Chapter 1
Chapter One
Rodion
The low thrum of dance music beats steadily, like the heartbeat of California’s underbelly.
Neon lights slash across the dance floor, throwing jagged shadows over the dancing forms of women.
I lazily watch them. I love women of all shapes and sizes.
I don’t care about the color of their skin or their hair, if they’re short or tall, curvy or slender, or if they have glasses or freckles or whatever.
Women are god’s gift to men, and fuck, I miss having one in my bed. It’s been way too long.
I’ve tried to be good. Responsible. Mature.
God.
California might glitter, but I miss the familiarity of home. Here, under these neon lights, I feel untouchable and detached—like a tiger prowling, watching the world from behind the bars of a cage.
I want out.
I nurse my glass of the bar’s sorry excuse for vodka—some cheap, local crap that doesn’t hold a candle to what we drink at home for any excuse to cheer a victory—and glance at my hands.
Fuck. For a second, I swear I see flecks of blood from the job I wrapped up earlier. But no, it’s just the lights messing with me. I washed my hands in the penthouse bathroom so many times under steaming water that they’re half-scalded.
Not that it matters. Rafail, my oldest brother and the pakhan of our family, rules with an iron fist and expects every job to be wrapped up neat, tied with a bow. Me? I like the reminders of what I’m capable of.
Maybe it makes me a sociopath. I like to think it keeps me human.
Got one more job to do here.
A burst of laughter gets my attention. I look over to see a table of giggling women.
I shift closer to the bar, slinking into the shadows so I can watch unnoticed.
Six of them, dressed in low-cut tops and short skirts, sit at a table cluttered with empty glasses.
A young brunette with waist-length glossy hair shoves her phone under the nose of another woman.
The second one’s wearing something across her shoulders. A sash?
I squint.
Bride to Be, the gold lettering reads. Ah. A bachelorette party.
How cute.
“I’m telling you, it’s the possessive ones! Like, ‘I own you’ energy!” A blonde giggles over her drink. Her friend rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
My ears perk up. “I own you energy.” What are they talking about?
I’ve got better things to do than eavesdrop, but I’m bored as hell and need to get laid. Rafail would fucking kill me for not sticking to the plan.
I fucked up, big time, and he sent me here to lay low while he manages the fallout. Turned out I could utilize my skills while here for the greater good of my family, so I can’t lose focus now.
I look away from them.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Rafail
Heads up. Semyon got fucked over… instead of wedding bells, looks like he’ll be playing clean-up crew and teaching some lessons.
Shit. It’s been a year since Rafail married his wife, Polina, which meant it was time for one of us to get married.
We had to. Taking the position of leadership after my father’s death, Rafail wasted no time in establishing himself as the married eldest because, in the old-fashioned, cutthroat world of the Russian Bratva, a married man had more power.
Respect. A man like me—wild and free, untamed by the love of a woman—was unfettered but unpredictable… and wielded less power.
We don’t have time to date casually and don’t have the luxury of playing around. Marriage, children, the stability of vows are a must.
Semyon was ready to marry before the ink was dry on Rafail and Polina’s marriage certificate. He didn’t have the time or patience for anything less.
What was it about our luck, anyway? Rafail’s first attempt at marriage was an epic fail, and now Semyon…
Rafail
So maybe… if you happen to find a wife in California, make it happen. At least for now. The Romanov gala is in a month, and we need a show of strength when we attend
Of fucking course. Rafail didn’t “joke.” Semyon’s fucked-up nuptials left us with few choices, and one of them was up to me.
God.
Find a wife, he says. Like it’s that simple. I already play his enforcer, his pawn. Now he wants me to play groom too? God forbid I don’t bow to the family legacy.
I roll my eyes and lift my hand, about to order another drink, but the bartender beats me to it, sliding a glass into my outstretched palm. “Here,” she says, smiling. “This is better than the vodka here. Do me a favor? You seem like a decent guy.”
Little does she know. Still, I flash her the grin that melts panties and throw in a wink. Her neck flushes with heat, but she schools her expression fast, tilting her head toward the end of the bar.
I take a sip of bourbon—strong, potent, now we’re getting somewhere—and follow her gesture.
“I’m not supposed to intervene unless customers cross the line,” she says, her voice low.
“But that asshole’s been buying drinks for that table of women, even though they’re clearly trying to avoid him.
