by Nicole Fox
Both men share a doubtful look, but this is the one thing I’ve refused to budge on. Keeping exclusive contracts is what created the hot bed of competition and frustration that led to our rivals rising up against us. Maintaining a fair market, even in the criminal world, is essential.
“Why do we want our weapons guy selling to other families?” Dmitry asks.
“More buyers means more weapons, which means more choices,” I say. “Supply and demand.”
“Sounds like someone is speaking my language.”
I turn to see Leonid walking through the conference room door. He became one of the biggest weapons importers in St. Petersburg once Cyrus was dead. He serves our family as well as a number of other smaller operations in and around the city. Though, he isn’t the only game in town. There are plenty of smaller dealers filling in the gaps, willing to step up and grow their business should Leonid fall out of favor.
I stand up and shake his hand, inviting him to sit down. Dmitry and Fedor maintain an air of suspicion, but I don’t mind. It keeps Leonid slightly uncomfortable and ensures he’ll treat us all with respect.
“Like I said last time, everything looks good with the paperwork,” he says, picking up a pen and tapping it against his chin. “I do have one question, though.”
“That’s why we’re here. Ask.”
He pinches his lips together nervously. “Well, as you know, I’m working with other…clients, and I—I just want to make sure that isn’t going to be a problem.”
I tap my finger on the non-exclusivity clause. “It’s in the contract.”
“Right, but—” he sighs and leans forward on his elbows, voice low. “If I work with the Ivanovs on the west side of the city, I’m not going to be shot dead in the street by your men, right? I understand that you are pushing for looser restrictions on the businessmen you work with, which you know I’m in favor of. But I don’t want to be murdered for dealing with another family on your turf.”
I smile and raise an eyebrow. “Do you think I’d have you killed, Leonid?”
He hesitates and then bobs his head back and forth, an uncomfortable laugh bubbling out of him. “Kind of, Mr. Levushka. Yes.”
I fold my hands on the table in front of me, letting them plop down on the wood with a loud smack. “Good. Because I would.”
Leonid’s smile fades, his eyes growing wide.
“However,” I add, my tone softening. “We have graciously allowed the Ivanovs to work on the west side of the city.”
“You have?” Leonid asks, shifting his gaze from me to Dmitry and Fedor behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know he is seeing a disapproving frown on Dmitry’s face. He took the most convincing to agree to the deal with the Ivanovs. One of their men killed his cousin in a fight when they were all new recruits, and he has had a hard time letting it go.
“The Levushkas do not want to rule this city with an iron fist,” I explain. “We want our boundaries to be respected, and we want peace. That is all.”
Leonid lifts his brows in surprise. “Well, if you assure me I’m not going to be executed for doing business with them, then I’m ready to sign.”
I slide the papers closer to him and wave for him to continue.
After the meeting, I have a few hours before I need to meet up with Zoya and Maksim, so I drive the familiar highway north out of town.
I don’t get out to the old estate very often. After everything that happened there, my memories of the place are tainted, but the property has remained one of the Levushka holdings and it is a nice place to house recruits and guests of the family.
I drive down the long gravel road and through the wrought iron gates, passing the tiny cottage where Zoya spent her entire childhood. The new groundskeeper lives in the main house, so the cottage has been empty for the last few years and the neglect definitely shows.
The rest of the property, however, is well maintained. Not quite to the same standard Boris insisted upon, but I don’t mind. Even when Boris lived here, he never spent any time out in the gardens or walking the paths, so that level of upkeep was an unnecessary expense. One of many such expenses he required that put a strain on the family.
There are a few cars in the drive to the left of the house, and I pull into the back corner furthest from the house. I get out and head out towards the line of trees rimming the property. I have no desire to speak with anyone inside.
After the funeral, my mother had Mikhail cremated. Doing so gave us time to decide where his final resting place would be. And when my father died just a few weeks later, I was glad for the decision. It meant we would be able to bury them together. To choose a spot that would suit them both.
My mother wasn’t sure burying my father on the property of the estate where he died was appropriate, but I persuaded her that his final minutes on the estate shouldn’t overshadow the happy memories we had of the property.
As children, coming to Boris’s estate was one of the few times when my father would put down his role of head of the Levushka family and, for just a moment, become our father.
Mikhail and I would play soccer in the expansive lawn behind the house, and a number of times, my father came out and joined us. He would take off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, and run like I’d never seen him run before.
As we grew older and my father became more distant, those were the memories I thought about most often. That was the father I tried to remember. And, had he been given the chance, I think he may have become that man again. But he wasn’t given that opportunity and so, I decided to bury him there. Just to the left of the field where he had played soccer with his boys.
The headstones are simple, just concrete markers bearing their names and the span of their lives, and I sit down on a bench that wasn’t here the last time I visited. The groundskeeper must have added it for me. I make a mental reminder to thank him.
“Hey, guys,” I say, feeling as dumb as ever talking to the open air.
