Forced Mafia Bride (Yezhov Bratva #2)

Chapter 2 – Nikolai

Present Day

I lit the cigarette, feeling the familiar crunch of the filter between my lips. The flame from the lighter danced before my eyes before I tucked it away. I took a long, slow drag when she sucked, wrapped her fingers around me, and took me deeper until I hit the back of her hot throat. My jaw clenched, and I closed my eyes, letting the rush wash over me. The sound of her gag and feminine moans disturbed the silence in the office, and my fingers sought solace in her hair.

I grabbed a handful of her soft locks, guiding her as her mouth went up and down, greedily taking as much as she could. I took another drag on the stick, feeling the tip over the edge coming sooner as the seconds ticked by. Nicotine hit my bloodstream like a freight train, and I hit the back of her throat again.

My fingers tightened in her hair, the muscles of my thighs stiffened, and like a broken dam, I released in her mouth. And like a kid teasing the tip of her lollipop, her deep, satisfied groan vibrated on my cock as she slowly pulled out, just as the door opened with Anatoly marching in.

“I come bearing crazy news.”

My eyes dropped to her petite frame, perfectly hidden under the table. She sat on her knees, her lower lip caught between her teeth and eyes shining with naughty mischief. I rolled my eyes when she batted thick, long lashes at me.

“We can’t fuck today.”

Disappointment settled in her eyes, and she ruffled her lush, dark mane, crawling between my legs to sit on my lap, bringing her naked body to full view.

She slung an arm around my neck, leaned in, and kissed my cheek.

“That’s you telling me to leave, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Eyeing her, I brought the cigar to my lips again, but she pried it from between my fingers with a wry grin. “I’ve told you, Niko, smoking is bad for you.”

She put it between her lips and sucked hard with a wider grin and a challenging brow raised. That pulled a small smile to my lips. It always did.

“Hypocrite.”

She let out a deep, sonorous chuckle, exposing straight white teeth, and exhaled, lifting her bare caramel-glowing ass from my leg as the smoke curled around us, a sweet, acrid mist creating a mild fog while she wore her denim jumpsuit and pointy heels.

She snatched her purse, nodding at the other man in the room before cat-walking past him.

“Anatoly,” she greeted.

“Samara.”

When the door quietly clicked shut behind him, he gave me an unimpressed once-over before dragging a newspaper from the desk to flip through. The pages rustled when he clicked his tongue.

“Respectfully, Niko, I have something to say.”

I blew out a long sigh, tugged the zip on my dress pants, and readjusted the belt buckle. I already sensed what he was going to say. It was the same thing my brother had been saying, the same nagging whispers amongst a few Bratva members.

I gripped the edges of the desk, pulled myself closer to the hardwood, and gave him a look that said I didn’t give a shit about his advice. “Don’t bother. I didn’t ask for it.”

“Still.” Anatoly was going to say it anyway. He’d gone past the boundaries of being just one of my most loyal men to my second-in-command and had landed to the point of being a full part of the Yezhov family.

He returned the newspaper to the desk and folded his buffy arms over his black shirt. “You should think about settling down. That is getting old.”

That, in context, referred to Samara’s frequent visits—late nights at work, early hours at the house, and whenever I felt bored or happy. Samara was on speed dial. Frankly, she was the only whore I could stomach. And another one whose name I’d forgotten. But lately, I’d been getting bored, not only of them but also of the chase. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d looked at a woman and felt the insane urge to have as many of them lying naked on my bed.

Egor liked to joke that old age was catching up with me, and I was going to end up celibate if I continued that way. I scoffed at it; if Grandpa was almost seventy when he married his young wife, Ania, forty was not a death sentence.

When I gave him a hard glare, with my chin tipped up and a brow arched on my forehead, he knew I’d dropped the conversation.

“That’s not a plan, settling down with one woman anytime soon. Samara and…. What’s the other one with the blue eyes and ginger hair?”

“Katya,” he offered with a knowing smirk. I always forgot her name.

“Yes, her. They’re good enough for the time being. Tell me, what’s the news?”

He wasn’t convinced, but he scratched the scruff on his jaw and gave me a curt nod. “Right, the crazy news. It’s the Irish. Sean Gallagher passed away last night. Turned out he’d been battling health issues for a while now, but they kept it to a minimum.”

Was I sad to hear about the Irishman’s death?

Most definitely not.

It made sense that they tried to hide the news from prying the ears of power-hungry moguls like me. A sick ruler meant a weak kingdom. And a weak kingdom was vulnerable and susceptible to attack. If either of Sean’s enemies heard about his condition, he would have died weeks ago. One of them would have killed him. But somehow, the way Anatoly moved his mouth in funny motions told me he hadn’t delivered the main news.

