Burning for the Bratva: A Russian Mafia Romance Novel Page 2

  He was well aware what a cliché it was—that the more sensitive brother had ended up abandoning the bratva life and running off with a girl he was supposed to be keeping captive while Ivan, the tough one, stayed behind to carry on the family legacy. But he supposed that clichés were there for a reason.

  Ivan entered the bar, savoring the wash of heat and alcohol that moved over him like an invisible, intangible wave. All bars smelled the same, if you asked him, but there was something oddly comforting in that. If you ignored the way that some of them tried to show how ‘unique’ and ‘original’ they were and focused on the essentials, you found that they were all the same.

  There was the cranky bartender, over there, and then the bartender playing therapist further down, hands braced on the edge of the countertop as he listened and nodded along to someone who was talking to him.

  There were the regular drunks, scattered in the darkest corner booths in the room and hunched over their drinks at the bar top. There were the usual beers, basic cocktails and other drinks… but Ivan was looking for that good old vodka.

  Was it stereotypical of him? Maybe. But he’d been raised on the stuff. While he’d expanded his palate over time, trying beers and wine and all that—and he did have a fondness for a good red wine an occasionally got spectacularly drunk on ale—vodka was still his go-to.

  He strolled up to the bar top, seizing a free barstool and letting out a sigh of relief. He could just disappear into the anonymous crowd here. They weren’t at the heart of Sokolov territory, so none of his men would be there. He didn’t have to play the boss. For the first time since his father’s death, he could just be.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Ivan sighed. Hopefully it was just somebody trying to reach around him to get to the bartender and not one of his soldiers looking to buddy up to the boss. Normally he liked getting to know everyone in his operation but since he’d become the boss instead of just the boss’s son, it was different. The men weren’t cozying up to him because they genuinely liked him—they were doing it out of fear, or ambition, knowing the top lieutenant spot was open and wanting in.

  It was their audacity in thinking that Ivan couldn’t tell the difference that really rankled him. Just how stupid—or rather, just how addicted to brown-nosing—did they think he was?

  Probably as addicted as his father, Ivan thought bitterly. He’d been his father’s loyal son all of these years, never saying a word against him and carrying out his orders to the letter, and apparently it showed. Everyone was expecting him to be just like his old man.

  Well, the old man was an abusive drunk and an idiot, and Ivan was determined to do better.

  He turned around, making his face look blankly polite in case it was a stranger.

  It was a stranger, but the guy didn’t look all that friendly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing on our side of the tracks, Ruskie?”

  The accent was Irish, and then Ivan noticed the green stud earring in his left ear.

  Green was kind of a stereotypical Irish color, but when it came to quickly identifying the members of different families, it came in handy. Ivan’s men all had a scrap of red cloth on the inside of their jackets that they would flash to let someone know who they were.

  The green earring was worn by the O’Gill family.

  The type or style of earring didn’t matter—just that it was green and in the left ear.

  What the hell was an O’Gill person doing in a Sokolov bar?

  And then the rest of what the guy had said caught up with him. Ivan’s stomach plummeted.

  He looked around and saw at least five other men with green earrings.

  He’d accidentally wandered out of his own territory and into O’Gill territory, lost in his thoughts—and was now standing smack in the middle of what looked like the makings of a very bad bar fight.

  Well, fuck.

  Chapter Three

  Shit. Ivan had to think quickly.

  How could he have been so stupid? So lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t realized where he was going?

  He had no backup. Neither Pavel nor anyone else knew where he was. He was so fucked.

  Unless…

  “Sorry,” Ivan said quickly, putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just here to talk to the old man.”

  The O’Gill guy squinted at him. “And what kind of business does a pretty boy like you want with the boss?”

  Ivan wanted to glare—he was not a pretty boy, for fuck’s sake, he had at least a foot on the guy—but kept his face carefully neutral. “I’m sure he’s heard the rumors that are going around about a… change of power in the Sokolov family. I’m here to talk with him about a possible arrangement.”