I never wanted to visit the burial site at all, but Zoya pushed me to go a few months after we buried them. She thought I needed to get some things off of my chest. So, I came. Only to satisfy her. But then, to my surprise, I visited again. And again.
In the last five years, I’ve been here maybe ten times. And each time, a new emotion has ruled the day.
The first time, it was rage.
More anger than I thought I was capable of.
Zoya was days away from giving birth and the doctors were worried about her chances of a natural birth and her blood pressure. They were talking about inducing her, and I couldn’t help but blame Mikhail. He was the reason she was pregnant. He was the reason she was in this position in the first place. And if I lost her, I’d never forgive him. And I told him as much.
The next time, I told him about my son. My son.
Not his.
Because Maksim is mine. He looks like me, he calls me Dad, and I am the one who changed his diapers, cleaned up his spit-up, and rocked him to sleep when he was sick.
Even if Mikhail had been alive, he wouldn’t have done that. He would have left Zoya to handle things on her own. He never would have been a father to Maksim the way I am, and that makes Maksim mine.
After that, every visit became progressively easier.
The rage that burned inside at me because of what he did to Zoya began to fade as Maksim grew and amazed us more and more every day. Zoya had to work through things at her own pace, and I still don’t think she has fully dealt with it all, but she has never regretted Maksim for a second. And I tell Mikhail that.
Not to ease his guilt—if he can feel guilt wherever he is—but to ease mine.
I’ve never stopped feeling responsible for what Mikhail did to Zoya. For not seeing that Mikhail was a danger to himself and others. Zoya has told me over and over again that it was never my fault, but my twin brother hurt her, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that same tendency could live inside of me, too.
“Sorry it has b
een awhile,” I say, wiping debris from the top of my father’s headstone and kicking a fallen pinecone away from the base. “Things have been busy.”
I update them on life. On how Maksim has started piano lessons and Zoya is getting cooking lessons from Samara. I tell them about the restructuring of the family and the new deals we are working on. And I tell them how much I love being a father.
“It is more satisfying than anything else I’ve ever done,” I say. “It feels so cheesy to say that, but it is true. It is the best job in the world.”
I haven’t forgiven Mikhail. Not entirely. Not yet.
And maybe I never will.
But I still love him.
The part of me that grew up wanting to take care of Mikhail and watch his back is still there. When I think about him now, less and less do I see the strung out monster who hurt Zoya. Now, I see him as a cocky teenager, smoking his first cigarette behind our house in Moscow and trying to blow smoke rings. I see him smiling at me from the front seat of his first car, his hand held out the window like he is a bird soaring through the air.
Now, when I think about Mikhail, I see my brother in all of his messy complexities. And maybe that is the best I can hope for.
The End
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Enjoy your free sneak preview of SOLD TO THE MOB BOSS: A Mafia Romance (Lavrin Bratva) by Nicole Fox.
An innocent girl like her… sold to a beast like me.
Nikita
As the boss of the Bratva, I live my life by a code: Always stay in control.
But I broke my own rule on the night I bought Annie.
She was so delicate and desperate up on that stage.
I’d pay any price it took to own her.
She says she can’t be bought.
But she doesn’t know how this game is played.
In my world, everything has its price.
And like it or not, she’s mine now – my property, my possession.
I’ll claim her. I’ll break her. And I’ll protect her until the end…
Even if it costs me everything.
Chapter 1
Nikita
The nights are always the same.
The thump of the bass from the DJ’s music rattles the walls, even in the back of the club, much to my annoyance. But a club is the best way to do business. Or a butcher shop, for the old-school types. But the stench of uncooked meat and blood makes my stomach sour. I’d much prefer to be surrounded by scantily clad woman than lamb ribs and pork chops.
“Boss, we got a situation,” one of the bouncers says, standing in the doorway.
With a low growl that rumbles from deep within my chest, I stand up from my desk and make my way to the main room. The blue neon lights, the thumping of the newest pop hit, and half naked girls who can barely hold their drinks crowd the room. When one of the drunken girls invades my space, I use my forearm to guide her away. These reckless college girls are not to my liking. Not in the slightest.
The bouncer leads me over to the bar where the lead bartender, Krissy, is mouthing off to a customer. My gaze travels to the man on the other side of the counter. Blood covers his face and broken glass is scattered over the top of the bar and on the man’s shirt.
I groan and walk up to Krissy. “What happened?”
With flailing hands, Krissy glares right at the guy and answers, “Motherfucker felt it appropriate to grab my tits. So, I reciprocated.”
“By cracking a bottle over his head?”
Krissy turns and meets my gaze, but doesn’t shrink or falter. She’s tough. It’s one of the reasons I hired her. The other being that she’s my cousin. Family protects family.
“You bitch. I’m going to sue you and this club,” the bloody man spits, his face mottled crimson, his eyes popped, his tree-trunk neck strained. His words are spat out with the ferocity and rapidity of machine-gun fire.
