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KRISHNA
Fuck, I’ll marry her.
Of course, I’m not going to voice that thought. I’m in no mood to brawl with Dom tonight. I have too much shit on my plate, dealing with the fallout from my father murdering one of the Bratva leaders. Since he took out seventy percent of the Canadian brotherhood that also included their Pakhan—not to mention my sister shoving a nine-inch blade into the neck of the man who was a contender for their next Pakhan—their organization is in turmoil.
I’m not angry with Sasha for killing the bastard. If I’d gotten to him first, I would have done the job myself. But I would have tortured the motherfucker. I’m proud that she took matters into her own hands for once. She needed to step up and accept her place in our family. Now that I’m the Pakhan of the American Bratva, I’ll need her more than ever after our father decided to drop retirement in my lap without so much as a heads-up.
But now other Pakhans think they can breathe down my neck, trying to unnerve me while testing me. Motherfuckers . . . I don’t break. They’ll never find out my father blew up the Canadian Pakhan’s compound in Vancouver, or that my sister killed Dimitri Sokolov. I’d forfeit my life before I gave them up.
It’s a good thing Dom is standing in front of me right now. The wayshaggedrolled off this girl’s tongue has the blood in my body rushing to my dick, making my problems take a backseat. She’s fuckin’ hot with her plump lips and those long ringlets of red draped over her shoulders and fall to her waist. She’s shorter than Sasha and Sienna by several inches.
Ah, fuck it.
What’s one more fight among us? It’s how we always end up, exorcising our demons. “If he doesn’t want you, kitten, I’ll take you.” A smile spreads across my lips as her doe eyes round, snapping over Dom’s shoulder to mine, surprise on her beautiful face.
“This isn’t up for debate, and we aren’t having any more of this conversation here tonight, Domenico. We can talk tomorrow.” Antonio flicks his cold stare to Ciera, and like I’ve seen when my father looks at Sasha, his demeanor softens. “Ciera, allow me to escort you to get something to eat. Unless you’re ready to go home.” His thick, bushy brow arches, and it’s easy to see he’s testing her.
But why?
Narrowing my eyes, I look back at her without lust in the front seat. I scrutinize her the way I would anyone else, the way a Pakhan is supposed to break down every layer of a person’s being. Her body is rigid, her shoulders remain straight, not hunched, as if an invisible wire pulls on them. Her emerald stare hides secrets, and while her lips aren’t tipped up or down, but rather in an even line, her cheeks and chest have a slight flush, her fair skin giving her away.
She’s a kitten who wants to be a lioness. She’s afraid but she doesn’t want to show it. I can respect that. However, she better have nine lives and then some if she’s going to survive Domenico.
Tony is a fucking idiot to bring her here, to force her on Dom, to put her between us, because that’s exactly what he’s done. I’m not jealous, that’s Domenico’s forte and boy do I love wielding that blade. No, ownership of another being was never been an itch I shared—until five minutes ago—but now, I want my half.
“Don’t leave, kitten,” I say as I close the few inches between Dom and me, doing something I’ve never done in public before. Reaching around his front, I plant my palm flat against his chest and yank his back to my chest, slamming his ass into my hard cock. “I’ll share him with you.”
CHAPTER 4
DOMENICO
The fucking balls on this motherfucker.
Ignoring the hard ridges of his dick pressed against me, I reach into my tuxedo jacket and fist the Glock tucked inside. Pulling it out, my finger straight and off the trigger, I whip my body around to face Krishna, shoving the barrel center mast. “If you don’t want to be the next dead Pakhan, then I’d back the fuck off if I were you.”
“Don’t like that I’m willing to share you, or you don’t want to shareher?”
That was last night, and the memory continues playing on a loop in my head. I saw everyone’s expression when I pulled my weapon from the holster hidden within my jacket. My sister and Sasha both wore matching shocked gazes. Ren laughed. My father was irritated, to say the least, though I was hoping to piss him off, and when that didn’t work, it pissed me off. Ciera, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber, like it was nothing for me to brandish a loaded weapon in a public place.
I’d question what hole my father dug her up from, but I already know the answer. She’s Cormac Fitzgerald’s daughter: the Irish scum that runs a gang of thugs in the city, thinking he’s somebody when really he’s a nobody.
The first nine years of my life were spent living in the city, but then my mother was killed and my father couldn’t stand being in the house where she took her last breath. I don’t blame him. After that night, I changed too. We all did. But by abandoning our former home, Cormac decided all the corners of Manhattan were his for the taking. Where the cops have tried for longer than I’ve been alive to find dirt on my father, the police commissioner has Fitzgerald on retainer.
Digging into Owen Donovan’s finances a few months ago, I learned quite a bit of useful knowledge. He changed his name thirty-five years ago, after graduating college, but before passing the bar exam and becoming a criminal justice lawyer.
He was born Eoghan O’Donovan, the Irish version of the Americanized name he goes by today, and he’s a distant uncle to Cormac. Owen is the youngest brother to Liam O’Donovan, the most feared boss in all of Ireland. Consequently, Cormac was sent to live with and be raised by Liam when he was a young child, only returning to the States after his father was killed and someone had to take his place. He was eighteen at the time.
After doing some minor digging into Liam’s background, he makes Cormac look like a saint. Liam is a twisted, sick fuck that puts all the other sick fucks at least five rungs below him on the ladder. He’s into extortion, gambling rings, gun running, drug dealing, all the shit you’d expect.
It’s rumored that he auctions off underaged girls to the highest bidder; most likely rich men that get off from abusing someone who can’t fight back, that take control and power away from those they consider less than them.
What the hell is my father even thinking? He really has lost his fucking mind if he thinks getting mixed up in that kind of shit is a good idea.
I take a sip from my third cup of coffee in the last hour. After a grueling workout session where I tried to break every rib along K’s torso and failed, I showered and then came home. I stayed at his apartment in Brooklyn last night for the first time, not ready to come home and confront my father. But here I am now, waiting for my dad to make an appearance.
When the click of a sound signaling someone is opening the back door, I snap my eyes up from where I’m seated on a stool at the island in the kitchen to find a disheveled Giovanni walking over the threshold. He’s wearing black slacks and dress shoes, but his white undershirt is only half-tucked into his pants and covered in wrinkles, giving away that he slept in it and just woke up.
He doesn’t bother eyeing me, like I’m not here or he can’t be troubled with pleasantries this early. His presence alone still ticks me off. I’d been told for years he was rotting in a prison cell even though he wasn’t guilty of the crime he was sentenced for. Part of that was a lie. He wasn’t still in jail, yet the fucking boss didn’t care to share that part of the story. Still hasn’t, actually.
