Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 15

“Mr. Drakos?” The man in the dark suit bows. “Mr. Kirakosian will see you now.”

I nod back, standing stiffly and grimacing as I flex my shoulders in my tuxedo.

I hate getting dressed up. That’s not to say I don’t like looking good or dressing sharp. But when you’re my size, “fancy” clothes are usually a major pain in the ass. People shit on NFL players for showing up to prestigious award banquets in track pants. But for real? I get it.

I haven’t donned a tux specifically to meet with Davit. But Bianca’s and my engagement “party”—if you want to call it that, which I don’t—is starting soon, and I needed to see Davit quickly before it begins. Obviously, he was invited to this shitshow, as were many heads of criminal organizations here in New York: the Kildares, the Reznikov Bratva, Jayden Robinson—who helms the Jamaican Cartel here in the city and is a close family friend—and more.

Oddly enough, Davit sent word just last night that that he’d be unable to attend. So I’ve opted to stop by before the party starts, to see if I can suss out why.

I follow a guard through Davit’s stunning Gilded Age mansion on the Upper West Side. They may be new to New York, but the Kirakosian family and Te Mallkuarit have done extremely well for themselves over the years. Spoiler: it shows.

The man opens a set of double doors, and I step into what appears to be Davit’s personal study—a huge, light-filled room with ornate furnishings and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. What stops me cold isn’t the elegant room, though.

It’s the fact that Davit nods his head in greeting from the hospital bed he’s lying in.

My brow furrows. “Mr. Kirakosian, I⁠—”

“Didn’t know?” He smirks. “Well, that would be because I’m keeping this a secret.”

“And it’s going to stay a secret,” a stern voice growls from behind me.

I half turn and nod my head at the younger man around my age striding into the room. Arian Kirakosian, Davit’s only son and next in line for his father’s position as head of Te Mallkuarit, gives me a dark, lingering glare.

“Is that clear?” he mutters, eying me. “Or is that secrecy something else you and your family will carelessly destroy?”

I could take the bait, but I choose not to—just as I choose not to drive my fist into his face right now. Because I can see more than five minutes into the future, and I’m smart enough to know that settling any animosity between the Albanians and my family is ultimately a good thing.

So I just nod, smiling politely at him.

“It won’t be shared,” I say evenly. “You have my word on that,” I add, turning to Davit.

He smiles and nods back. “Forgive my son’s zeal. He’s merely trying to protect me and the family. You’ll understand why my…condition has been kept quiet, especially while your family and I were engaged in a bidding war.”

“May I ask…”

“No,” Arian says flatly.

His father sighs. “A temporary issue with my liver, it would appear. Nothing serious.”

Says the man in a hospital bed, in his own home.

He smiles wryly. “I suppose now you see why I turned down your gracious invitation to the festivities today.”

I clear my throat. “Once again, I want to apologize for what happened involving your family’s heirloom⁠—”

Arian mutters something in Albanian. His father shoots him a warning look, responding in the same language, before he turns back to me.

“I’m told the responsible party was the Italians.”

I nod.

“Specifically, your fiancée,” Arian adds, smirking.

His father chuckles. “What did you do, Mr. Drakos? Fuck her friends?”

No, but I did chase her through an abandoned church, cut her panties off, and fuck her mouth afterward.

I smile quietly. “It was a very unfortunate misunderstanding. However, my family has prepared this as a token of our esteem, together with the hope that we can continue to build a mutually beneficial relationship and peace between our families.”

I slip the envelope containing a check out of my tuxedo pocket and walk over to hand it to Davit.

Arian barks a cold laugh. “Money? You destroy a priceless heirloom that’s been in my family for nearly a millennium, and you think your fucking money will fix the problem?!”

“Arian!” Davit snaps. “Be civil.”

“Babai—!”

“Enough!!”

Davit exhales slowly, his face pinched and tired. Then he composes himself.

“Arian,” he says, more quietly now. “Mr. Drakos is our guest. And what occurred was beyond his control.”

“Perhaps Mr. Drakos should have better control over his own fucking fiancée,” Arian hisses, shooting me a cold look.

I resist the urge to respond with “Way ahead of you”, and just smile as I dip my chin.

“I understand what was destroyed is beyond monetary value. And I can’t put a price on sentimentality. But I do hope the check for twenty million dollars in that envelope can ease at least a little of the suffering we’ve caused.”

I get that this thing was important to their family, and old as fuck. But let’s be real: it’s not gold, or bejeweled. It’s fucking old bones. We looked up similar pieces for appraisal comparisons, and the thing was maybe worth a tenth of twenty mil.

