Chapter 2
MIKAIL
Iam at my club, Debauchery. The name wasn’t picked randomly. Anything goes, crossing the lines of what’s morally acceptable. It’s my dark lair. I am here every night, needing the pounding music to drown out the thoughts of her.
This woman’s presence in my life is deafening. Nothing could silence her. Not enough alcohol, violence, or time apart.
I am getting jittery, small doses of her sustain me while the distance causes the madness to own me. I could use my best friend’s absence to check on her more, but that would only invite trouble.
Controlling the uncontrollable. That’s what I have done for years. That’s what I need to continue doing. I am living a lie—deceiving not only my best friend but also myself.
It’s been just two days since Enzo and my sister went on their honeymoon, and I am teetering on the edge of insanity.
I thought Calla died with my mother in a car explosion, but the assassin sent to kill my best friend turned out to be my sister, all grown up, fearless, and lethal.
That was one heck of a revelation. At least I don’t have to worry about Calla.
She is a deadly weapon, and now the wife of a man who would stop at nothing to keep her safe.
My blood is tainted.
My heart is a bottomless abyss of regret.
My life is duty coated in loyalty.
I have built my empire on my father’s death. The man who died at my hands.
If the truth were ever revealed, everything would crumble before my eyes. My empire. My friendship and brotherhood. My status as Pakhan.
The only living person who knows the truth is Dahlia. The secrets we keep, the truths we can’t speak, and the lies we keep telling ourselves lie between us like a bomb ready to detonate any second.
I hunger for her with every famished fiber of my being.
God knows I would stop at nothing to protect her.
I committed the unthinkable to save her.
My biggest sin will land me in hell, but I would kill anyone who poses a threat to her, a thousand times over if needed, with no fucking regret.
Nothing matters more than her staying alive.
I am sure that if Dahlia dies, my heart will stop immediately.
The guilt, the longing, tear me apart, threatening my sanity. The devil whispers to take what I am owed. The angel demands I stay away. She deserves better than her rapist.
Shooting up, I pace my office, clenching and unclenching my hands at my sides to keep from pummeling the tinted glass wall in front of me overlooking the club. Not even raiding the world in my rage could change what I did.
I drag a lungful of air not to lose my cool, preserving the sham of control.
My phone rings, and I pluck it out of my pocket, answering my brother.
“Calla’s asleep, huh?” That’s the only time he has called since he left for his honeymoon.
“You know she is, asshole. How are things going?”
“Stop being a fucking control freak.” I drag a hand down my face, grumbling, “I have everything under control.”
Except my urges. I ignore that pesky thought. I am not Enzo. I can’t take her because I want to, not caring about the consequences.
Taking Dahlia for myself would make her an even more desirable target. My enemies will try to get at her through me. The life I could give her, she experienced—it’s bloody, savage, hopeless.
She’s my best friend’s little sister. He would kill me, and I would let him. What I did deserves nothing less.
“I talked to my mother.” He sighs a deep exhale. “She said Dahlia hasn’t been herself since her concert.”
Dahlia hasn’t been herself since her kidnapping, but he knows that just as much as I do. Knowing she suffers makes me want to blow my head off.
“Could you move to the compound until I return?”
His request threatens to knock me down.
He’s my brother. I would sacrifice my life to save his, but fuck, what he asks from me is too much. I doubt I can control myself around her for an extended period.
“My best man protects her. Between yours and mine, nothing can come close to her.” I assure him as much as I do myself.
“You know what I mean. Mother said she hasn’t stopped playing.”
Dahlia is having one of her episodes. Fuck. And I was the trigger. He doesn’t know I am the fucking cause because he would never let me near her again. I am the sickness causing her symptoms. The knowledge makes me want to stab my chest and carve my heart out, offering it to her in restitution.
“Mika?” he insists, knowing full well I’ll always cave for her.
“I’ll move in until you return.” My voice sounds haunted, as if my decision will open the gates to carnage.
He breathes out a sigh of relief while I am hanging on a frail thread of sanity that disintegrates with every second.
Don’t betray your brother for a second time, I remind myself.
Once was enough.
Hanging up, I return to my desk and join the conference.
