Ivory Ashes - A Mafia Romance

My father snorts. "I wouldn't insult you like that. It's always been you and Trofim. Now... I suppose it's just you."

That's what it takes to earn my father's respect: don't be born a bastard like Anatoly and don't be overthrown like Trofim. Who knew a father's love could be so fickle?

"You're right. It is just me. Which is why you are going to begin the process of handing over power to me."

"You think you're ready." It's a statement, not a question. But I hear the doubt in his voice.

"I'm ready to take the Bratva to new heights. I'm ready to demand respect."

"That's what we've been doing for⁠-"

"Not with fucking pageantry and politics, but with strength. Raw power."

He leans back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. "How will you do that?"

If there was any chance my father could wrench power away from me and keep control, I wouldn't say a word. But he knows it's already over.

I've won.

"I'm going to consolidate the entire North American gunrunning market under our control."

His cool mask cracks under his surprise. "How?"

"I'll worry about how," I snap. "The only thing you need to know is that I'm going to make our family richer than you ever have. If you keep things peaceful, I'll make sure you're taken care of. If not..."

I don't need to finish the rest. This is his best option. He knows it. I know it. The only alternative is that I kill him now.

So he nods. "Things will need to be arranged. Plans unmade. I assume I'm not going to a wedding this afternoon."

"It's been canceled," I confirm.

He starts to unbutton his sleeves. "What happened to the girl, then? The bride?"

Does he even know her name? My father was ready to sign Viviana up for a lifetime of suffering with Trofim and he doesn't even bother with her name.

The realization chafes, but I ignore it. It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter.

"She's dead."

In every way that matters, Viviana is dead. That's all my father needs to know.

"That's just as well." He sighs. "One less thing."

Exactly.

One less thing.

"Is there a body to dispose of?" Raoul asks the moment I step out of my father's office. He isn't smiling-he never is-but I see the hopeful gleam in his dark eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. Mikhail wouldn't have killed Dad without me." Anatoly elbows him in the side. Then doubt flickers across his face. He turns to me. "Right? Please tell me you didn't kill him, Mikhail."

"Not yet."

He sighs. "Good. I want to watch."

I'd hate my father a lot more for acting like Anatoly isn't his son if Anatoly didn't hate him so much. The only thing he ever felt towards the man who fathered us both is resigned loyalty. The kind of loyalty that bides its time. Waiting for the moment it can turn. When that day comes, all the training Anatoly has gathered will be aimed directly at our father.

It'll be well earned. Our father all but fed Anatoly's mother to Trofim. He let Trofim kill her to secure his own ascendency.

Those kind of twisted family dynamics can really fuck a guy up. I'm just glad that guy in question is on my side.

The moment Trofim killed Anatoly's mom, my allegiances were set.

For my father, there is only me.

For me, there is Anatoly and Raoul.

I walk past them down the hall and they fall into line behind me. "Where is Trofim?" I ask over my shoulder.

"Airport, last time we saw him," Raoul says. "He booked the first flight out to Moscow."

Anatoly snorts. "Our guards saw him arguing with the desk to upgrade him to first class. Poor baby is exiled to the tundra for the rest of his days, but God forbid he fly coach."

"I would have lent him the private jet. So long as he's gone, I don't care."

"He's gone. Dad is out of the way." Anatoly slings an arm over my shoulders. "Who would've thought a bastard like me would be the right-hand man to the pakhan?"

"I'm not the pakhan yet."

"Good as," Raoul says quietly. "You've always been pakhan to me."

Not always. But since the moment Raoul and I met three years ago, he's looked up to me.

It has a lot to do with me not killing him on sight.

Like Anatoly, Raoul was born a bastard, but he hails from the Falcao cartel in Colombia. He was never supposed to be in the line of succession-bastards being barred from inheriting the family name and all that-but when the war between my family and his escalated, Raoul was the only surviving offspring. His father offered him up as a sacrifice. A peace offering to save his own life and assure us the cartel had no plans to continue operating in our territory.

My father then gave Raoul to me as some kind of twisted consolation. As if killing Raoul might erase the fact that his family killed mine.

But one death would never satisfy my rage. Anyway, it felt like a waste of his talents.

Instead of killing him, I gave him a job.

I fall back a step so I'm walking between Raoul and Anatoly. "Good. Then your new position as my second shouldn't chafe too badly."

Raoul's mouth twitches. It's the closest I've ever seen him to a smile.

Anatoly reaches around me to clap Raoul on the back. "Look at us! Who woulda thought a bastard and a slave would be the two right-hand men to the pakhan?"

If Raoul doesn't like being called a slave, he doesn't show it. He just mutters, "He can't have two right hands."

Anatoly hums thoughtfully. "You're right. Someone's gotta be left. Should we solve this in the ring? I was hoping for a bit more of a fight from Trofim. I have some energy to burn off."

I wave at them to stand down. "No fighting. I need you conscious and walking."

"I'll be conscious and walking," Anatoly mutters.

"Both of you," I amend. "You all don't know when to quit. We don't have time for a hospital stay."

"Boo. You're no fun now that you're the boss," Anatoly complains.

Raoul ignores him and steers us back to business. "Did you tell your father about the plan?"

"As much as he needs to know."

"Does he know you're planning to ally with the Greeks?"

Anatoly whistles. "If you were sick of Helen before... She's going to be all over you now. Maybe she'll convince you to break this pious monk act of yours."

I scowl at Anatoly, who has the good sense to look apologetic.

We don't talk about Alyona. Directly, indirectly-it doesn't matter. Anatoly knows that and he holds up his hands in surrender. As a nice bonus, his guilt keeps him from looking directly at me and noticing the half-mast hard-on tenting my pants at the thought of just how thoroughly I broke my "pious monk act" last night.

I readjust discreetly. "Helen can't convince me of anything. Least of all that."

Viviana, on the other hand...

The way her lips wrapped around my name when she came. Fuck... those lips would have looked good around my cock. I should have stayed. Should've dragged the night into the morning.

No one would be calling me a monk if they knew the thoughts swirling around my head.

"Where is Viviana?" Raoul asks suddenly.

It jerks me out of my regrets. For a second, I think he knows about what we did last night.

Then he adds softly, "I heard you tell your father... Is she really dead?"

"She might as well be." I shove every thought of her down deep. If I don't give them air, they'll suffocate. They'll disappear and she'll be gone for good. "We're never going to see her again."