Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 27

“Creep.”

A smile spreads across my face. Twisting my head, I turn to let my eyes pierce the shadows. Bianca’s in her leotard and tights, arms folded over her chest as she smirks at me.

“So. Busted,” she grins.

“I never should have told you about me spying on you.”

I’ve wondered how long it would take her to figure out where I watch her from at the theater. For a few weeks now, since I admitted to Bianca that I do it, I’ve watched from this very seat as she’s tried to figure out where I’m hiding.

Doubting, I’m sure, if I even am.

But today, she’s found me in my secret perch high up in one of the private boxes to the side of the stage, hidden within the curtains.

Down below, Madame Kuzmina barks orders, her ominous black shawl swishing. The array of ornate rings on her fingers glints in the stage lights as she brandishes a literal wooden switch—like they’d use for disciplining students in the 1800s—at the dancers.

Not that I’d ever have reason to, but I’m sure I’d never in a million years want to tangle with that woman. She’s terrifying.

We’re well hidden by the curtain as Bianca muffles her shriek with her hand as I yank her off her feet and into my lap. She breathes haltingly as her legs spread to either side of my thighs, the apex of her tights pulled snug against her pubic mound and pressing hard against my cock in my jeans.

“You know what I want to do right now?” she whispers, trembling as my mouth drags up her neck, biting her skin lightly.

“Is it what I want to do too?”

She moans a little. “You say first.”

“Cut that sexy leotard and tights off of you with a blade, bite your nipples until you’re writhing for me, and then fuck you over the railing of the box.”

Bianca swallows, her eyes widening in the dim light as her breath hitches. Her nipples harden under her leotard, her face flushing darkly.

“Your turn,” I murmur. She yelps and then bites her hand as I reach up to pinch one of those far-too-tempting nipples through the fabric, making it pebble even more.

“No, I like your idea,” she whispers feverishly. “I was going to say something lame like kiss you.”

“Not lame at all,” I murmur as I grab a handful of her hair and crush my mouth to hers.

Fuck, I’ll never tire of the way her breathy whimpers hum softly in her throat when I kiss her aggressively.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to get screamed at to come back to the stage in like sixty seconds,” she sighs.

I smile. “I’ve got a work thing now anyway.”

Her brow darkens a little.

“Just a meeting.”

I haven’t told Bianca every single detail of what my job entails. But, I mean, she grew up in the mafia. She understands how this works, and what I am, and how I use what I am for my family’s benefit. Still, I know it worries her when I get called to go out someplace late and come back with bruised knuckles or blood on my shoes.

“Like a meeting-meeting, or the kind where I should have an ice pack ready for your hands?”

I grin as I cup her face and kiss her. “The only ice I’ll need is for my drink. It’s a sit-down thing. Gentlemanly. Civilized.”

“You?” she scoffs. “Civilized and gentlemanly? I call bullshit.”

I chuckle deeply as I kiss her again. “Careful. Or I’ll show you how uncivilized I can be.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You’ll replace out after dinner tonight at home.”

She grins hungrily, her hips rocking as she slowly grinds herself into my lap.

“Deal.”

“Careful,” I murmur.

“Of?”

“Keeping that up, because I’ll make even Madame Kuzmina wait until I’m done fucking you.”

Her face blooms with heat, but she still gasps dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare defy⁠—”

“Understudies!” Madame K’s cold, cigarette-tinged voice booms through the theater. “To the stage, NOW!”

“That woman is fucking terrifying,” I mutter.

“She’s really nice once you get to know her,” Bianca ventures.

“Understudies!! RIGHT FUCKING NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

My brow arches skeptically. “Really.”

Bianca giggles. “Actually? No.” She sighs as she slides off my lap, pouting. “So, until dinner tonight.”

“Tonight it is.”

She beams as she leans down to kiss me again. “See you then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Well, shit. If my beast isn’t curled up quietly in a corner of his cage.

Content.

“Thanks for coming, Kratos.”

I nod as Arian ushers me into his study—I guess it’s his late father’s study—in the sprawling Upper West Side Gilded Age mansion which he now owns. I’m vaguely aware that Arian has a younger sister, but I’m unclear if she has much or anything to do with the family business. Regardless, she’s at college right now at Knightsblood University.

“Good to see you again, Arian.”

Honestly, I was wrong about him. Everything I’d heard about Davit’s son was that he was an aggressive prick. When I first met him, when I stopped over here to chat with his dad before Bianca’s and my engagement party, he seemed to live up to that hype.

But at the Black Swan the other night, he was calm, collected, and seemed to have his shit together—well, aside from hanging out with shits like Grisha Lenkov. And now again today, the man who greets me isn’t the scowling, snarling prick who all but told me to go fuck myself when I came to see his father.