Enzo and I lead our joint organization, brACON, but each of us oversees his division—me the Bratva, and he the Cosa Nostra.
And while I am the Pakhan of the Bratva in Reno, there are branches all over the world. The most important ones are in New York, Seattle, and Chicago.
I killed my competition swiftly, turning the three loyal allies into my right hands. In the end, the vote was unanimous. I am a strategist and slaughterer in one, keeping people on a longer leash so they think they are their own bosses.
Everyone is a piece on my chessboard, and it only takes a small reminder for them to retreat to their places. Trust is one thing, but control is better. My loyal brigadiers function as spies in every branch. This guarantees I stay in power and control the organization.
It’s loyalty or death. I kill first and ask questions after—my way of showing my men that if they risk betraying me, death will be the only way out. I punish even the smallest transgression and reward success with status and money, ensuring the competition makes the organization thrive.
People hang onto their lives, but in ours, even more so. Once you’ve tasted power, earning more money than you could ever spend, it becomes an intoxicating drug flooding your system. Success makes you feel like a god.
I listen carefully, nodding as each takes turns speaking as if I didn’t have the information already. They lead their branches with iron fists, and that’s one less worry.
Once the meeting ends, I close my laptop, leaning back in my chair.
The headache throbs behind my temples. Rubbing at them mindlessly, I try to drag out time, but knowing she’s hurting herself pushes me toward her. I would take her pain, make it mine if I could. I can’t, and fate is merciless, a never-ending punishment.
Inside the elevator, I press the button for the underground garage. Once the doors slide open, my men square their shoulders, standing taller.
“Boss,” they say simultaneously, dipping their chins toward me.
I walk toward my black Bugatti and slip inside the beast, sinking into the leather seat. The engine growls with its hundreds of horsepower, making my soul vibrate as I drive away.
When I was younger, my pleasures seemed endless, now fighting and driving this car remain.
I forsook them all the moment I ruined her life, so why should I get any pleasure? Even these two seem decadent, considering the monster I am. Yet, this monster is the only one she wants, the only one she lets near. No, not let, but rather craves.
Wrapping my fingers around the wheel hard enough that my knuckles whiten, I press harder on the accelerator as if eager to speed toward my ruin.
Stopping at home, a mansion that stands over thousands of acres in white architectural glory. For being the only resident except for my trusted staff, it’s a waste of space that keeps up appearances. This is who I am—the master of sham.
Inside, my steps echo on the marble floor in the immense foyer, hollow just like my chest.
“Is there anything I can do, sir?” my head of household asks me.
I am not the only one suffering from insomnia. This woman single-handedly makes sure my home runs smoothly.
“Please, pack a bag. I’ll be away for the next twelve days.”
Sasha rushes to comply while my feet root in place as if the last bit of sanity implores my brain to sabotage this idea. I know I am fucked either way.
Going into my sitting room, I flick on the light and stride to the bar and pour myself a glass of vodka. Dozens of dahlias cover the room, and the thick, deep teal curtains offer me the desired seclusion. A Chesterfield leather armchair and polished floors finish the classic look.
As I stare at the piano center stage, I toss back the remnants of the alcohol.
I can picture her here, playing for me. There would be laughter and joyful music.
A dream that will never materialize. I own the soul of a masochist and the brain of a sadist. This room is sacred, safekeeping my secrets and hidden desires—my only weakness, Dahlia.
I slam the empty glass on the bar and lock the door behind me.
Sasha waits for me in the foyer with a gentle smile, her wise eyes seeing more than I would like.
“May I ask where you’re going?” she asks, voice laced with concern.
“To the Ferraras.”
I catch a spark in her eyes that immediately puts me in a mood, and I grumble, “Now, can I leave or do you have more questions?”
“Enjoy your time there, sir. Maybe think of growing your family while you’re at it,” she says, not at all intimidated by me, which is refreshing considering everyone else tiptoes around me. That’s the reason I respect this woman more than I do my men.
I pin her with a glare, letting her know she oversteps.
She crosses her arms over her chest, seemingly unimpressed, and waves me off. This woman gets away with so much shit.
The short drive to the other end of the city does nothing to ease the turmoil. I am driving toward my destination, not caring about the repercussions that will explode in my face if I overstep.