by LP Lovell
“Nero Verdi, in the flesh,” he drawls in a heavy Russian accent.
“Igor.” Nero responds.
The man turns his gaze to me. I see the flash of recognition, but he covers it quickly. “And who is this?”
“You know who I am, dog,” I snap in Russian.
He laughs. “Well, now I do. You are distinctive, Una Ivanov.”
Nero pulls out a chair for me, and I sit before he takes the seat beside me. “And you are forgettable in every way,” I say.
“Enough with the insults.” Nero chimes in, his tone bored.
“I was simply complimenting his lovely suit.” I smirk.
Nero’s hand lands on my thigh beneath the table, his fingertips brushing over the knife strapped to the inside. “Igor, here, wishes to bring guns into our city. Isn’t that right, Igor?” I don’t miss the ‘our’ and neither does Igor. His eyes flick back and forth between us, narrowing. Nero casually slips his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slides one between his lips before lighting it. The snap of his lighter closing is the only sound as he waits for Igor to respond.
His hand lands back on my thigh and I glance at him. He raises his eyebrows and jerks his head towards Igor as he inhales a long drag. Maybe this is some kind of test, or perhaps, he just knows I’m bored.
“That’s a big ask.” I lean forward, locking eyes with the weasely little man. “But you see, Igor, the lamb does not ask the lion for a favor, when all he offers in return is his own leg to chew on.” He opens his mouth to respond. “And I do not want your leg, so tell me, what do you offer?”
Igor places his cigar down and leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his chin. After a few moments, Nero clears his throat. “I’m not a patient man.”
Igor nods and places his palms flat on the table. The cigar sits in the ashtray in front of him, the smoke steadily rising in lazy streams between us. “I was going to offer you a new drug, but I give you choice,” he says in stilted English. “I can give you drug. Very good, new party drug. All the rage in Moscow. Or…” he lifts one eyebrow, a small smile playing over his lips. “I can become ally.”
There’s a beat of silence before I laugh. Nero remains silent. “What could you possibly offer us?”
He’s the one who laughs this time. “You are with him,” he changes to Russian. “Why? I hear that you are wanted, Kiss of Death. I hear that you killed Arnaldo Boticelli, then I hear that Nicholai is hunting you. And now I see you here, with Nero Verdi of all people. He seems very…attached to you.” He smooth’s a hand down the front of his jacket. “So, I ask you, are you loyal to the wolf, or your so-called lion?” The wolf. Only the enemies of the bratva call Nicholai the wolf, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say through clenched teeth, reverting back to English.
His eyes never leave my face as he takes a deep breath. “Yes, but what I cannot work out is why you loyal to him.” He jerks his chin towards Nero who seems almost bored by the conversation. “You are Nicholai’s pet.”
I decide to steer the conversation. "You have no loyalty to the bratva. This is known.” The Slovo have caused problems for the bratva in the past. My first solo kill was their former leader.
“I spit on them.” He scowls.
I turn to face Nero and he focuses on Igor for a beat longer before his eyes meet mine. “I do not trust him,” I say in Italian this time. “I told you, he is a dog, and he will turn tail the second someone offers him some better scraps.”
His lips tilt up, that easy confidence of his pouring off him in waves. He has this way of making me feel as though everything is possible because he’s Nero Verdi, and the world would stop turning if he willed it so. “This is personal for him. His father was killed by Nicholai.” I swallow heavily, because Nicholai doesn’t make his own kills. He sends his Elite. And now Igor’s name rings a bell. Igor Dracov, the illegitimate son of Abram Petrov, the former leader. My first solo mission.
“What do you want?” I ask Igor in English.
“I want Nicholai Ivanov’s cold dead body at my feet.” He smiles.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a minute. “Okay.” Standing up, I unfasten the buttons of my coat and part the material. “My loyalty is right here.”
His eyes go wide as he takes in the bump. “I thought the Elite could not breed.”