“I hope the aftermath of my…disagreement with your guest the other night didn’t cause too much trouble for you.”

He smirks. “Not really. Truth be told, I think Grisha was so drunk he might not have felt a punch even from you.” He clears his throat. “Oh, and I passed on your message to Mr. Chernoff. The man who owed him seems to have skipped town. But Mr. Chernoff appreciated the debt being settled, however unorthodoxly. He considers the matter closed.”

I nod. “I owe you.”

His brow furrows a little before he shakes it off. “Don’t worry about it. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having is perfect, thank you,” I nod.

Arian pours us a couple of scotches, handing me a crystal tumbler before we both take seats on the couches by the windows. He takes a sip of his drink and then exhales slowly.

“I owe you an apology, Kratos.”

My brow furrows. “For…?”

“My behavior, the first day we met, here in this office. I was…not myself.”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing, Arian. You had a lot to deal with. Your father was sick⁠—”

“That’s not entirely it. Though I appreciate the out.” He takes another sip of his drink before his brow deepens slightly. “It was my idea to lend your family the crucifix, you know. And the reason I was so pissed off when it got blown to hell isn’t because I give a shit about a bunch of old bones that my father’s mysticism-junky advisors get hard for. It’s because when it got fucked, I thought that was it for a potential alliance between your family and mine.”

I nod. “Again, you have my sincere apologies⁠—”

“It isn’t about the damn bones, Kratos,” he growls quietly. “This is about something bigger.”

He scowls, knocking back the rest of his drink before setting the glass on the table between us. He steeples his hands as he leans back against the sofa, his foot over one knee.

“Were you aware that the Barone family had another party interested in their West Side development project, before inking a deal with your family?”

I shrug. “I would assume they had a few offers. Though, yes, I know during the later stages of negotiations, we were aware of one other aggressive interested party. But they dropped out when we radically upped our price.”

Arian nods slowly. “You mean when Drazen Krylov became a silent partner in the deal, using his considerable assets to bump up the pot.”

I eye Arian curiously. He quickly shakes his head.

“That isn’t meant to be antagonistic. Just stating facts.”

My head nods. “In that case, yes, Drazen became a silent partner in the project. I think it’s fair to say we ended up paying more than expected. But it’s still a solid investment, and I doubt we’d have clinched the deal at all without Drazen and his money.” My brows knit “Where is this going, Arian?”

“What if I were to tell you that the party you were bidding against was my family.”

I pause with my glass halfway to my lips.

Arian shakes his head again. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I wanted no part in any of that. Neither did my father, actually, but his hands were tied. You see, we also had a silent investment partner.” His face darkens. “Or rather, a not-so-silent one. You asked me the other night if I was in business with Boris Chernoff.”

The hairs go up on the back of my neck. “Arian…”

“Well.” He spreads his arms, a bitter smile on his face. “Unfortunately, I am. Because I didn’t just inherit my father’s empire. I inherited his debts, and his parasites.” Arian exhales. “How well do you know Drazen?”

I shake my head. “Not well. Just what most people know. All the usual bedtime stories to scare the kids.”

His face is grim as he reaches over to the table next to him and grabs a stack of folders. Turning, he tosses them on the table between us.

“They’re not bedtime stories.”

Frowning, I pick up the first file. Inside, there’s a bunch of grainy black and white photos of a guy in a suit, lounging on a yacht. The documents in the folder, official reports by the looks of them, are in Cyrillic.

“My Russian’s pretty rusty,” I mutter. I flip to the next page, and my frown deepens. “My Albanian’s worse.”

“Allow me to translate, then,” Arian growls. “That’s Serge Markarov, head of the Markarov Bratva based out of London.” He grimaces. “Or rather, that was Serge Markarov, just like that was his yacht. Losing his life and his giant-ass boat on the same night wasn’t the sum total of it, either. Actually, Serge was quite possibly on one of the worst streaks of shit luck in the history of the world in the two months before his death.”

Arian starts to tick off his fingers.

“His father fell out a thirty-story window. All twelve of his shipping warehouses used for his illicit goods managed to catch fire, on the same night, and every single one of their fire suppression systems failed.”

My brows arch. Arian keeps ticking his fingers.

“His uncle, who was terrified of open water, died in a scuba accident. His grandfather ate the business end of a shotgun. His mother’s multiple affairs were exposed in a prominent British tabloid. She ended up stepping off a platform under an oncoming commuter train. Even his twenty-year-old nephew overdosed on a frankly superhuman amount of cocaine—and the kid was on a pre-Olympian track team. Body was a temple, never touched drugs in his life.”

My jaw starts to grind.

