Ripped Veil - A Mafia Romance

I'd surveyed the faces of the men and women in each booth I'd passed. Some hid their pain behind robotic moans. Others made a show of enjoyment, despite their vacant expressions.

They were all young.

They were all beautiful.

They were all breathing fucking corpses.

My hand twitches automatically towards the waistband of my pants, but I remember I don't have my gun anymore. My weapons were confiscated at the door.

I made a lot of concessions to gain this meeting. I'm still convinced it's worth it.

Or rather it will be... once I have the fucker within my grasp.

Ozol agreed to meet me in this room at precisely ten-thirty. The silver clock on the wall tells me that it's ten forty-three now. The bastard is late.

I doubt it's an accident. Nothing Viktor Ozol does is ever an accident. I'm sure he thinks this deliberate power move will assert his dominance over me.

He's wrong if he believes I'll be intimidated. He's wrong if he thinks I earned all the things I have-the money, the power-from sheer fucking nepotism.

The blood that runs in my veins is pure mob royalty. I am Phoenix Kovalyov, son of Artem and Esme Kovalyov, the reigning king and queen of the Los Angeles-based Kovalyov Bratva. Nephew to Cillian and Kian O'Sullivan, dons of Ireland's O'Sullivan mafia clan.

But the blood I've spilled to earn my place at the table was done with my own two hands. I carved this empire in Las Vegas myself. Made my own way. Built my own legacy. And I made sure that my reputation would stand on its own two feet, far removed from the dynasties that my mentors built.

Ten years ago, I left my Uncle Kian's tutelage in New York City and came here to erect something from scratch. I did exactly that. I am a don in my own right. Nothing can touch me. No man can hurt me.

Or at least, that's what I used to believe.

Until three years ago.

When I was foolish enough to let an enemy take advantage of the one vulnerability that I'd allowed myself in the last decade.

I glance at the time. Ten forty-nine. This asshole is really fucking with the wrong man. But I force myself to be patient. I've waited three years for this meeting. I can stand to wait a few more minutes.

My muscles ping with adrenaline, preparing for a fight that I've imagined in my head a thousand times over.

Uncle Cillian always says that revenge is the wrong reason to fight. But I disagree. It's the strongest motivator I have left. It's the reason I've made it my life's mission to expose and destroy Astra Tyrannis, the organization that Viktor runs.

Three fucking years... and I can finally feel the end coming.

For one of us.

I hear a sound from just outside the door. I wait, ears piqued, but the door remains closed.

Frustrated and growing increasingly impatient, I stalk over to the gigantic bar that covers the entire end wall of the room. The shelves are set against polished glass, weighed down with endless bottles of liquor.

All rare. All expensive. All bought with blood money.

I don't kid myself that I'm some kind of crusader. I'm no saint. And I'm definitely no hero.

I've killed without reason. I've stolen without compulsion. I've lied without guilt. But even among thieves and murderers, there's a fucking code.

You don't fuck with women or children. And Viktor Ozol has done both.

There's no evidence to pin to him. No proof to nail him with. Just a fuck ton of rumors and the stink of corruption that pervades through every single establishment he owns, through every nasty place his fingers have ever soiled.

He's been avoiding me, though. I'd scored this meeting only because I'd lied about the reason for it. A temporary truce is what I told him. An attempt to broker a mutually beneficial deal between the two biggest players in Las Vegas. It was too tempting an offer for Ozol to pass up, so I'd secured my meeting.

But I'm starting to smell a rat. Because there's no excuse for this kind of delay.

Ten more minutes and his absence will go from rude to insulting. And the only answer to insults in the underworld... is violence.

I'm about to reach for the shiny new bottle of Isabella's Islay -when the door bursts open. I whip around, abandoning the whiskey to face Viktor Ozol.

Except it's not Ozol at all.

The person standing in the doorway is a frail blonde who looks like she's been plucked off the poster of some Gothic horror movie. She's wearing a ripped wedding dress, torn in several places, dusty and bloodstained at the hem.

She stares at me without seeing as she stumbles blearily into the room. I walk towards her cautiously, wondering what kind of game Ozol is playing with me.

My hand strays towards the tiny knife I managed to conceal from security, but I resist pulling it out. No sense in showing my cards before I have to.

The girl-I suppose she's a woman, but she looks so young and innocent that "girl" seems more appropriate-looks up at me. She has huge amber eyes fanned with thick black eyelashes and ringed with smudged mascara. Her blonde hair has lost its sheen to sweat, and her breaths burst from her in small, pain-filled gasps.

She looks like every other girl I've seen here tonight: beautiful. Young. Broken.

The only difference is that, on her... it shows.

"Who the fuck are you?" I snarl.

She blanches, her eyebrows furrowing as though she's trying to shake off the voices in her head.

I look around the room, but it doesn't appear that we're being watched. Of course, that means fuck-all. There are a million places to hide a camera in here if someone with bad intentions wanted to observe.

I turn back to her, unmoved by the tear tracks leaving streaks down her hollow cheeks. She still hasn't answered my question.

"I asked you a question," I repeat. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Please," she whispers, as though terrified to speak out loud, "don't curse."

I raise my eyebrows. Did she just tell me to watch my language? I almost laugh. I'm thirty-two years old, and it's been more than two decades since someone has told me to watch what I say.

Her eyes dart from side to side and her hands twitch at her sides. I look down and notice that her fingernails are bloody. She seems to be shivering, too.

"I... I... The lights were so bright," she stammers. Her words slur. "I was just trying... trying to get away from everything... A door was open... I went... I came in here... and there were... I saw... I saw..."

The trembling is more pronounced now. Her eyes are unfocused. I've seen this before, more times than I care to relive.

She's drugged.

"Listen to me," I order, raising my hands palms up. I don't touch her, but I take a step closer. "Calm down. Breathe."