  The guy squinted at him for another moment, then barked, “Jake.”

  Another man got up and hurried to the back of the bar.

  Ivan waited patiently. He wanted nothing more than to punch the guy and make a run for it, but first of all he was never going to live it down if it got out that he’d just ducked and run like a coward, and second of all he doubted he’d make it to the front door.

  After a minute or two, the guy named Jake hurried back to them. “He says to bring him back.”

  Ivan smiled genially. “Thanks.”

  The squinting guy gave him a look that told Ivan he wasn’t fooling anybody with this whole ‘friendly terms’ routine. Ivan couldn’t exactly blame him. The Irish mobs were powerful in Boston but in New York City? Not so much. The gangs in Harlem and the Bronx, the Russians like Ivan, and the Italians were the ones with the power in NYC. The Irish had been scraping by for years and had finally managed to carve themselves a nice niche in the ladder—but it was a small niche on one of the lower rungs.

  He might be a member of a small Russian family, but being Russian gave him a solidarity with other, bigger, more powerful families. They’d protect him if push came to shove against the Irish. It put Ivan a rung or two up above the O’Gills, and they knew it.

  What was more, they resented it.

  Ivan had to play his cards right now. If he upset the old man—Sean O’Gill, the head of the family—there was no way he’d be making it out of this alive.

  And while he didn’t know if it was true for all Irish families, the O’Gills were known for their tempers.

  Ivan was led through the bar and into a back room, the rest of the patrons doing an admirable job of pretending they weren’t seeing anything. The back room was an office, but there was a trap door in the floor that led down some stairs into another, larger, better furnished office.

  It was pretty tastefully decorated, Ivan had to admit. He’d been expecting something dark and gloomy, but this looked kind of like a lounge in a hunting lodge.

  Sitting on a high-backed leather chair, sort of sunken into it, was an older man. He had a frail appearance, with shriveled hands and thin white hair, spidery blue veins running all over underneath his skin and small liver spots marring the pale complexion.

  But his blue eyes were bright and sharp as he shifted them to gaze at Ivan. The body might be going, but the mind was not.

  “Ivan Sokolov,” the man said, his brogue thick.

  “Sean O’Gill,” Ivan replied.

  Sean was one of the O’Gills who had actually come over on the boat. Looking at any crime family, about half of them would be immigrants from the family’s country like Russia or Italy and the other half would be born and bred New Yorkers who’d been raised in the family business. Sean was the former—he was the cousin of the former head of the O’Gill family and had come over about twenty years ago, taking over ten years ago when said cousin died in a firefight with an Italian family over in Brooklyn.

  He’d apparently stubbornly held onto his accent that entire time. Ivan still had a trace of an accent himself, but it was more because he grew up around people born in Russia who therefore spoke with a Russian accent than from any determination on his part or pride in his homeland.

  “Very
interesting to see you here,” Sean noted. “Very interesting. I wasn’t thinking you’d even bothered to listen to the feelers that I put out about my offer. I know there are larger families who are interested in helping a little fish learn how to swim upstream. Russian families, as well.”

  It looked to Ivan like fate had made his decision for him. He couldn’t now tell Sean that he was backing out. It would be seen as an insult and he’d be lucky to walk out with all of his limbs intact. Mentorship, it would have to be.

  But could he trust Sean? Ivan scoured his brain for what he knew about the guy.

  Pavel would undoubtedly know more and would be able to tell him right off the bat if Sean could be trusted. Damn it.

  Well, he knew that for being next door neighbors, Sean was nice enough to mind his own business. He didn’t try to encroach on Sokolov territory and he wasn’t constantly taking advantage of the thin ‘neutral zone’ between territories.

  Ivan had never heard of any petty disputes or fights breaking out between his men and the O’Gill men. And from what he could remember hearing when he met up with other bosses for meetings and agreements, Sean kept his men on a tight leash. That was always a good sign—a boss who didn’t know what was going on with his men was an irresponsible one. The left hand should always know what the right was doing and so on.

