by LP Lovell
I approach Romero, Lorenzo’s second. He folds his arms over his chest and squares his shoulders, glaring at me in a way that promises retribution. To the outside world, Lorenzo and I were brothers. Only Lorenzo and I, along with our closest friends, knew the truth. We were bitter enemies, and I just won.
“We need to start moving guests out of here.”
Jet-black eyebrows drop over equally dark eyes as he assesses me. “I’m going to kill you,” he growls. I smile, noticing the vein at his temple throb.
I huff a laugh. “Would that you could. Your fearless leader is dead, Romero. Who do you think will take his place?”
He snarls, getting in my face. “You’re a bastard. The family will never back you.”
I laugh. “You’re right, I am a bastard.”
I bask in the knowledge that Lorenzo – my father’s first born, his heir, his son, his greatest accomplishment – was fucking weak. And I, the unwanted bastard son, the result of my mother’s infidelity, have won. I’d truly hate him if I weren’t actually grateful. You see, Lorenzo had his love, and it did him no favours. No, Matteo Santos forged me. His hatred made me strong. His constant reminders of what I am made me smart. His physical blows made me a fighter. I learned from him that respect and power are not a birth right. He had the power of his name, but no matter how many times he beat me, I never felt an ounce of respect towards him. My sole purpose is to destroy his empire, piece by piece. I killed him, and now his son is gone. Sometimes, I wish I’d stayed my hand, so he could have been here to watch his son fall, so he could have died knowing that I would take over. I am a bastard, but it means nothing because I will take everything and more.
“Move the fucking guests out. Now,” I growl.
Romero clenches his jaw, the muscles in his shoulders tightening dangerously. I want him to, I really do. Instead, he turns and walks away. A few minutes later the guests start to leave, and I don’t see Una again. She disappeared like an apparition, a ghost on the wind.
5
Una
I’m striding down a hotel stairwell, trying to look inconspicuous as I make my way to the underground parking deck. With my blood-stained dress and semi-automatic rifle, the elevator wasn’t exactly an option. My phone rings just as I reach the underground level and I touch my earpiece.
“Not a good time,” I growl.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last week. So tell me, when is a good time?”
Nero.
“I’ve been off the grid.”
“No shit.”
There’s something about him that manages to elicit a certain level of irritation, dare I say, anger. It’s a skill; really it is, because I don’t do angry. Anger is a useless emotion and only serves to blind reason.
“Look, is there a reason for this call?” I pant.
“Of course. I have a job for you.”
“Have Arnie contact me.”
He huffs a laugh. “Oh, Una. I think we’re past that.”
Really? This guy. “I don’t,” I say bluntly. The door at the top of the stairs crashes open, the sound echoing around the empty concrete stairwell. “Shit!” I have a good lead but I’d still rather get out clean. Someone fires a couple of rounds and they ping off the metal bannister next to me.
“You sound busy.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“No shit,” I growl, shoving through the door. “Text me a location. I’ll be there tomorrow.” I hang up and pick up the pace, sprinting across the parking deck. I jump in the Porsche parked under a broken light and slam my hand over the start button. The engine purrs to life and I ram my foot on the accelerator, making it spit and snarl as the tires shriek against the tarmac.
Leng’s men burst onto the street just as I pull away from the hotel. That was close. Too close.
Pressing speed dial, I listen to the earpiece ring out with a dial tone. “Una.” Olov answers on the first ring.
“I’m twenty minutes away. Be ready to leave immediately,” I tell him, speaking in quick-fire Russian. He hangs up and I speed towards the private airfield on the outskirts of Singapore.
6
Nero
Flipping open the top of my cigarette packet, I take one out, placing it between my lips. I sit behind the very desk my father used to, the desk Lorenzo sat at until just two weeks ago. I’m the capo of New York. These are dangerous times though. I’m keeping my inner circle tight, only dealing directly with the three guys in this room. Jackson is pacing in front of my desk, clenching and releasing his fists repeatedly. Gio is leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl fixed on his face. Tommy’s sitting on one of the sofas, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other as he stares blankly at the opposite wall. His sleeves are rolled up, his forearms and the material of his white shirt painted in blood. The tell-tale splatter of a slit throat sprayed across his neck. He and Jackson were involved in a deal that went south earlier tonight, and one of his guys was taken out. It got messy. It was expected though. Any takeover will be met with a certain amount of resistance. People think they can move the goal posts, demand new terms, more territory, better prices. It’s my job to make it clear that the only one who will be renegotiating here is me. Power is all about perception and fear. If I have to paint the streets with their blood to get my point across, I will.
“We should go back there and kill every fucking one of them.” Jackson’s gaze meets mine, every muscle tense with the need for retribution. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered and lethal if you’re on his bad side. I lean back in my chair as I lift the lighter to my face. The heavy click of the silver zippo is the only sound in the room aside from his ragged breaths. I inhale, drawing the smoke into my lungs, letting it fill me, burning me from the inside out.
“No.”
