The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Episode 3

Kirill's Pov

Standing in front of Alistair & Co., the upscale marble lobby glinting behind its glass facade, I felt disgust rise like bile in my throat, darkening my expression into something colder, sharper. I wasn’t here for chit-chat or negotiation, and Scott Alistair was no fool—he knew what he’d done, and he had to know his time was up. He’d gambled with millions of my money, money I’d trusted him to manage through his firm, and he’d thrown it away for one more spin of the wheel, one more chance to chase his losses. Now his debt was due, and unlike the banks and loan sharks he’d toyed with, I didn’t negotiate. No one steals from the mafia and walks away intact. Not from me.

Scott was the worst kind of bastard, the kind who masqueraded as a family man, all smiles and pleasantries for the public. But that polished surface was a lie, hiding the rot beneath. The man drank too much, gambled too much, and when his losses caught up to him, he lashed out at the people closest to him. He used his family as his punching bag, taking out his frustrations on his wife and kids like they were his property. Scott’s world was a sad, small kingdom of cruelty and control, the kind that weak men carve out for themselves.

And yet, as much as I despised him, I wasn’t here as some twisted vigilante. I wasn’t about to stoop to his level or kid myself that I was doing anyone a favor. This was business, pure and simple. I was here to collect. To take back what was mine. And Scott would pay the price, whether he wanted to or not.

I had come prepared. Ilya, my second-in-command, had found every ugly detail, every hidden account and doctored record. He’d sifted through Scott’s online history, traced money to offshore accounts, uncovered the smoke and mirrors he thought would hide him from the mafia. Scott believed himself to be clever, a master of cover-ups, as if a man like me wouldn’t see right through his flimsy illusions. He’d miscalculated, like they all do in the end.

I took a steadying breath, adjusting the collar of my suit jacket, and let the winter air bite at my skin. The streets of Manhattan stretched out around us, skyscrapers towering like silent witnesses. Behind me, Ilya and Matteo waited, each a shadow in his own way, their presences steady and familiar. Ilya stood to my right, sharp-eyed and silent, his mind as lethal as his hands. He was a master behind the scenes, one of the best hackers in the world, yet no stranger to brute force when needed. His calm composure was deceptive; in his quietness lay the precision of a man who could dismantle his enemy with either code or bare hands.

Matteo, on the other hand, was less subtle. Built like a fortress, he was the enforcer people saw coming and had the good sense to fear. His face was marked by more than a few scars—a testament to the battles he’d survived and a promise of the ones he’d still fight. While Ilya was the knife in the dark, Matteo was the sledgehammer, the embodiment of brute strength. Together, they were more than loyal—they were family, the ones who’d stood beside me in the blood and shadows of New York’s underworld.

At nearly 33, I’d spent the last eight years at the top, turning New York’s streets and skyscrapers into my territory. I’d taken control, earned loyalty, and become something that people whispered about in bars and alleyways. Kirill Petrova—the Pakhan, the devil, the man who ruled New York with an iron fist. My name carried weight, and those foolish enough to challenge it quickly learned the price.

The glass doors of Alistair & Co. swung open as we approached, gliding on well-oiled hinges, silent but imposing. The lobby stretched out before us, its sleek marble floors and towering pillars casting an air of power and prestige. Normally, it bustled with people, echoing with voices and footsteps. Tonight, though, it was as quiet as a mausoleum. Exactly as I’d ordered. My men had swept through the place hours earlier, clearing every floor and ensuring that no one remained who didn’t belong here. It was only us—and soon, Scott Alistair.

We stepped into the lobby, our footsteps breaking the silence, each sound echoing off the polished floors and glass walls. The space was immaculately designed, and tonight, under the cold fluorescent lights, it felt sterile, like a stage prepared for a single, final act. I wasn’t in the mood for witnesses, nor did I want the hassle of tracking them down afterward. Scott had managed to dig his own grave. He just didn’t know it yet.

Tonight, Scott Alistair would find out exactly what happened when you crossed Kirill Petrova.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and we stepped out into the hushed, dimly lit hallway that led to Scott Alistair’s office. The carpeting absorbed every step, heightening the eerie silence that surrounded us. Matteo moved with a lethal calm, his hand hovering close to the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. Ilya’s gaze swept the hallway, taking in every detail with that sharp, calculating mind of his. It was almost theatrical—the stillness, the darkened hallway, the quiet before the storm. Just the way I liked it.

Scott’s office sat at the end of the corridor, an ostentatious door that he probably thought signaled power and authority. The man could play at being in control, but we all knew the truth now. Behind that door, he was a desperate rat cornered by a predator he couldn’t escape.

I reached for the polished brass handle, giving it a slow, deliberate turn. The door swung open, and we entered as if we owned the place—because, in a sense, we did. Scott looked up from his desk, his face still stuck in a frown as he shuffled through documents. For a split second, he didn’t realize who had come into his office. Then recognition hit, and his face went ashen. His eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish caught out of water.

“Kirill…” he stammered, his voice a breathy whisper as if saying my name too loudly might summon something far worse.

I closed the door behind me with a quiet click, locking out the rest of the world. Inside this room, it was just us, and for Scott, there would be no escape.

“Mr. Alistair,” I said, my tone polite, almost cordial. I could feel Matteo and Ilya flanking me, their presence solid and unyielding. I took a step forward, my footsteps deliberate against the soft carpet, my gaze never leaving Scott’s terrified face. He was pale, his forehead already glistening with sweat, his hands twitching as he clutched the papers in front of him—a pathetic attempt to hold onto something.

“Please… please, Kirill,” he started, his voice trembling as he stood up from behind his desk, as if standing might somehow give him an advantage. “I… I can explain—”

“Sit,” I said, my voice a quiet command that cut through his excuses like a blade.

Matteo moved before Scott could react, crossing the room with an almost lazy menace. In one swift movement, he shoved Scott back into his leather chair, pushing him down with a hand heavy on his shoulder. Scott gasped, his eyes darting to Matteo, then back to me, his panic mounting.

“Please, I just… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I was going to pay it back—every cent,” Scott babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. His hands flew to his face as if shielding himself from what was about to come.

Ilya gave him a look of pure disdain. The man had hacked into a web of encrypted accounts and revealed the rotten core of Scott’s gambling debts and fraudulent transfers with barely an effort. Now, he simply stood at my side, his face calm, betraying no emotion, letting Scott know that whatever game he thought he’d been playing, it was over.

Scott squirmed, still half-reaching, half-pleading as Matteo began to bind his arms to the chair. His protests faded into pathetic whimpers, his lips quivering as Matteo tugged at the ropes with practiced precision. When Scott tried to open his mouth again, Matteo stuffed a cloth between his lips, silencing him with a cold efficiency. Now, there was only the muffled sound of his breath and the occasional ragged whimper as he struggled, his eyes wide with terror.

I stepped closer, moving slowly, savoring the panic in his gaze. He had gotten himself into this. I had warned him, given him a chance to make things right. Instead, he’d chosen to cross me—a choice that came with consequences he couldn’t escape.