“I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version of the next couple of folders,” Arian spits. “Savin Borisov, of the Borisov Bratva: hangs himself, leaving a note admitting his numerous affairs. But, hey, good news for the wife he left behind: none of the women he listed fucking exist. Too bad it didn’t stop his widow from swallowing about a pound of sleeping pills the night of his funeral. Oh, and his warehouses must have had their fire suppression systems set up by the same dipshits, because all ten of his also failed the night they all caught on fire.”

Fuck me.

“The Zaytsev Bratva: pakhan and entire empire wiped off the face of the Earth. Vlasov Bratva, same thing. Popov Bratva, take a guess.” He smiles grimly. “Same fucking fate.” Arian taps the table between us with a stiff finger. “Would you care to guess who the fuck they all, without fail, had secret meetings with, roughly a week before each of them died?”

My pulse thuds as I lean back in my seat, stroking my jaw.

“Krylov,” I growl quietly.

Adrian nods. “Drazen fucking Krylov. Now, guess who just lost his cousin, who he was very close with, in a freak skiing accident? And who also just had three warehouses in Jersey go up in flames a few weeks ago?”

Oh, shit.

“And for the million-dollar prize, Kratos,” Arian mutters, “guess who owned that West Side development project before times got tough and they were forced to sell it to Vito Barone, about thirty years ago?”

“You’re fucking shitting me.”

“The Chernoff family,” Arian growls. “Boris Chernoff’s grandfather poured everything he had into buying that property, when the Chernoff organization was nothing more than a bunch of street hustlers and bootleggers. Boris’ mother was fucking born in that building. When I say Boris wanted to buy it back from Vito, I mean he was ready to open a vein if the Italians said that was what it would take. And then Drazen swans in and helps you and yours scoop up the whole thing.”

Arian sits back in his chair, shaking his head.

“Let me guess, he’s ready to pour some more money into a major remodel.”

My jaw grinds. “Tentative plans involve razing the whole place to the ground first.”

Arian snorts. “Yeah, I’ll bet they do. And I’ll bet he wants Chernoff to watch it happen before he buries him in the new foundation or something.”

The Albanian across from me shakes his head slowly. “You and I aren’t rivals, Kratos. We never have been.” His eyes darken. “We’re fucking pawns. This whole thing was Drazen Krylov waging a proxy war on Chernoff, and we were just his fucking foot soldiers.”

Son of a bitch…

“Feels shitty, doesn’t it,” Arian mutters. “But fuck me, that Krylov. I mean that’s some evil genius level shit, Kratos.”

My fingers drum on the armrest. My nostrils flare as the wheels turn in my head. “Any idea what to do about it?”

Arian snorts again. “Like what? Walk away? From Drazen?” He whistles, shaking his head. “Your funeral, Kratos.”

“What are you going to do about Chernoff?”

He smirks. “Well, the plan was nothing, and just wait for Krylov to cut off Chernoff’s head or something. But while I wait for him to do that, Chernoff is fucking me over every way he can. Dad owed him a sizable debt—more than I have on hand. Boris has been milking me for a percentage of all my business, and the interest just keeps going up.” He scowls. “He’s even got his new attack bitch on my ass about it.”

Something clicks in my head.

“What did you just say?”

Arian sighs. “I was saying the interest is fucking crushing⁠—”

“No, after that.”

This is the second time I’ve heard about Chernoff’s new “attack dog”, his new “consigliere”. First from Tim, now from Arian.

“What, about his new number two, or whatever she is?”

“Yeah,” I frown. “Who is she?”

“Scary, that’s what,” Arian growls darkly. “That woman means fucking business.” His brows knit. “Arya, or something.”

My jaw tightens. “What?”

“Or maybe Maya?”

Holy fucking shit.

Arian shudders. “Scary-looking cunt with a mean scar down the side of her neck, anyway.”

My vision goes black for a second. My heart almost stops beating as a cold sensation twists in my gut.

“Amaya,” I mutter through grit teeth.

Arian looks surprised. “Yeah, that’s it. You know her?”

“We’ve met,” I spit.

Arian exhales, nodding before he glances at his watch. His face darkens. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Kratos. I’ve got a meeting I need to get to.”

Numbly, I stand and shake his hand in a daze.

“Look, I’m only telling you this because I’d like there to be no misunderstandings or bad blood between our families. I truly don’t give a shit about the crucifix. All I want is to get out from under Chernoff’s heel.” His clears his throat. “And look, I’m not trying to push any agenda here. But since your family is doing business with the man who I expect might be cutting Boris’ heart out in the near future…” He arches a brow significantly. “Perhaps you could put in a word with the Serbian to move things along.”

A million thoughts are roaring through my head. My pulse jangles like shrapnel in my veins as I force a smile to my face and shake Arian’s outstretched hand.

“I’m actually going to see him now.”

Right the fuck now.