“Yeah, well, evidently that’s not the case.”
He looks from me to Nero before he laughs. “Oh, this will be good.” He leans back in his seat and claps his hands together, a wide grin on his face. “I offer you my help, Una Ivanov. On one condition: Nicholai dies.”
“What is your allegiance worth to me? The Slovo are small and inconsequential.” More like a band of rebels than anything else.
He huffs a laugh, picking up his now cold cigar and placing it between his lips. He lights it again and inhales. “No, the bratva think the Slovo is no threat and that is how we want it. Our numbers almost rival theirs, but I have many people buried in the mafia, quiet as mice. They listen. They see.”
“That’s settled then,” Nero says. He’s done with the conversation.
“Nero…”
“They are well connected, and they are motivated to remove Nicholai. If the bratva falls, then they can assume power.”
I narrow my eyes at him. What the hell is he talking about? He turns back to Igor and pushes to his feet. “I accept your proposal. You may move your gun shipment through the city, but keep it clean. If I have to get involved, you won’t like it.”
Nero reaches out his hand. Igor shakes it before holding his hand out to me. I grit my teeth and take it, forcing back the inner killer pushing to the surface. Whatever he sees in my eyes, it makes him drop my hand quickly.
“Pleasure,” Igor purrs, before walking out of the bar.
As soon as we’re in the car, I turn on Nero. “The bratva will never fall,” I say. The network is enormous, powerful and intertwined into even the government in Russia. It can’t be done. Though Nicholai is one of their key players and his death would be a blow; he will soon be replaced.
A knowing smile pulls at his lips as he starts the car. “Of course not.” That’s all he says. Damn, the man is so cryptic.
“‘Of course’ is not an explanation. Care to explain to me what is going through that crazy mind of yours.”
“My brilliant mind?”
I roll my eyes. “Nero…"
“Fine. Of course, the bratva will never fall, but if we kill Nicholai, they will have to retaliate. Someone needs to take that fall, and I can’t bring that back on the family. This has the potential to start a mafia war.”
“You want to ally so that you have a scape goat.” Damn, he thinks of everything. I can plan a kill to the letter, think of every escape option, every possible thing that could go wrong, but Nero takes that and does it on a massive scale, factoring in key players and entire organizations, gangs, and families.
“There is no point in killing Nicholai only to die a few weeks later. I intend for us to survive this, Morte. And you will rule this city with me.”
I laugh. “Not sure your father will approve of that.”
He pulls up at a traffic light and watches me, a wide smile on his lips. “I have a plan.”
I sigh. “Don’t you always?”
“Always.”
16
Nero
Planning. That’s all I’ve done for the last three days. I’ve barely seen Una because she’s been calling on her contacts in Russia while I’ve been calling on everyone, anyone who might help our cause. The simple fact is, Nicholai Ivanov is coming for us and we have two choices: hand Una over or fight. The first isn’t an option, which leaves us gearing for a war with a man who has his own personal army and more money, weapons, and influence than God. Not to mention he’s fucking insane and obsessed with Una. Of all the women in the world, I had to want her.
I swipe my hand down my face and look at the bluepri
nts Gio has placed in front of me. I’m sitting on one of the sofas in the penthouse office and he’s sat across from me. Una is pacing backwards and forwards, cracking her neck as though she’s about to go on a rampage. Gio flashes me a nervous glance and I smirk. She’s decided she hates him, and he’s now the target of her rage, of which there’s plenty.
“So the only way in is via the vehicle bay?” He points at the blue print. Turns out Igor was useful. His people managed to give us accurate plans of Nicholai’s military base, not that I think it will do us much good. The only plan we have is to go at him head on.