I don’t like it. You seem…scary-looking enough.
Not my business, but that guy’s bad news. Maybe just park yourself down there?”
I nod. Playing silent bodyguard for a stranger isn’t on my agenda, but I push off the bar anyway, drink in hand, and head down the row.
The bar thrums with a low bass. The air reeks of expensive cologne, tequila, and cheap sex. I shake my head. I hate California. Too many rules, too many people who thought money made them untouchable.
But tonight isn’t about me—it never is. I’m here for the Bratva, for my family. For Rafail’s newly born son, so small he can’t even hold his little head up yet. For my parents, who were buried way too young, with their lives still ahead of them.
I’m here because Rafail and family honor demanded it.
One target’s an arrogant little bastard who thought he could cheat the Russian mafia and walk away. And I came here to remind him how far loyalty went when it was wrapped in barbed wire.
I know immediately who the bartender’s talking about.
I give the businessman in a wrinkled suit a once-over.
He’s got one of those comb-over hairstyles to mask his receding hairline and a gold chain around his neck.
I glance at his hand, where the indentation on his finger indicates a wedding band recently removed.
Sigh. So predictable.
I’m not a hero. Hell, I’m barely human some days. But I know the lines a man doesn’t cross. And when I see this guy crowding her, all I can think is I’ve crossed too many lines already. This one? Not tonight.
He leans across the table and pushes a drink to one of the women.
She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
“I bought it for you,” the chubby douchebag says, pushing it over to her again. Oh, for the love of… Rafail would get on a plane just to throat punch me if he knew I was getting involved, but I can’t help it.
There’s nothing I like more than helping a damsel in distress. And it’s gotten me laid more times than I can count.
My voice is low when I meet his eyes and push the drink back. “Hey, buddy. She said no. Drink it yourself. Better yet, why don’t you leave her the fuck alone and don’t come back?” I feel their eyes on me but focus on this guy and this guy alone.
Beady eyes narrow on me as he draws himself up to his full height. Aww. He thinks he can get away with it. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard.
I’m easily a head taller than him, with one more tool in my kit he probably doesn’t have: I don’t care if I spill another man’s blood tonight.
“Who the fuck asked you to get involved?” the businessman asshole says. “I bought her a drink. She wanted one.”
“I did not!” I turn to look at her and narrowly miss getting coldcocked by this asshole. I swivel, grab his wrist just in time, and shake my head with a little tsk.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” I say in a whisper, twisting his hand back until pain dances in his eyes and he grits his teeth. “I promise you. You’re going to regret that. Why don’t we take a little walk.”
Still gripping his wrist, I drag him toward me and discreetly shove him in front of me.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” he begins, but I shake my head.
“Too late for apologies, my man,” I say, my temper rising. “You disrespected a woman.”
I follow few laws, but never disrespect a woman is one of them.
As we head toward the exit, I can hear the table of giggling bachelorettes.
“Oh my god, he’s like one of the book guys.”
“Did you see those muscles?”
“He looks like the video mafia queen posted!”
Mafia… what? I catch a glimpse at the screen. What the fuck is that? I try to take another look, but my friend, the predator, tries to use my distraction to his advantage and wheedle out of my grip.
Nah.
I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and help him focus on doing what the fuck I say. The neon Exit sign flashes in the center of the doorway above a dark hall.
“This is what you’re gonna do,” I tell him as we near the door. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of here and pretend tonight never happened. You’ll pretend we never talked, that you never tried to push yourself on a woman who said no.”
Blood thrums in my veins, molten lava teeming with destruction.
“You can’t—”
I lean in close. He’s half a breath away from meeting my fist. “I have a knife in my pocket and a gun in a holster at my back. I can and will.” I hold him in my right hand so I can discreetly flash the sign of the Bratva, a universal tat that every man of our family gets when he’s sixteen years old.
I watch his eyes widen in recognition. Good. I kick open the door. “Good riddance,” I mutter as I shove him out and slam the door behind him.
The bartender catches my attention and gives me a thumbs-up. The women giggle and wave at me, but I only jerk my head and sit back down at the other end of the bar. I shoot my younger cousin and best friend Matvei a text.
Dude, you see these mafia posts these girls online are raving about? Tf? I just scared away some guy that wouldn’t leave them alone and they were GIGGLING. I heard something about mafia books.