  He also hadn’t heard any crazy stories about Sean. Sure, there were those crazy mob bosses who ruled by smashing hammers into people’s hands and stuff like that. Ivan’s own father had been one of those types of men. But he didn’t want to be that way. He had seen what it had led to: a man murdered by his own son, the fracturing of a family, and nearly driving the whole criminal operation down into the ground over the course of decades.

  Ivan didn’t want to be mixed up with someone who would rule by violence and a temper and wild mood swings. He wanted someone levelheaded who could play the game, who handled the politics and played a deft hand. He wanted someone clever. Someone who did what had to be done when it needed to be done but because it was business. Not because he had a sadistic streak or was on a power trip.

  And as far as he knew, Sean O’Gill was clean. Logical, ran a tight ship, no stories of beating up subordinates for no reason or taking pot shots at the neighbors. No rumors of in-fighting or any O’Gills viciously taking out their own. No horror stories, in other words.

  Ivan supposed that, really, he could do worse given his situation.

  He took a deep breath.

  “We’re next-door neighbors,” he said. “Our territories nearly overlap and, therefore, so do our interests. Our enterprises are different enough that we won’t be stepping on one another’s toes. And you’re not so big that you’re going to overrule me and try to absorb the Sokolovs into your family. We can keep our independence.”

  “Wisely said,” Sean told him. Those blue eyes sparkled. “Boys, give us a moment, will you?”

  The men who’d led Ivan inside went back up the stairs, closing the door behind them. This probably looked stupid to anyone who didn’t understand how crime syndicates worked, but Ivan had no doubt that there was some other kind of security going on in this room. Sean could have a gun trained on him for all that he knew. And even if he did manage to kill Sean, he’d be dead before he could make it out of the back office.

  Classic mob. All about the trappings of politeness and civility, but with brutality lurking just underneath the surface like a shark, ready to drown and bleed you if you got foolish.

  Sean sat up a little straighter. “Now. Let’s not play games with each other, Ivan—if you don’t mind my using your first name, no disrespect meant by it.”

  “None taken.”

  Sean chuckled. “Feels like all the bosses are young enough to be my kids nowadays. Anyway. If you’d really wanted me to mentor you, you’d’ve come in during the daytime, brought that puppy with you, the one guy who always follows you around.”

  He must mean Pavel.

  “But instead you’re here on your own, sidling up to the bar for a drink.” Sean shook his head. “Don’t know whether you’ve got steel balls or you’re just stupid.”

  Ivan could feel his stomach knotting a little in panic but kept his head. Sean didn’t seem angry or like he was going to call anyone on him. Rather, he seemed amused.

  “So I got a little lost, didn’t realize this was your joint,” Ivan replied. “The lack of green helped.”

  Sean chuckled. “My wife wanted a bar that she said didn’t feel like it was St. Patrick’s Day all year long,” he said. “It’s a reference to the Harlequin.”

  He paused, as if musing this idea over. As far as Ivan knew, Sean’s wife had died a couple of years back.

  Ivan sighed inwardly. Sean O’Gill was a respected boss, well-established, Ivan could definitely do worse mentor-wise. And he had a feeling that Sean’s amusement over this whole thing wouldn’t extend to letting Ivan go scot-free. That wasn’t how things worked in their world. He had the new head of another crime family in his office, Sean was definitely going to take advantage of that.

  “Look, maybe I did just wander in here by accident. But I do need someone to watch my back. It’s a rocky transition period, it always is.”

  “Especially when the transition happens because the heir’s brother knocks off his own father and their biggest lieutenant,” Sean replied dryly.

  Ivan tried not to bristle. “Viktor had his reasons.”