“Fuck!” he shouts, pushing away from the desk. “Levi is dead because of those motherfuckers!” I still, tilting my head to the side as I look up at him. He stares back at me for a long moment before swallowing nervously. I push up from the desk and slowly move around it. Everyone in the room seems to hold their breath. I stop only when I’m standing nose to nose with him. There’s a pause, a tense moment where we just stare each other down. He’s like a brother to me, but brother or not, no one questions me.
“You don’t get to think, Jackson. You don’t get an opinion,” I growl under my breath. A muscle in his jaw ticks and it’s enough to piss me off. Slamming a hand around his throat, I squeeze hard enough to make him choke. “You are a fucking soldier! Get out.” Releasing him, he staggers away from me, heading straight for the door.
He pauses when a loud click sounds behind me, turning around with his hand already reaching for his gun. Gio moves away from the wall, gun already trained on the glass French doors that lead to the balcony. I turn around, squinting to see into the darkness on the other side of the glass. I can just make out someone in black, crouched down. The handle is twisted and the tiny figure waltzes into the room like she owns the place. A black hood hides half her face, but I’d know those red painted lips anywhere.
“Boys.” Una smiles and then in the blink of an eye her gun is pointing at me, one bright red fingertip lingering over the trigger. She lifts her head enough that I can just make her eyes out. “Nero. Power looks good on you.” She winks. “Send them out,” she orders, jerking her head towards the three guys, two of which have weapons trained on her.
You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, that is until Tommy laughs. “I like her,” he mumbles around his cigarette, as though she didn’t have a loaded gun pointed at me, and absolutely no conscience to stop her from pulling the trigger.
I step forward, closing the distance between us. “Sociable as ever, I see.”
Her smile widens and she cocks a brow. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to shoot me, but truthfully, I can’t predict what she’ll do because she plays by her own set of rules.
“I don’t play well with others,”
she says, a little pout forming on her lips. I keep closing in on her until the barrel of her gun presses against my forehead.
“You’re not going to shoot me. A capo is worth, what? A couple of million?” Her head tilts, eyes tracing over me predatorily. “You don’t work for free.” I smirk.
Her eyes dance dangerously and she trails the gun from my forehead down over my temple. Her scent assaults me – vanilla and just a hint of gun oil. She glides the cool metal over my cheek and along my jaw. That tight body of hers is so close I can feel every breath she takes as her tits press against my stomach. That ruthless look is in her eye, the same one she wore after she killed my brother. That look, the gun on my cheek… it makes my dick hard. I have to bite back a groan when she leans in, brushing her lips over my jaw until she reaches my ear.
“Send. Them. Out,” she purrs, ramming the gun underneath my chin hard enough to force my head back.
The barrel bites into my skin and a low laugh works its way up my throat. It’s only when you’re staring death in the face that you truly remember you’re alive. My blood rushes through my veins, forcing adrenaline through my body. Smiling, I click my fingers, gesturing for them to get out. Tommy gets up and leaves without a backwards glance. That fucker doesn’t give a shit. Jackson moves next, and Gio is the last, ever loyal, and far too serious.
“You can’t put me down before I put him down,” Una drawls, sounding almost bored, reading him without even sparing him a glance.
“Go, Gio.” Maybe I should be more worried about her, but she’s not going to shoot me. I know she’s not.
He sighs and steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. I have no doubt he’s lingering just on the other side. She clicks the safety on and holsters her gun at her hip before stepping back very deliberately. I drop into the chair behind my desk. For a long while she simply stands, surveying every inch of the room.
“So, you kept the ugly house.”
“A show of power.” I hate this house, but to the family here in New York, this is the capo’s house. To reside in it is symbolic of the power I now hold. I don’t give a shit. I’d happily burn it to the ground with them all in it.
She approaches my desk and takes a seat in front of me, making a slow show of crossing one leg over the other as she trails one blood-red nail over her thigh. She pulls her hood back and the light touches her fully for the first time since she walked in here. Hers is a cold beauty, almost inhuman, because set into the youthful face of an angel is the hard severity of someone who has seen and done unspeakable things. There’s an argument for everything, and I won’t pretend I’m any better. I’ve done things that would make even the hardest of men flinch, but they were done in the name of something. Power, family, more power…take your pick. What Una does though…she fights for no one, not even herself. Let’s see if I can change that.
“I have a job for you.”
She laughs quietly. “I came here as a courtesy, Nero.” She takes a knife out of a thigh holster and casually flips it through her fingers. “You helped me once. But you do not summon me. You do not hire me.” She slams the knife in the antique wooden desk hard enough that her knuckles turn white around the hilt. “You are a capo,” she spits, those violet eyes locking with mine.
I sigh. The problem with Una…she’s the top of the food chain and she swims with sharks. She hasn’t realised yet, I am a motherfucking shark, circling in the dark waters right beneath them all, waiting, biding my time. I explode out of my chair and have my hand around her throat in a heartbeat, slamming her down on the desk.
“You make the mistake of thinking that mere titles mean anything to me. I get what I want, and what I want right now, Morte, is you,” I growl at her. A wide grin stretches her lips. It’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely smile.
