Rebuilding the Russian Mafia from square one allowed Aleksander to occupy himself. Create elaborate plans and take care of negotiations, and unofficially become the Pakhan, given how Nikolai was in no state to be taking care of matters. His mind numbed with medication and painkillers and his body deteriorating. The stroke he had from Salvatore’s carnage had left him completely bedridden, and Aleksander could not bring himself to feel sympathy for the man.
Instead, the heir set out on making Nikolai’s Bratva completely his.
The snow scrunched under foot, the white blanket a glaring contrast to the black of the shoes worn by the person. A person made their way across the path with a fur ushanka covering their head and their body hidden by the thick fur coat that was draped over their shoulder, fluttering behind him.Their destination was an obvious one: the bench a top the hill.Making his way up the path, they halted to find a feeble old man huddled in the corner of the bench, their coat weighing heavy on his weak shoulders as tremors passed through his already thin figure. A walking cane grasped between his legs.“Thought I’d find you here,” Aleksander spoke with his hands in his coats pockets, and settled on the other side of the bench. “Papa,”Nikolai’s skin was ashen with his thick mop of hair reduced
Aleksander cracked his knuckles while his eyes wracked over the three suits laud out before him. His eyes taking in every seam of each one, pairing each with possible shirts and ties. Making nine possible combinations for wear then groaning at the fact that he wouldn’t decide which was best suited.Should he go for a traditional white button down or opt for a different color? Tie? No tie? Two piece? Or maybe three piece? Monochrome or should he mix and match?Grunting at his own indecisiveness he grabbed all three of them and tried on every possible combination, deciding that seeing them would allow him to choose better.When he stepped out dressed in the fourth combination, his wife turned around in the middle of getting dressed and giggled at her husband, shaking her head at his antics.“We’re invited for coffee, babe, I doubt a suit is the decoru
He was far too young to remember when it all happened or to remember where he came from.All he knew was that he had been a slave of the Mirko Cartel and that he was standing naked in a row of boys – all ranging in age – as a man that smelt of money walked before them. Inspecting them with beady and scrutinizing eyes, turning over his shoulder to talk to their owner, referring to them as ‘the package’. His riding crop dragging against the floor behind him. He stared at the muddied ground, splotches of red scattered on the tiles, and held his breath when a pair of glinting black shoes, the ones like he would never own; stopped before him.
Soft moans infiltrated the dim interior of the room, followed by muffled grunts as a gasp resonated against the four walls. “Shh…” The person above her silenced with a hand over her mouth, sweat beading their foreheads. “We don’t want people finding out we’re here, now do we?” He asked with his lips trailing down her jaw and her neck, feeling her shake her head at the words.“No, we don’t,” He smirked, trailing his lips lower before a soft knock sounded on the door, the man instantly stilling and clamping his hand over the girl’s mouth
The last few months had been hard on everyone. The vendetta was in full swing now and Salvatore had retaliated to Luca’s attack by burning down Jayson’s warehouse. His counteract had been a major setback for Jayson’s business, but that had been the main purpose of it. The mafia boss had increased the security measures around the estate, other than that, nothing else had happened, they were all on edge about Jayson’s retaliation, but that didn’t stop them from continuing their work. “So we’re going to the Giordano’s?” Marco asked his brother in Salvatore’s office while the latter flipped through a pile of papers. “But Mrs. Giordano has been gone for five mo
Sofia struggled to wake, her head pounding and her mouth dry with eyes burning. A warmth enveloping her along with a masculine scent. With a startled gasp, she sat bolt upright, feeling the mattress beneath her bounce, before looking around her in confusion.This was not her room, as a matter of fact, it was not even her house.
Sofia was sure it hadn’t been more than a month since she began living with the Regnante heir. But one thing she was certain about was the fact that she didn’t like him, grateful for the fact that they hardly ever crossed paths given his routine of jogging, working and then whoring away the night. Yet despite that, they saw each other around breakfast, and she couldn’t help but exact her revenge on him for his behavior at the estate. She treated him like a speck of mud beneath her shoes, simply riling him up just so that he’d lose his temper and retaliate to her fancies. She saw that this Regnante had little to no control over his tongue when angered, and pointed out that it would be his downfall
“What the fuck are you doing?” Salvatore jumped out of his seat and saved himself from the murky brown liquid soaking his desk and paperwork. The contents dripping by his feet as he looked up at the man beside him. “Marco,” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. The Mafia Boss’s brother who stared at him with bated breath and an ashen complexion. “I-I-I…” “Piero, have someone clean this up and bring me the backup copies of all this godforsaken paperwork,” The boss directed his words to the man standing stoic across from him, watching as Salvatore pic