Predestined for the mafia boss

A traitor

Yurich

I needed extreme self-control not to take Lyana to bed and have her the way I had desired since the first moment. I saw her at the hospital with her confident, professional demeanor, striving to maintain the same level of care, knowing I was different from the others.

Her sweet lips, flushed cheeks, and the scent of vanilla in her hair made me shudder with a certain fear at the thought of the memories when I brought her to the recently purchased apartment. I used every means available, from her father's support to several thousand dollars, to set up the penthouse.

I walked out of the apartment feeling like every piece of my body was made of salt. The coldness outside dissolved each piece, and I seemed to be nobody away from her—nothing but the same incurable emptiness.

When the elevator doors open in the garage, I need to get into the car and rest my head against the steering wheel, trying to find some control. My mind feels like it could explode at any moment.

I woke up to the sound of a gun being c****d.

“You'd be dead by now,” Nureyev accuses, aiming the gun at my head. “Lyana would be a widow and still in danger.”

I clench my jaw at the mention of her name and the reality that confronts us.

“Lower that damn thing,” I order.

I sigh, starting the car and maneuvering through the busy streets.

“She said the apartment looks like her dreams,” I murmur, complaining.

“Of course, it's based on her father's memories of what she wanted,” Nureyev responds.

“Yeah, I know that,” I grumble.

“So, what's the damn problem?”

“Her eyes,”. I murmured again. “Her eyes didn't light up with excitement; it was like she knew something was wrong.”

“Or maybe you're paranoid about wanting her to fall in love with you.”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, stopping at a red light as a couple holding hands crosses the street.

“Let's be honest, Yuri. You kidn*pped that woman; she found out her mother died in an attack, her father is a f*****g monster, and you expect her to fall in love with you.”

“She's strong.”

“Yeah, she's tough as hell, brother,” he huffs, turning his face away. “You're just demanding too much in too short a time.”

I keep driving silently for another five minutes until I park in the garage of the headquarters. I close my eyes, knowing he is still beside me.

"She's been on my mind for two months now," I confess my greatest sin.

“Because you're a f*****g obsessive-compulsive lunatic who can't control himself. For her, it's been a month of post-traumatic stress and maybe a day with her father before she got shot and almost died. ” The bastard gets out of the car before I can punch him in the face.

Deep down, this reality hits me hard: I rescued a castaway, and now I have to maintain the illusion that I'm her savior and not her doom.

I get out of the car, feeling the anger coursing through every part of my body. I have to open and close my hands constantly to stay sane.

Now, driving to the organization's headquarters, I need to control the rage I feel towards those responsible for the attack.

It doesn't take long before I'm parked on a busier street than usual. Nabukov's men are among me, keeping watch 24/7, ready for a war situation. Since the attack on the night of the agreement, I've considered the possibility of a traitor. Not just because we're allied with a mafia we've been at war with for years, dividing Russia in two, but mainly because of how shipments have started being diverted in our territory.

In the old building that once housed an orphanage, the fountain in the middle of the hall, with a small angel spouting water, is symbolic, especially with the bloodstains surrounding the area.

Inside the warehouse, the men pass by, offering respectful nods. Without thinking clearly, I step into the ring, interrupting a fight between two of my best soldiers.

“Let's go,” I order, gesturing with my hand.

The men exchange glances and then nod. The first one steps forward, throwing a right hook. I blocked it with my forearm, but before I could retaliate, I took another punch from the second soldier.

I let them advance and strike, constantly defending. When they start to tire, I begin my counterattack. Two quick punches and a knee to the abdomen take down the first man.

The second one lasts longer. I find an opening and land a punch to his ribs, then finish him off with a blow to the jaw, sending him to the ground. I feel the fabric clinging to my body as I breathe heavily. The men who stopped to watch the fight whistled and cheered, celebrating my victory.

I step down from the ring, ignoring the smiles of the men who enjoyed the violence. Nureyev, leaning against the corridor wall, says nothing, which might be a miracle.