Davit eyes the envelope. Then he raises his head and smiles. “Mr. Drakos, I appreciate the gesture. Please, consider any issues between our families settled, and the matter closed.”

Arian’s face goes livid.

“Father—”

“I said closed, Arian.”

His son’s mouth twists. But when he turns back to me, he nods stiffly. “It is as my father says,” he growls. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He turns and strides out of the room.

When we’re alone again, Davit sighs. “My apologies.”

“None necessary, Mr. Kirakosian.”

He smiles and grasps my extended hand, albeit with not much strength. My brow furrows.

“I do hope you’re feeling better soon, sir.”

“Oh, I’ll be up in no time,” he smiles back. “And I appreciate the visit. Pergezime on your wedding, Mr. Drakos.”

“All good with Davit?”

I accept the tumbler of whiskey Ares offers me and take a large sip before I nod.

“All good.”

My eyes scan the event as I take a second, more moderate sip. Yes, this entire thing is fake: we’re obviously just doing this to stop World War Three from erupting in the streets of New York. Yes, Davit came across as gracious and understanding just now, but I know for a fact that all would have gone in a whole other direction if I weren’t about to marry Bianca.

In our world, especially for the older generation, these “marriages of convenience” matter. A lot. No one, including Davit, is under any delusions that Bianca and I are two love-struck kids tying the knot. They all know what this is. But in matters like this, the end does justify the means.

I’m about to say something to my brother, when suddenly, something catches my eye, and I freeze. My pulse skips, and my jaw tightens as my eyes zero in on a figure who’s just floated her way into my field of vision through a gap in the milling guests.

My cock stirs in my tux pants, and the beast within me stretches awake.

There’s no denying that Bianca is beautiful. It might not be overt or flaunted, and she is usually in some combination of hoodie and yoga pants, no makeup, her long hair scraped back in a severe dancer’s bun. But she’s still obviously attractive.

When she slips into view now, I realize this is a side of her I’ve never seen before.

It floors me.

She looks like a fucking goddess.

She’s in a stunning sage-green sleeveless, off-the-shoulder gown that falls to the floor in sleek, silky lines that accent her every delicate curve and the athleticism of her dancer’s body. A slit up one side to mid-thigh reveals a glimpse of one of her long, toned legs. Her long hair is actually down for a change, braided and slightly curled into this long, Rapunzel-esque twist that hangs forward over her bare shoulder and one of her breasts.

She looks gorgeous. She looks elegant. She looks fucking amazing.

But mostly, she looks like someone I want to drag into an alley, gag with her panties and rip that dress from before I smear my cum across her face and fuck her like an animal until her tight little virgin pussy quivers and comes and bleeds all over my fucking cock.

Yes, I’ve tried therapy.

I suppose you could say it’s never worked.

My brow furrows as my gaze follows her across the lavish River Café, the Michelin-starred restaurant right on the East River that we’ve booked out for the evening. I watch the way the sage dress clings to her every curve, how it brings out the tan of her Mediterranean skin and the soft blue of her eyes.

But curiously, what really catches my eye, beyond her body and all the things I’d like to do to it, is the way she carries herself. The way the slightly mouthy, impulsive, magnet-for-trouble Bianca Sartorre, who I’ve usually seen when she’s completely out of her element, is very much in her element right now.

I watch as she smiles gracefully, even bowing a little when she greets Konstantin Reznikov, Gavan Tsarenko’s brother and co-helm of the Reznikov Bratva, who’s here with his wife, Mara, and their twin girls, Talia and Mila—toddlers in matching maroon velvet dresses who are stealing the show. I watch curiously as Gavan, his wife Eilish, and Callie roar with laughter at something Bianca’s just told them.

This is…strange.

I’d have expected Bianca to be graceful on stage, dancing. But everything I’ve seen from her, which is a lot, would have suggested the opposite in any other scenario.

As if reading my mind, Callie turns and catches my eye. She smirks a little, excusing herself from the group before she walks over to Ares and me.

“Hmm, interesting,” Ares muses.

Callie frowns. “What?”

“You just walked past two different waiters with trays full of Dom Perignon, and you didn’t take a glass from either of them.”

“Careful, Ares.”

He arches a brow. “Of?”

“Of the fact that you’re dangerously close to getting a lesson in fertility cycles, ovulation⁠—”

“Yeah, thanks, I could go ahead and live the rest of my days without hearing my sister say the word ‘ovulation’ ever again,” Ares mutters.

