelves and shelves of books, pink and white gauzy drapes, and a pink fluffy throw rug.
Yet somehow, the whole setup looks wholesome and cozy, not sickly sweet and headache or diabetes-inducing.
Being seven years older, I moved out of this house a long time ago—first to attend Knightsblood University with Laz and Bane, where I also met and became close friends with Carmine and Nico Barone and Nero De Luca, then to my own place in midtown after I graduated.