  “I’m sure that he did. Not going to lie, Ivan, we’ve all been waiting with bated breath to see if you’re as crazy as your old man.” Sean shook his head, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “He was a real piece of work there, wasn’t he? You ever wonder why you had so few alliances? It wasn’t just your old man’s work, oh no. None of us wanted to ally with him, either. Crazy motherfucker like that, he won’t just stab you in the back, he’ll stab everyone who’s ever shaken hands with you.”

  Ivan couldn’t stop the way his jaw clenched. His father had been a piece of work but he was Sokolov, and he’d raised Ivan. You didn’t talk about Ivan’s own flesh and blood and get away with it.

  Sean shook his head. “Stand down, sonny boy, I’m just speaking the truth and you know it. You’ve got to learn to let go of that family blindness, or you’ll never succeed.”

  Ivan snorted. “This is the bratva. Brotherhood. Family is everything.”

  “And yet, family can still betray you. Sometimes they’re more likely to betray you.”

  Sean’s tone was significant. Was he talking about Viktor and what he’d done?

  “I’m not going to handle things the way my father did,” Ivan assured him. “I know the difference between actual business and… the things that he did.”

  “Rumor has it he was squeezing that restaurant to death for no reason,” Sean said mildly, like they were discussing the weather. “Can’t say I blame your brother, if what people are saying he was planning to do to the girl were true.”

  “I’m not my father,” Ivan repeated. “For both of our sakes, I suggest you stop talking about him like this. He is dead, let him lie. I am the living, so deal with me.”

  Sean’s sharp gaze seemed to truly settle on him for the first time. “Well said.”

  Ivan took a deep breath. “If you agree to mentor me, I’ll give you a cut of the profits from our smuggling for the next five years.”

  It was a more than fair price, and hopefully all that Sean would ask of him. Ivan didn’t want to give anymore and frankly wasn’t sure he even could afford to give more. The exact percentage could be discussed, but personally he was hoping Sean would let it go at ten.

  Sean shook his head. “No, I don’t need my books getting any more convoluted. But it just so happens that you’ve stopped by at the right time. I need a favor.”

  Hoo boy.

  ‘Favors’ were an… interesting and varied form of currency in their world. Out in the regular, non-criminal world, telling someone that you owed them or saying no problem you’ll just repay the f
avor, probably had something to do with buying coffee.

  In Ivan’s world, a favor could make or break you. You owed a favor to the wrong person and you were dead. The right someone owing you a favor, on the other hand, could make you the most powerful person in the city.

  A favor could be called in weeks or even years after it was given. You could owe someone a favor in January and they wouldn’t collect on it until August. You weren’t allowed to ask questions or dispute the terms and conditions. That person asked you to jump, you just asked how high.

  “What kind of favor?” Ivan asked, already mentally calculating the manpower he might need, what resources he had available. Who knew what he’d need to have on hand to fulfill this ‘favor’ that Sean wanted.

  Of course, it might not even require manpower. It might mean that he wanted Ivan to run negotiations for him with another group, perhaps one of the cartels down south that could be notoriously trigger-happy. Ivan braced himself.

  Sean stood up. “Come with me.”

  Come with me turned out to mean take a drive with me, because Sean led him out the back door and called for his ride.

  Ivan kept silent the whole time. Idle chatter wasn’t something that they really did in his world unless you had a witness or someone you wanted to rattle while you took them for a nice long cruise. Silence showed that you were comfortable. Talking showed you were nervous. And Ivan wasn’t about to start showing his belly, not to anyone.

  The drive was surprisingly short, down a few blocks and up one to a small marijuana dispensary.

  “Didn’t know you were interested in this market,” Ivan noted as they got out of the car.

  With the legalization of the drug sweeping the nation, the cartels were backing out of the weed industry. They hadn’t been all that invested in the first place. It had long been the domain of hippies. Cocaine and meth were still where the drug money lay.

  “I’m not,” Sean replied. He directed his two soldiers to keep watch, left the driver in the car, and led Ivan up the steps.

  They walked right through the front shop, filled with bongs and brownies and the like, kitschy little t-shirts and a stylized waiting room.