I chuckle deeply, clapping him on the back. “You sort of asked for that.”

“Well, color me regretful,” he grumbles.

Callie sticks her tongue out at him before turning to me. “For the record?” She turns and nods her chin at Bianca, who’s now moved on to talking to the King and Queen of the Damned themselves, Cillian and Una Kildare. “I like her. A lot, actually.”

“Because she’s impulsive, difficult, and doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut?” I mutter.

Callie snorts. “See, I get that that’s supposed to be a jab at me. But what’s actually funny is that I distinctly remember this one”—she pokes a finger into Ares’ chest—“saying the exact same thing a few years ago about the now mother of his child.”

My brother snickers. Just then, we’re joined by another figure.

“I hate to interrupt a sibling moment,” Drazen growls quietly in his deep voice, “but I was hoping to have a word with the two of you,” he says, eyeing Ares and me.

Callie sighs. “And I suppose this is an A-B conversation, and I should C my way out of it?”

Drazen smiles, at least, as much as I imagine he’s capable of smiling.

“That is a funny joke,” he grunts in his thick Serbian-Russian accent. “I think I will keep that one.”

“It’s all yours,” Callie shrugs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m ovulating and I need to go replace my husband.”

Ares and I make pained faces as she grins at us and then sashays off through the crowd.

“Is this also a joke?” Drazen rumbles curiously.

“No, that’s just Callie being fucking gross,” Ares mutters. “What did you want to talk about?”

Drazen Krylov is an interesting character in the New York scene. A few years ago, he was basically a ghost—the boogeyman of the Bratva world who scared the shit out of even the most hardened pakhan.

As far as I can tell, no one knows much of anything about the background of the half-Serbian, half-Russian kingpin of the newly resurrected Krylov Bratva. I’ve heard he’s got a military background; other rumors say he was a child soldier in the Kosovo conflict of the 90s. Beyond that, the man is a mystery.

A very, very wealthy, extremely powerful mystery. I wouldn’t say Drazen and my family are allies, per se. Or even friends. But I know we’re not enemies, because I’m positive if we were…we’d know.

I do like him, though. And I’m pretty sure it’s because I can sense a blackness inside of him that mirrors my own. There’s a monster like mine lurking deep in his soul.

Mine can smell it.

Drazen clears his throat as he turns to me. “I hear you just met with Davit Kirakosian.”

“I did. He wasn’t able to come tonight, so I wanted to be sure we’d smoothed things over.”

Drazen nods. “I’ve heard…” He shrugs. “Rumors about Mr. Kirakosian. About his health.”

Ares glances at me curiously. “Actually, I was going to ask you about those same rumors.”

Okay, I did promise Davit and his son that I wouldn’t say anything. But Ares doesn’t count. And even if I don’t know Drazen that well, it’s clear that he’s the sort of man to value silence and discretion.

“He’s…laid up,” I say in a slow, measured tone. “Hospital bed, in his home office.” I eye them both. “I’d appreciate you keeping that strictly to yourselves.”

Ares gets that I’m saying this more to Drazen, but nods anyway.

“Of course.”

“Not a word,” Drazen adds.

“Davit said it was a temporary liver thing, but I don’t know. I tried to dig a little, but his son…”

Drazen’s mouth twists. “Arian was there?”

I glance at my brother, then back to Drazen. “You know him?”

Drazen doesn’t say a word, move a single muscle, or even blink. I take that as a “next question” sort of statement and move on.

“Arian is…”

“Tempestuous,” Drazen finishes quietly. “You said Davit said it had been smoothed over?”

I nod.

“Then you’d better hope his illness really is temporary. If Arian were sitting on the throne, you can bet he’d have a different idea about things being ‘smoothed over’.”

I share another quick look with my brother.

Interesting.

My phone rings. Frowning, I take it out and glance at the screen. Taylor’s name and face pop up, but I let it go to voicemail. I can check in with her later about whatever it is.

“You’re friends with Ms. Crown?”

I raise my eyes to Drazen, who’s looking at my phone with a strange expression on his face.

“She’s my lawyer.”

Drazen nods, still looking at my phone. When I slide it back into my pocket, the odd spell over him lifts.

“How do you replace her…legal expertise,” he growls quietly.

“Uh, great?” I shrug. “If you’re looking for representation, Crown and Black are fantastic. Seriously, she’s a phenomenal lawyer.”