“Nero, you say the hottest things.” She shifts and wraps her legs around my waist. I cock a brow at her and then she locks her ankles together, tightening her thighs around me like a boa constrictor. When I readjust my grip on her throat, she bites her lip, as if she likes it. Her hips shift, and I bite back a groan as she yanks me even closer, squeezing me into the gap between her thighs. She narrows her eyes and her body trembles with the effort of trying to hurt me. My kidneys are screaming in protest, but my dick is begging to be inside her. I have a kamikaze cock. Her hips rock, the friction forcing a low growl from my throat. I pull her up from the desk by her throat, holding her only inches away from me.
“You are disposable to me, Una,” I breathe. Her lips part, drawing my eyes to them, so full and perfect. I feel her strangled breaths on my face, her rapid heartbeat beneath my fingertips and most of all, I feel her pussy pressing against my cock. She laughs, breath wheezing past her lips. I fight with my own control as I walk the fine line between wanting to fuck her and strangle her. We remain locked together like that for a few seconds, and it’s torture. Shit! I don’t have time for this. Finally, I release her and push away from her body. Her legs unwind from around me and she coughs, sitting up and clutching at her throat.
“You have a firm grip.”
I walk to the wall, bracing my forearm against it. I need her. I can’t kill her, and as for fucking her…they don’t call her the ‘kiss of death’ for nothing. Apparently, my dick didn’t get the memo.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit, Una!”
She lets out a tinkling laugh, so at odds with the killer she is. “I like you, Nero.” I turn to face her, watching as she crosses her legs on the desk. “I respect you, and you’ve moved up in the world.” She gestures to the room around us, the very room in which she killed Lorenzo. “But not enough that I work for you. There’s an order, a balance. You may not care for titles, but the world does. You may think I’m disposable, but let me assure you, there’s only one Una Ivanov and my services are very much in demand.”
“I’ll pay you.”
She smiles and drags her hand through her long blonde hair. “You couldn’t afford me.”
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the packet of cigarettes inside my pocket. I watch her tense, and suddenly, the blade she impaled in my desk is in her hand. I narrow my eyes. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” I repeat the words she once said to me as I pull the cigarettes out.
She drops onto her feet, pulling her hood up and making her way towards the doors she came in through. “See you around, capo.”
I take the unlit cigarette from my mouth and hold it, pausing. This is it, the pivotal moment where all my plans will either succeed or fail, because without her, it all falls to shit. “I know where your sister is.” She freezes, and I put the cigarette back in my mouth, lighting it. By the time I take my first drag, she still hasn’t turned around. I wait, watching the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders.
“I don’t have a sister.” Her voice is like thunder, rolling, building.
I fight a smile. I have her. “Anna Vasiliev, born March 6 1991.”
Whipping around to face me, I see the indecision written all over her face, the confusion, the fracture. The cool calm and sheer indifference that make up Una Ivanov, crack and splinter. She might as well have exposed her jugular to me. Getting what you want from people is easy, you just have to find their weakness. I’ll admit, finding hers was difficult, until I had someone go to Russia and start digging. I’ve had to pay more money for information on her than I think I would have for the president. Of course, Una Ivanov isn’t her real name. Nicholai Ivanov, boss of the Russian Bratva, gave her that name. He thinks of Una as his daughter, and named her so. The woman has powerful allies; I’ll give her that. Her real name, Una Vasiliev. An orphan. Until she disappeared at age thirteen that is. I guess not many people would go out of their way to find an orphan. For the most part, she’s a ghost.
I look in her eyes and see it, a spark, hope. She wants to believe me. She wants what I say to be true. I see the divide, the fight within her. Hope versus the rational, smart decision, because hope without reason is such a f
rail, weak emotion. But weakness is a part of human nature. Una barely seems human, always professional, measured, deadly. Will she be rational now, or will she find a slither of humanity? Heart or head? That is the question.
7
Una
My heart is hammering, the pulse in my throat pounding so hard I can barely breathe. Nero takes a slow drag of his cigarette, watching me like a hawk, looking for any sign of weakness. Little does he know, he might as well have liver punched me, because I feel paralysed right now. How does he know about Anna? No one knows about the sister I was torn away from when the bratva took me from an orphanage thirteen years ago. I spent years being trained, beaten, broken, only to be rebuilt into the embodiment of the perfect soldier. The bratva made me strong, they made me a warrior, they made me exactly what they wanted. Una Vasiliev died in that place, everything that she was stripped from her. Except Anna, because I could never let her go, even when I wanted to, even when I knew my obsession with her brought me nothing but pain and unanswered questions.
I never mention her, and my silent search for her is my own. Finding Anna is near impossible. All the answers lie within the bratva, a place in which I have status and privilege, but if Nicholai realized I had a weakness, he’d search for her and kill her himself. And he’d genuinely believe he was doing me a favour, setting me free. Maybe he would be, but when I think of my sister, my innocent, sweet sister, a deep ache buries itself into my chest. Anna was never strong. She was sweet and good, and she depended on me. I shielded her innocent eyes from the ugliness of the world, corrupted myself, sold my soul off piece by piece, and I did it willingly, to keep her safe, to keep her pure. And that was just in the orphanage. My greatest failing in life is the inability to protect her. But now I can…if I could find her.