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Viktor
On my way back from my last meeting, cocooned in the cool leather interior of my car, I can still hear the echoes of my previous conversation with Luca Romano in my head.
I told him I’d give him a few days to break the news to my bride-to-be. A few days to put her dead husband in the ground, perform the appropriate ceremonies, let her have a night or two to grieve.
But I’m under no illusions that the late Franco Bianchi was loved by his wife.
And I’m not a patient man.
“Franco Bianchi is dead. Colin Macgregor is dead. Are you agreeable that it’s enough?”
Luca’s voice still rings in my ears, tight and angry. Angry at the loss of his best friend, even after everything that bastard had done. Admirable loyalty. But too much emotion for a man who leads other men. For a man who, to keep his seat, will have to do violent things. Ruthless things.
Things that might break lesser men.
I have a sort of grudging respect for Luca Romano. In marrying Sofia Ferretti, he kept a promise that he could have broken. The men who had made that promise for him were, by then, long in the grave.
I should know—it was my men who put them there.
He navigated the conflict between our two organizations admirably. He showed loyalty to the man who gave him his position, but didn’t flinch at removing him when that same man threatened his new bride. He held his own at the conclave, and he saw to it that Colin Macgregor was delivered and paid for his sins.
All in all, Luca has earned his place at the head of the mafia table. But I still require my own pound of flesh, as it were, to pay me back for all that I’ve lost in the conflict. Good men. Good soldiers, loyal to theirUssuri.
I am in need of a wife. And since Luca Romano took the one that I had intended for myself, he’s going to give me the one that I’ve requested in her stead.
Caterina Rossi.
There’s a poetry to it that pleases me, that Franco’s widow will pay for his recklessness by warming my bed. She’ll pay for his betrayal to his Italian family in the same way, by ensuring that the peace between our families remains strong when she spreads her legs for me.
She’s not an innocent virgin like Sofia would have been. But in a way, that’s better for my needs. I’m not a young man any longer, and I need more than just a blushing bride.
I need a woman who can handle the life I lead. A woman who understands the way things are, the things that must be done. Who doesn’t flinch at the things this life requires of us.
A mafia princess, the daughter of one of the most brutal mafia leaders ever to run the North American side, is just the thing. In fact, I’m grateful now that it will be her and not Sofia. Sofia’s half-Russian lineage and innocence had made her a tempting prospect. Still, she would have flinched away from the brutality of the Bratva, would have had to be coddled through every fucking thing.
Caterina will have a backbone, at least.
Of course, a woman with a backbone can be difficult to manage.
But if it does, reminding her of her place will be a pleasure in and of itself.
I shift in my seat, feeling my cock swell at the thought of punishing Caterina Rossi, of teaching her what it means to be a submissive Bratva wife.Soon, very soon.I almost hope that there’s some fire to her, that she’s not broken when Luca delivers her to me. The prospect of subduing her is intensely erotic, and it’s been some time since I’ve been with a woman who was truly deserving of my—talents.
Leaning back in my seat, I close my eyes and let out a long sigh.It’s a good day.Soon my new bride will be delivered to me, and my meeting went well. Despite the recent unrest, the latest order for the girls that my men are tasked with kidnapping and preparing for sale overseas was larger than usual. It will clear out my warehouse of stock, as it were. The sale of the girls, particularly two virgin daughters of brigadiers who recently found themselves on the wrong side of Bratva law, will be a lucrative payout.
Now, after the exhausting process of the conclave, dealing with the Macgregors, and today’s meeting, I finally get to return to my own home and my children.
I see them the instant that the car pulls into the circular driveway in front of my estate, jumping up and down eagerly as one of the maids tries to keep them from running towards the car. The minute the driver comes around to open the door, they wrench free of her hold, screaming with all the glee of nine and seven-year-old children.
“Papa, papa!” Both girls shout as they run directly into my arms. Though I know it’s undignified in front of the staff, I can’t stop myself from crouching down, the gravel flying out from underneath their tiny shoes as they throw themselves into my embrace, both of them squeezing my neck at once.
My chest clenches at the feeling of them in my arms, their blond curls cascading over my face as they both squeal out how much they missed me. “I’ve missed you too,dochen’ka,” I murmur, hugging them both. And I have. I miss them intensely whenever I’m gone.
My two girls are all I have left of her. Of my Vera, my first wife.
“Anika! Yelena!” Olga, the head of my staff and my interim nanny since my wife died, claps her hands. “Let your father breathe.”
“It’s alright,” I tell her, scooping both girls up with ease and setting one on each hip as I stride towards the house. Olga clucks her tongue, shaking her head.
