Men like my father don’t demand loyalty; they demand shape. They decide early what kind of son they need, then spend years carving him up until they get it.
By the time the car turns into the Dragovich compound, I’ve already put myself back together in the form they know best.
My mouth settles into that faint, arrogant curve people mistake for ease. My shoulders loosen, and my gaze cools. Every trace of softness is sealed away where no one can smell it on me.
The man stepping out of this car in a few minutes will be the one my father built on and with purpose. The one my brother trusts because he understands the rules that made him.
Cocky. Ruthless. Sharp enough to make older men uneasy and younger ones eager to prove something stupid. The softness stays hidden; that belongs to no one.
… No one except Salvatore Vieri.
Gods. Just thinking those words is treasonous in itself. I drag in a slow breath and tip my head back against the seat. I know every move waiting for me in the meeting ahead. My father will ask questions while my brother stands at his shoulder.
They’ll expect information, clarity, and strategic use of my body and mind. They’ll expect me to hand over pieces of the Vieri Mafia without letting any blood show on my fingers.
And I’ll do it. I always do.
No matter how I tell myself that I am loyal and disciplined, the truth is uglier, and it makes me a coward.
I’m not sure how it got this bad or how it escalated this far. I could tell myself that I never meant for any of this to happen. That one minute, Salvatore was just a name in a file, and the next, he got under my skin so deeply that I couldn’t scrape him out without removing something vital.
But that would be a lie, and I’m sick enough of those without adding another to the pile. I know exactly how it started—at Vintermoor.
The mission was simple enough to sound clean on paper:
Get close to the Vieri heir and soften him. Seduce him if needed. Learn his habits, his blind spots, his father’s routines, and the private fractures inside the Italian line.
A man in love is easier to wound. A man who thinks he is easily chosen usually doesn’t realize he’s being positioned until the knife is already in.
I’m good at that kind of work—better than good. I’m built for it. My father has been shaping me for the Pakhan’s chair since before I lost my first tooth.
People always assume the eldest son is the heir because that’s how weak dynasties work. But not ours. In the Dragovich bloodline, the eldest protects the name while the youngest carries it forward.
Viktor is the shield, and I am the future. That means everything around me is instruction—every fight is a lesson. Every warm body slipped beneath mine as a teenager was to see what desire can unlock in people.
Seduction isn’t a pleasure in our world; it’s a weapon. The men of the Dragovich Bratva don’t care about sexuality, and see it as a tool to be used—especially around rigid mafia men who still cling to their old ways.
You’d be surprised at how many powerful men prefer cock to pussy.
So, yes, I know how it started. I walked toward Salvatore with purpose and became his friend before becoming his lover.
He sees me as the bumbling, cocky youngest son of Mikhail Dragovich, not knowing I’m being groomed for the throne as well.
I touched him with the intention to seduce and destroy.
What I don’t count on is the first time he really laughs with me. Not the polished laugh he gives men in rooms when he’s pretending to be charmed. Not the bitter, offended sound he makes when I provoke him to temper.
I mean a real laugh—caught off guard, head tipped back, dark eyes lit up from the inside.
I don’t count on the first time he falls asleep on my chest with one hand twisted in my shirt. I don’t count on the way my chest starts to hurt every time I see the way he shrinks under his father’s gaze.
I don’t count on the fact that at some point, I stopped gathering information I’m ordered to, and started memorizing him because I’m hungry for things I shouldn’t want.
That’s when the mission rots. That’s when I realize I’ve been kneeling in front of him with my heart in my hands.
When we stop, I wait until the driver opens my door, then step into the morning cold, one hand buttoning my jacket and the other already relaxed at my side.
Men watch me pass and look away first. Good. Let them see the confidence of the future Pakhan, and not the bastard who still has the taste of an Italian heir in his mouth.