Una sighs and turns to face us, bending over the coffee table and bracing her palm against the wood. “The base is guarded well. This is the only road in.” She says, stabbing the paper with her finger. “It’s exposed, with only a tree line on one side. They can see you coming from miles away. There’s a guard tower with a .50 Cal machine gun and armor piercing bullets, as well as RPGs. Any unauthorized vehicles are taken out,” she says, raising an eyebrow. Gio looks at me, his brows pulled tightly together. “If you get past that gate, you are left with an impregnable, nuclear blast-proof bunker. And yes, it has only one entrance, and that is the vehicle bay which is heavily guarded by Elite. I could take you right now while I’m carting around a football, Gio. You don’t stand a chance against one of them, and you are proposing walking into their fucking base, where they live and train, where they will be armed to the hilt.” She turns away and resumes pacing, dragging both hands through her hair.
“Do you have a better plan?” Gio says. She turns and glares at him. The air buzzes with the promise of blood, and I can practically hear her ticking, ready to go off at any minute.
“Yes! I had a better fucking plan until you two idiots decided to drag me back to New York!” She goes to the window and braces one palm against it, dropping her head forward as she clenches and releases her fist at her side.
“Gio, give me a minute.” He nods, gets up, and walks out of the room. The door clicks shut, leaving a tense silence in its wake.
I stand and move over to the window, studying the profile of her rigid back. “Do not make me the enemy, Morte.”
She rests her head against the glass and it mists with her breath. “I feel like a sitting duck.”
“Perception, Morte. If you think you are a bird waiting for a bullet, then the bullet is sure to find you. We are strategizing, being smart and forming a plan that will actually work. You cannot fight if you believe the war is already lost.”
“Nero,” Curling her fist against the glass, she lets out a groan, “your confidence is not going to win this for us.” She turns around, bracing her back against the window. “You have to go to your father.”
“No.”
“You are the underboss. We need the backing of the mafia.”
“We’re talking about a mafia war. And I would be asking him to start it in the name of what? The Russian woman who killed our own.”
“We have gone backwards and forwards over every conceivable plan. At the very least, we need the mafia’s protection in the aftermath, even if we can pull this off with limited numbers.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “If we kill Nicholai, pin it on the Slovo, and have the Italians protection, we will be safe. The Russians won’t want a war either. Without it, we are a bird waiting for a bullet.”
I sigh. “You don’t understand…”
“You would be asking for his help in removing your biggest competition. Nicholai runs all the guns in North America. That trade is worth millions. Take it.” She steps forward, grabbing my jacket in both hands. Her eyes lock with mine, desperation bleeding through her expression. She’s scared and I fucking hate it. I hate that Nicholai has my vicious killer fearing for her life and the life of our child. I’m going to end Nicholai Ivanov, but as I look at Una, for the first time in my life, I’m questioning exactly what the price of that will be.
“Morte, there are lines even I cannot cross.”
“Fuck politics, Nero. Fuck the lines. You didn’t go to such lengths to become underboss, just to simper beneath your father’s will.” Her eyes drop to my mouth and she leans in, trailing her fingers over my jaw as her lips brush against mine. “Show him why you are the future of the mafia. Show him what real power looks like.” She kisses me. “Show him what a man with no lines is willing to do. The Italians may hate me, but they hate the Russians more.”
I grab her jaw, tilting her head back until she’s looking at me. “They don’t hate you, Morte, they fear you. They fear us because we have no lines.”
Her hot breath blows over my face and a wicked smile pulls at her lips. “Good.”
I groan against her lips that are barely a breath away from mine. My vicious queen, so beautifully merciless. I have grown up in the mafia, surrounded by men who will shoot a man in one moment and then preach about their honor and ethics the next. Una and I are the same, she basks in their fear. She likes it. We understand the power of being feared before you’ve even entered a room, of having your name whispered with both reverence and disgust. I love that about her. We are the new generation, more ruthless, less forgiving, and with a code of ethics that serves us and those loyal to us. Man, woman, or child, if you stand against us, you are the enemy and you will be cut down.
