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“You’re not giving it all you got.” Nik smirks with a sadistic gleam in his eyes.
I sure hope not. I’d kill him if I went full throttle. The boxing gloves would do little to protect my fists if I put all my weight, muscle, and indignation into a strike.
Nik and I have been sparring since we were young; our fathers made us train with the heavyweights rolled into our payroll. It’s something the Bratva has infiltrated. Underground boxing is a mecca for organized crime syndicates and organizations. But after my father died, I haven’t invested as much money there—more money in weapons. People pay more money to have the ultimate knockout punch.
I handled the arms trade while under my father, which led me to develop a lot of connections, particularly with the Irish Mob. Since then, my business dealings have included the Japanese Yakuza, Albanian Mafia, and Columbian drug cartels. Because of this, I’ve managed to piss off the Cosa Nostra even more.
The Italians never wanted anything to do with the Bratva, even while my family was alive. Occasionally splinter groups will snoop around, but they are easy to kill off. The Cosa Nostra is not.
Their boss has secured unwavering loyalty within certain cities across the United States, and his underboss is known for brutality that rivals my own. No one has met the Boss. He is older than hell, protected by a fortress.
But his son, Antonio Buscetta, is the fifty-something underboss that has been a pain in my ass for years. I’ve made it my mission to keep the Cosa Nostra in New York under control. However, they own several restaurants here they operate out of. We often deal with their capos sending men to gather intel or blow up our warehouses. My legacy will not die because of them—I won’t allow it.
“Luka?” Nik shifts his head to look out of his right eye, the one not swollen.
It’s the only time I’ll let him get away with calling me by my first name. When we are in the ring, we are on the same level. No pakhan, no brigadier. Only two men who are forged brothers.
When I was young Nik played a pivotal role in keeping my sanity. Since our fathers relied on each other, we learned to do the same. Nik often used his humor to pick us up from the hell we went through but, more importantly, he was there.
“Luka! Come here!”my father barks. At eight years old all I want to do is play with my new toy airplane. I run down the two flights of stairs and freeze. My father’s second, Nikolai’s father, is holding a man by his hair. Blood and tears mix as they crash to the floor. The man’s face is black and blue, and his eyes barely able to see. He lifts his head back to see out under the squints of his eyes. I catch Nik peeking out from behind his father, giving me an unreadable grimace.
“Take him to the basement.”
“Yes, Pakhan.” Nik’s father drags the man as he yells words that are indiscernible. It sounds close to “I have a family, please.”
“Luka. Follow.” My father’s cold, clipped tone has me moving in that direction. I grip my toy plane in my hands as I descend the steps of our ten-bedroom mansion into the basement. Up until now, I hadn’t been allowed down here. I often catch my father’s guards going in and out of the door, but never once did I attempt to disobey.
The smell hits me instantly. Piss-soaked floors of several cells, designed to hold my father’s torture of the week. A metallic taste floods my mouth as I bite down on my tongue trying to disguise the whimpers threatening to expose me as weak. I notice Nik is not required down here. Probably because he is not slated to take over as pakhan.
My father and Nik’s, tie the man to a hanging rope and shackle his feet. Pulling a pistol from his waistband my father glares at me, holding it out. I’d been trained in weapons as soon as I could hold a gun, but those had always been targets. I stand there, fear freezing my eyes wide. I grip my toy plane, white knuckles bending the fragile wings as I stare at the gun.
“Luka!” My eyes snap up to his to see the disappointment on his face. “This man is a traitor to our family he must be eliminated.” That’s all he says. I can’t move. I can’t speak.
My father grunts and marches over, wrenching my toy plane from my grasp, letting it hit the floor with a crash. Lifting his foot, he smashes the model plane I’d spent weeks building. Bile threatens my throat as tears prickle behind my eyes. Letting out a deep breath I take the gun from my father and turn toward the man. His eyes are pleading—unable to resign himself to the fact that he is going to die. A wet spot grabs my attention on his jeans. The man has pissed himself. I raise the gun and steel my face. The man’s head hangs, chin tucked into his chest.
“Take care of my wife and daughters, please Pakhan.”
“Nyet,” my father whispers, and the man cries out in a strangled sob. I can’t take it anymore. I take another breath and pull the trigger.
I spend the day throwing up in the bathroom as the man’s mangled face, impacted by the bullet, keeps invading my thoughts. Nik sits with me on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He is here, right by my side, and I know when I am pakhan he will still be there.
“Da, I need a break.”I tear my gloves off, exit the ring and grab my water bottle from the bench. Gulping the whole thing, I crush the bottle and fling it into the trash can by the door.
“I’m going to the office.”
* * *
I stareat the senator’s profile on my desk.
Ass.
I hate dealing with politicians and Senator Hope is no different. He is around my age, making a name for himself, but he’s dirty.
Works in my favor though. We have donated millions to his campaign through our back channel companies, but he’s been seen with members of Cosa Nostra and other organizations. I need to ensure he plays for us. That is the only reason I’m going to this campaign event Friday evening. I need to show my face a bit.
Most people don’t know who I am—to them, I’m a billionaire heir running several businesses that import and sell valuable art and priceless artifacts. I need to keep it that way.
I prop my elbow on my desk and scratch my chin pondering on whether I need a date. It’s been six months since I’ve had the desire to be with a woman. Nik tries to get me out with him, but my interest has waned. I can’t pin-point the exact reason I’m not interested in anyone, but I manage to convince myself it’s how busy I am. I have zero clarity—the entirety of my desire is underwater.