“So, Sean’s dead.”

His head went up and down, and a dangerous glimmer sparked in his eyes. “And his younger brother, Ronan, is going to be the one running the show now.”

I hated two things—well, I hated a lot of things but had managed to fix them in two major categories: mediocrity and the Irish.

I viewed the ordinary human species with contempt, believing that those who clung to fantasies, hoped for a greater and more peaceful cause, and sought justice in a world they thought was more than just black and white were nothing but mediocre. In my opinion, they were weak, na?ve, and foolish, blinded by their idealism and refusal to accept the harsh realities of life. Their hopes and dreams seemed quaint, almost laughable, as they struggled to make a difference in a world that was molded to be cruel and unforgiving.

I’d seen too much, experienced too much, to be in that class of the simpletons.

The second object of my contempt was everything related to the Irish, and unfortunately, Ronan Gallagher fell into that category.

He and his brother were the stark opposites, sharing only the blood that linked them. Sean was smart and acted with caution, while Ronan proved time and time again that he didn’t give a fuck. He acted on impulse and considered the consequences afterward. I’d taken months to study his patterns of operations after one of his many attempts to bring Egor off.

Sean, I could deal with. We’d been at loggerheads with him for as long I could remember, and the clashes weren’t ever the smoothest.

Ronan, however….

Ronan was a fucking lunatic.

I smiled at Anatoly, suddenly pleased at the news. I leaned backward, reflecting on the endless possible futures this news delivered. Expansion, more influence, more conquest. We’d have them subdued.

“This is it, isn’t it? The golden opportunity we’ve been waiting for? If we get rid of the last Gallagher, the Irish will fall. They’ll no longer be a problem for—”

“Last son,” Anatoly interrupted, reaching for the 1947 Cheval Blanc on the desk. He studied the contents scribbled on the three-hundred thousand dollar red wine with drawn brows, and I studied him.

“Don’t fucking drop it. It was a rare bottle at Edington’s auction. And what do you mean, last son?”

He returned the bottle and knotted his fingers over his stomach with an annoying smugness. “So, it’s what, furniture? You’re not going to pop that bottle?”

“It is unlikely for you to ever hear me say this again, but some things are too good to be tampered with, and the contents in that bottle are one of them. So, yes, it’s fucking furniture.”

“Clearly understood.”

“You were saying something about Ronan?”

“Ah, yes.” He clicked his tongue as if he suddenly forgot our conversation and brushed his tattooed fingers through his buzz cut. “I was saying that, with Sean out of the way now, we have Ronan to deal with because he’s the last son and heir apparent. That doesn’t mean he’s the last Gallagher.”

A confused brow rose on my forehead, and he caught on to my silent questions and further explained.

“There’s a twenty-one-year-old daughter: Rosalyn Gallagher. Ronan and Sean’s half-sister. Cedric had an affair with one Ivana during his marriage to the boys’ mother, Agata.”

That explained a lot about Ronan not being the last Gallagher, but the revelation of the girl held no significance.

“Doesn’t mean anything. She’s a woman, not a threat. Our plans will not be thwarted.”

He wagged a slender finger, differing with another opinion. “But she could be a threat. There’s hushed news about the Irish forming alliance with the Mexican tycoon Tristan Gomez, and it’s not that fucking hard to figure out the only reason the fifty-nine-year-old will agree to that arrangement. He has eyes on the girl and wants to make her his. Despite the rumors about him murdering his first wife, her brother doesn’t seem to give a fuck if she suffers the same fate.”

That wasn’t news to anyone. The Irish were greedy sons of bitches who cared more about power and money than brotherhood. They’d twist and turn and bend for the peanuts. The girl could suffer terrible fates in the hands of that animal, and they wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

Anatoly made a sound in his throat. “Do you know what a wedding like that would do for them?”

Tristan Gomez was known for many things: the insane amount of money and resources he controlled, his brutality in the business sector and in everything else, and his obsession with Tequila and strip clubs. He was as profane as he was powerful and as smart as he was vicious. In summary, Tristan Gomez was a dangerous man—but not as dangerous as me.

So, I knew what a wedding like that could do for them: a boost in their rank, reinforcement of more men added to their workforce, and a longer stretch of authority.

But, as I said….

I inclined forward, holding Anatoly’s gaze with an indifference that conveyed my message. “Fuck them. We’re on top of our game here. Whatever they think they have against us is feeble and nothing compared to what we’ll do to them.”

We were going to crush them, just as we’d already begun doing from the inside. Their family affairs were none of my business. What concerned me was the Mexican coming into the picture. But I’d been on this mission for a long time already, and I’d be damned before I allowed anything to mess up my plans.