“Indeed,” the mysterious Serbian murmurs, almost to himself. He clears his throat, pulling his lips into what I guess passes for Drazen’s version of a smile. “If you will excuse me, I need to see to a piece of business before I indulge in any more of your excellent champagne, Mr. Drakos.” He nods as he clinks his empty glass to mine. “Čestitiam on your engagement, Kratos.”

Ares shakes his head, eyeing Drazen as he disappears into the crowd. “That dude scares the shit out of me.”

I chuckle, patting Ares on the shoulder. “Ten bucks says it’s all bullshit and scary bedtime stories the Bratva told their kids growing up.”

“What, like the one where they call him the headsman back in Serbia?” Ares snorts, running his fingers over the stubble on his chin. “I’m just saying, if the fucking Bratva tell their kids scary bedtime stories about him, I’m just glad he seems to like us. He’s like your size with Deimos’…well, Deimos-ness.”

I know he means “psycho-ness”.

Oh, if only you knew, brother.

You don’t need to inject crazy into me to make me Drazen. It’s why he and I get along, without ever having had a single conversation about it.

Because in an alternate universe, where I’m unlucky enough to be born into war-torn Yugoslavia, and go through whatever shit Drazen did?

He and I are the same fucking guy.

“I’m going to mingle,” Ares mutters. “Wish me luck.”

When he’s gone, I turn to survey the crowd of guests again. In some ways, it makes my chest swell to spot my siblings and see each of them so happy and fulfilled with their own new lives and families: Callie, throwing her head back and laughing as she dances near the band with Castle. I grin as the Captain America-looking motherfucker dips my sister extravagantly and then leans in to kiss her softly.

Callie deserves that. She earned that.

Near them, Deimos, unbelievably, doesn’t suck at dancing—at least, not too badly—as he twirls a beaming, orange-clad Dahlia. Hades stands near the back of the crowd behind Elsa, one arm slung possessively across her collarbone as he rests his chin on top of her head. The other hand snakes around to her stomach, his hand splayed across her third-trimester belly.

I grin when I see Ya-ya cut in on Callie and Castle, stealing the latter away with a big belly laugh so she can go dance with “her Adonis” as she loves to call her son-in-law.

Turning, I chuckle to myself and shake my head when I spot Ares “mingling”—that is to say, sitting in a quiet corner near the windows overlooking the Manhattan Bridge and the East River, bouncing my nephew Elias on his knee with Neve curled up next to him.

And then there’s you.

Yeah, then there’s me.

It’s not a pity party. I’m not lamenting that I’ve never found anyone—which I get is either gallows humor or just plain rude to say at your own engagement party.

But it’s true.

Some of us are meant to be alone.

I take a sip of my drink, my eyes scanning the room again. This time, it’s not my family my gaze settles on.

It’s Bianca.

She’s with her own family off to one side of the dance floor. Dante and Tempest are having a great time dancing. Nico looks bored and is playing on his phone, while Carmine seems to be visually checking over every unaccompanied female in the room. Don Barone himself looks to be very much enjoying the open bar. The band swings into some Sinatra, and Bianca’s adoptive father hops out of his chair with a whoop, cigar in hand, as he starts to cut a rug enthusiastically on the dance floor.

My gaze drags back to Bianca. Something dark and swirling surges in my chest as my beast prowls behind his locked bars.

This…whatever-it-was between us was one thing. But now it’s something else, something I didn’t plan for.

Marriage changes the dynamic.

Before, this was a game. Before was about her dipping her toes into her own darkness, and me being all too happy to oblige.

Or at least, that’s the bullshit I’ve told myself.

Because as I watch Bianca smile at something Nico says to her, I know there’s a truth I’ve been trying not to admit.

It’s not only that replaceing a willing partner for my fucked-up tastes is hard, and Bianca being such a willing partner, and a repeat one at that, is a new thing for me.

It’s that the little ballerina does something to me. She…quiets something inside of me.

And I’m not quite sure what to do with that, considering that I’m now miles past wherever I expected this to end when I set these wheels in motion.

A finger taps my shoulder. Frowning at the distraction, I pull away to fake a smile at whichever mafia world player has decided that now is the opportune time to come interrupt my thoughts with their bullshit congratulations.

When I turn, and my eyes latch onto overly-dyed blonde and too much Botox in a dark blue Chanel gown, my jaw tightens.

“I’m positive you weren’t invited,” I growl.

Amaya smiles. “Funny, mine must have been lost in the⁠—”

“You have five seconds to⁠—”

“Oh, no, Kratos,” CIA Special Agent Amaya Mircari smiles at me. “You have five seconds to come outside and talk to me. Or, I promise, you’ll regret it.”