In the distance, I see Zuriev downing a few shots of vodka. As soon as he sees me, he raises his arms.

“Почтить Братву” (Honor to the Bratva), he shouts, making the other soldiers clench their fists and thump their chests twice.

“Жизнь и смерть от Братвы” (Life and death for the Bratva), I respond, making everyone roar in a common gesture.

I wait for my commander to approach. I have no patience in interacting with the soldiers. Most days in the past month, dealing with the frustration of seeing Lyana in a hospital bed has increased my fury to the point where none of them dared to get in my way.

“Boss,” Zuriev says with respect.

Upon entering the office, I take off my suit jacket and toss it onto the sofa. I head straight to the sideboard and pour a glass of whiskey. Handing the glass to my brother, I took the bottle with me to the desk.

“Did you find out who ordered the attack?” I ask, bringing the bottle to my lips.

Nureyev stands up, grabs something from one of the shelves, and tosses it onto my desk. I open the thin folder, checking the names of the men we killed in the past month, all involved in the shooting.

“Nothing new," I grumble, exhaling sharply.

"You need to get laid; that's what you need. Keep reading," he says.

I rolled my eyes at him, and after flipping through a few pages, I came across a photo. With a smirk as if he knew he was being photographed, the man wears a navy polo shirt, a beret, and cargo pants; anyone could mistake him for a golfer. But Antonio Bennuci doesn't go unnoticed—the Italian son of a b***h, the mafia's underboss. The date on the photo is two days before the wedding.

"Someone let him in, and I'm sure it's the same person who leaked about the wedding," I spit on the floor in anger.

I take another sip of the drink, feeling the burn as strong against my throat as the hatred.

"They took advantage of the animosity between the two organizations to attack on the day of the wedding, hitting Lyana was just a bonus," my brother and advisor's words weigh heavily on my head.

"You're losing your mind, Yurich, and right now we need to keep calm," he says, resting his elbows on the wooden desk, his eyes reflecting mine. "Get your damn honeymoon with her, in some house protected by Nabokov. I'll deal with your shitty father-in-law and find the damn traitor."

"That's a too generous proposal coming from a pest like you," I accuse, narrowing my eyes. "What do you want in return?"

The bastard flashes a yellowish smile, finishing the rest of the whiskey. Then, as he licks his lips, I can see the piercing behind his upper lip. Nureyev is almost like a twin brother, and if there's one thing I can sniff out from afar, it's his interest in women.

"I'm not going to make concessions for you to defame some foolish girl. We need to keep our men loyal, and messing with their daughters isn't the best way," I declare firmly.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I have another one in mind. You'll be the first to know when the dust settles at home," he says, running his hands through his tousled hair. " After we catch the traitor, you can go back to the apartment and play fairy tales. The war won't be so close to your princess."

I sigh, leaning back in the padded chair. It's a pain when your younger brother is right, and the worst part is not knowing how to deal with the feelings Lyana stirs up. Damn, destiny keeps messing with me. I ended up on her surgery table, her worried eyes as a patient. Then I felt fear when she saw my c*****e. And now, those little glimmers of appreciation, as if she's proud to have me as her husband without even remembering our tragic encounter two months ago, show that she was meant to be mine. Yes, she was. If Nabokov hadn't hidden her for so long, she would already be in my arms. Old bastard.

"Don't destroy the mansion or the damn organization, Nureyev," I agree as I speak.

I straighten up, placing the bottle back on the table.

"Yes, sir." I couldn't miss the irony in his voice. "But take a shower before you go home and grab some company documents. I'm not going to sit at that glass desk; you know how it is; no patience for shareholders."

I look at my hands, stained with blood, the dirty suit. Likewise, I roll my eyes, heading towards the bathroom. I should've known he wouldn't stick to the legal side of the business.

"Call my secretary and ask her to leave the most important stuff along with the company's notebook, tablet, and phone in the apartment."

I don't hear what he says next; I'm already in the bathroom, turning on the shower, and stepping into the water with my clothes on. I need self-control to go back to my girl.