I twist Una’s face to the side and kiss her throat, inhaling her vanilla and gun oil scent. “Get changed, put on a dress. We’re going to see Cesare.” One way or the other, we will pull him to our cause. I’m not above playing dirty. If this is what Una needs to feel safe, then I’ll give it to her. Cesare means nothing to me and Una means everything.
“I hate wearing dresses,” she says, scowling.
I smirk, my grip slipping from her jaw and resting around her throat. Her pulse thrums against my fingertips, steady and strong. “My father likes to think of women as something delicate, something to be protected. And you play the innocent lamb very well, my love.” She glares at me and I laugh. “Especially with this.” I rest my free hand over her stomach.
“This is already making me want to kill somebody.”
I smile, kissing her forehead. “Enchant him the way you enchanted me.”
“Nero, I tried to kill you and you got hard for it.” She rolls her eyes. “That is not enchanting, it’s just twisted.”
I smirk. “You like twisted.” Grabbing her hips, I lift her, pushing her against the window. Her legs wrap around my waist and my hard dick presses against her. She clings to my shoulders, her breath hitching.
“I love twisted.” I kiss down the side of her neck and she throws her head back against the glass, pushing her breasts towards me. Pregnancy has been good to her, and her chest strains against the confines of her tank top. Sliding the straps down her arms, I suck one nipple into my mouth and she moans, rolling her hips into me. “Fuck,” I groan, my cock swelling. I love how she always responds for me, softening and opening up just like the butterfly she is. Grabbing my shirt, she tears it apart. Buttons scatter everywhere, and then her nails are raking over my skin in a burning trail. I hiss and put her down, allowing her to slide down the front of my body. She yanks her tank over her head and starts stripping my jacket and shirt as I back up towards the couch. She stalks after me, her hips swaying seductively as she shadows me like a hungry predator. The look in her eyes skates the fine line of lust and violence, both so close. She strips out of her clothes until she’s completely naked and so fucking beautiful. Her body is hard, honed muscle, littered with a map of scars, but softened by her full breasts and growing stomach. She shoves against my chest and I fall back onto the couch before she’s straddling my thighs. Her movements are aggressive and frantic, and I meet every touch of her lips, every lash of her tongue with the same brutal need, feeding the flames, antagonizing her. She presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against my neck, working lower until she’s sinking her teeth into my pec. She swipes her tongue over the thin lines of blood left by her nails.
Fisting her hair, I pull her lips
to mine, tasting my own blood on her tongue as I press my fingers between her spread legs. A ragged gasp slips from her as I push two fingers inside her. She touches her forehead to mine and her entire body tenses and trembles as her shaking breaths intermingle with my own. Gripping her throat, I hold her at arms length as I drive into her harder, watching her become so fucking exposed for me. Her eyes shutter closed on a moan and her skin flushes a beautiful shade of pink. White blonde hair cascades down her back as her body bows forward, her hips meeting my hard thrusts eagerly. Fuck, she’s so perfect.
I release her and grab her waist, tossing her onto the couch beside me. Yanking my belt open, I push my pants down just enough to release my cock. As soon as I’m between her thighs again, she’s wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer until I’m sliding inside her. Her nails rake over my neck before she grabs my hair, pulling roughly. “Fuck me, capo,” she demands. And I do, taking, demanding, possessing her with every merciless thrust. Her hands cup my face and she kisses me, caressing her tongue against mine. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, forcing her chest out and her body to bow so fucking beautifully. I bite her nipples, kiss her chest, neck, and jaw as I fuck her hard and fast. I fuck her until she’s practically crawling out of her skin and seeking out my lips. Her kisses are all tongue and teeth and I can taste my own blood in my mouth from a split lip. She rolls her hips beneath me, meeting me on every thrust. She moves like she’s trying to meld our bodies together, imprinting herself on me in every fucking way. Throwing her head back, she moans and I swipe my tongue over her exposed throat, tasting the saltiness of her skin. She fucks the same way she fights, with a savage grace that leaves me hypnotized.
“Break for me, Morte,” I say through clenched teeth.