Without wiping the spit from her face, Krissy leans closer, perfectly composed, and speaks her next words just millimeters from the man’s face. “See if I give a fuck.”
The man explodes with unrestrained fury. But Krissy doesn’t care to stick around and watch him melt down. With a barely concealed smirk, she turns on her heel and walks away. My mess to deal with, now.
Always start with diplomacy.
“Sir, I think it’s time for you to leave. Don’t worry about the bill; your drinks are on the house.” I hate giving away free shit, but it’s better than being sued.
“You think free drinks are gonna stop me from suing this place?” the man staggers a bit.
I straighten my spine, my lips pressing tightly together. I can’t stand dealing with drunken idiots. If he wants to be difficult, fine. I can deal with that just as easily.
When diplomacy fails, move next to the veiled threat.
“I can always call the police, check the cameras, and then you could be going to jail for sexual assault. Choice is yours, but choose quickly.”
The man’s face turns crimson once again, but no words come out of his mouth. Instead, his friends drag him out of the bar after giving me a nod of understanding.
The fool doesn’t realize how lucky he is to have friends like that. Because I wouldn’t have been calling the cops. No. Left to my own devices, the man would’ve disappeared, for good. No one messes with my business or my family. Hell, I would’ve had him killed if Krissy had come to me first. But of course she insisted on handling it herself. A smirk lights up my face. The Lavrin blood runs strong in her veins.
“Clean up the bar. I’m heading back into the office. And make sure Krissy doesn’t get herself in any more trouble for the night,” I say to the other bartender, before turning and walking back down the hallway.
Back in the sanctuary of the office, I make myself a glass of gin, just like my father used to do.
I’ve had so many thoughts of my father tonight. Very unlike me to be so sentimental. But murdered men have a way of remaining in the hearts and minds of their sons.
It’s hard to forget my father when his presence is everywhere around me. The desk, the art, the chair I’m in—all of it was once his. I claimed this office after his death, just as I claimed his position at the head of the Lavrin family.
Right after I ended the life of every Scuderi motherfucker who took my father from me.
Our enemies, the Scuderis, spilled my father’s blood, so I spilled theirs ten times over. Scorched earth. No survivors.
But the damage they did to my family was permanent. My father gone, my mother hospitalized with an emotional breakdown, never to recover quite fully. I did what I had to do to avenge them. And in the process, I taught this world one simple rule:
Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.
Knuckles rap against the door again. Not even ten fucking minutes to myself. “What?”
Vinny and Tommy, two of my subordinates, drag in an elderly man and throw him in front of me.
For a moment, my breath catches in my chest. The man is facedown on the expensive rug that spreads from wall to wall. As he struggles to pull himself back to his feet, I have the strongest sense of foreboding.
The man looks exactly like my father.
But then he shows his face to me and the likeness fades away. It leaves a sticky, sour taste in its path, like blood on my tongue. I can feel a bead of sweat on my forehead. The ghosts in my brain are acting up tonight.
Vinny’s voice cuts through the haze and drags me back to reality.
“Boss, he hasn’t paid his protection dues for the past month,” Vinny says, kicking the old man in the thigh.
“Mr. Lavrin, please,” the old man whimpers. “Business ha
s been rough. With the chain supermarket, I don’t have as many customers coming in.”
Fucking Christ. This is the one part of the business I can’t stand. Part of me wants to help the man to his feet, dust off his jacket. He looks like he needs a night off, not a mafioso beating. But you can’t run a business on mercy. The rules must be upheld.
“Not my problem,” I tell him. “You asked for protection, so you pay for what you’ve been given.”
“Please, Mr. Lavrin, I’m begging you.”
I hold up a hand to silence him. “You knew the deal you entered. You have wasted my time and the time of my men who were forced to drag you before me. Bring me my payment by the end of the week—no, double it. A penalty for the frustration you have caused here tonight. Next time, you won’t receive a second chance. If this happens again, your payment will be your life.”
I nod curtly to my soldiers at the door. We are done here. The old man’s eyes bulge and he cries out as Vinny and Thomas each grab an arm and pull him through the door and out of sight. I hear the sharp slap of knuckle on skin and the whimpering stops.
Silence takes over again after they’re gone. The remnants of that haunted feeling still linger in my chest. For a split second, the old man looked just like my father …
Another rap on the door. “Come in.”
In walks Eitan Aminov, my top advisor. I throw back what’s left of the gin in my glass. When it comes to Eitan, there’s no chance I’ll be enjoying my drink. He’s all business, all the time.
“Nikita, so good to see you,” Eitan shakes my hand and walks over to the chair by my desk. “We have much to discuss.”
It’s been a long night already, and there’s still far more to come. But I just want to fucking go to sleep. Between Krissy and the old man, I’m not sure how much more I can take tonight. How did my father deal with this stress for so long? Everyone wanting things from me, all the time. I’m not even thirty and I’m looking forward to retiring.