by Bethany-Kris
Blood didn’t matter, though. Not in the family … or so Viviana had been told. Being a girl, it wasn’t like she had been given the advantage of understanding the Cosa Nostra, its rules and values. In fact, just saying the word mafia or mob under her father’s roof would get you one of his infamous looks, and then you knew you were in hot water.
The mafia doesn’t exist.
Yeah, right.
Viviana’s father had his own Wikipedia page, and her name was listed as his only surviving child right underneath.
“Don’t talk about—”
The words were cut off by a loud bang. Once more, Viviana found herself on the floor, pushed there by Sam’s hand.
Sam didn’t join her on the floor; instead, she watched him reach for the glock twenty-two he’d tossed to the bedspread. That same gun he scared her with earlier, but forgot about in their argument. He never should have dropped his piece. The gun was his third hand, but she had made him forget about that important rule for a split second.
A split second too long.
The near silent pop, pop, pops—one right after the other—made her squeeze-shut her eyes and cover her ears. That only served to muffle the shouts from the attackers and her scream. Raw, achingly loud, and terrified, that’s how her fear sounded. Something warm soaked into the side of Viviana’s shirt. The heavy scent of gunpowder stung inside her lungs and she screamed again.
“Shut her up!”
The voice was bottomless, scratchy with age, and thick with an accent that made a cold shiver of dread roll through Viviana’s body. She hadn’t heard a Russian drawl in years. It was the last thing she expected to encounter again, given they hadn’t come for her after her family’s murder.
“No!”
Viviana kicked out, turning to the side and stumbling over a mess on the floor. Reaching for the cell phone right beside the bed, she felt hands grabbing at her legs, pulling roughly and dragging her away from potential salvation.
If she could have reached the phone … maybe … maybe she … Viviana was alone.
No one’s daughter anymore.
The mafia princess without a crown.
“Don’t touch me! Sam!”
The first man inside the doorway spoke, his words switching from English to Russian. Whatever he said, the man still pulling Viviana towards him as she kicked out and punched at him only grunted back in response. When her small fist landed a solid smack to his nose, his blue eyes narrowed before he shouted something she couldn’t understand. He raised his large hand and hit her sharply on the cheek. It bloomed with instant pain. Air sucked into her frozen lungs; she was shocked and speechless that a man had hit her.
The man shouted again, and even in Russian, his warning was clear. Viviana watched stunned as the butt of a gun snapped down with a loud smack to his comrade’s head.
“Fool, you’re not to hurt her! He will have your life for that. Move, Viktor.”
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. Deciding fighting wasn’t going to help her when he bared his teeth and spit more words she couldn’t understand, Viviana exposed her own teeth in a last ditch effort to rebel. “Keep your filthy fucking hands off of me, scum.”
“I said move. We need to leave.” In a flash, the man named Viktor was pushed off Viviana, and someone else clouded her blurring vision. Hot tears fell as Viviana stared up with her lips trembling, hair stuck to a damp face, and the taste of blood saturating her mouth. “I am Boris, girl. Up with you, before some other drunk college student wakes and calls the police.”
Both men wore flat black from head to toe, their hair slicked back making them look odd and startling. She guessed their ages to be late thirties to early forties, and by the job they had been sent to do, it wouldn’t have surprised Viviana if they were only bulls for the Russian mafia. Bulls being a term the Bratva used to describe their bodyguards, as the men were often large, frightening, and known for their violent tendencies.
“S-Sam … he—”
“Dead,” Boris replied in a cold and distant tone, eyes flickering up to look behind Viviana’s prone body. It wasn’t a second later before he was bending down and grabbing at her wrists to pull her up to unsteady feet. “Do not act so shocked, Miss Carducci. You’ve witnessed death in one form or another. He is but a snail in comparison to the rest of the world you live in.”
“I don’t live in that world anymore.”
Viviana glanced pointedly around her messy dorm room. There were scattered papers on the desk and mismatched photos and mementos attached to the wall to hide the cracking paint. The room was as messy as a pigsty. Did she look like she was living her spoiled lifestyle as a mafia child? Wasn’t it obvious she’d already cut her ties, or tried to?
“I’m a student, not a Don’s daughter.”
The words seemed to go unheard, as Boris pushed her at Viktor, who openly glared. Blood dripped down his nose to cover his scowling lips. A strange sense of satisfaction filled Viviana at the sight.
“Why are you here?”
Boris sighed as he opened the drawers to the dresser and pulled out a hoodie and other articles of clothing. The items were tossed into a pile on the floor.
“Your purse, where is it?”
“Why are you here?” Viviana repeated.
Viktor’s hand stuck out again, fingers painfully gripping her jaw as he shook her face and snarled, “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense, you little bitch. Now, answer his question!”
Her heart thudded louder, pushing out an achingly hard and fast beat. “On the hook behind the door.” Suddenly, Viviana didn’t feel so courageous. She attempted to hold back tears. “I don’t have money; Uncle Sonny doesn’t give—”
“I want to ensure you have a passport,” Boris interrupted, turning to half close the door they’d kicked open to find her purse. The contents scattered across the cheap, worn carpet. “Canada was not a safe place for you, and now we’re taking you back. You have a deal to uphold. That is why we are here.”
“My father is dead; that deal is void.”
Viktor’s narrowed eyes turned on Viviana in anger and she instantly flinched away. The last thing she wanted was him hitting her again. Viktor smiled, the sight causing her stomach to roll; blood covered his teeth, turning them garish and disgusting.
“Deals with the dead are still upheld in the Bratva, girl. Their family upholds it personally. We make sure of that.”
“By twenty-five, it was agreed,” Boris said. “You were to be married, like it or not.” With a jerk of his head, Viktor released her face. Exhaling shakily, she forced herself not to rub her aching jaw. “You’re three months off from that date, so my Pakhan is requesting your presence.”
“Pah … kan.” Given the answering frown from Boris, Viviana knew her attempt at the Russian word was poor at best. “What is that?”
“Who,” he corrected with a small smile. “The boss. You call them the Don or Boss, but we Russians call them Pakhan. Or Boss, depending on his mood. Nicoli—”
“Is dead, just like my father. So their deals should be, too.”
“Stop arguing, it’s done!” Boris snapped.
What she knew of the Russian mafia was very little, and the information she had gained over the years were from discussions she hadn’t been meant to hear. Any interest Viviana outwardly showed for the Bratva—a family so similar to her own—after her father’s death was brushed off with a warning about loyalty and blood. She just wanted to understand why they’d done what they did by arranging the marriage between her and the grandson of a Bratva boss.
“Who requested me?”
The question came out strained, sounding almost foreign. Weak and scared, that’s what they made her. She was a boss’s daughter—a mafia child. Never should she be feeble and pathetic. Still, Viviana was confused. Knowing they had several upper bosses, and given the structure in their business, well, it wasn’t something she considered organized, so she had to know for sure who was requesting her.
“Who wan
ts me, now?”
“You know who.”
“No, I don’t.”
Boris checked his watch. “We don’t have time for this. The border is a—”
“Who?” Viviana forced out.
“Anton.”
Her shoulders slumped, confusion and fear rising in a mere breath of air. Anton Avdonin was the other half of the deal made between men who no longer lived. Anton, a man two years and two months older than she was, a full-blooded Russian who she only met twice in her life. He was also the grandson of a formally notorious mob boss in the Russian mafia, also known as the Bratva. Situated largely in Brighton Beach, New York, the Bratva was known to meddle in guns and narcotics trafficking, as well as money laundering and prostitution.
Viviana had a lot in common with Anton in some aspects. She was, after all, the daughter of one of the world’s most dangerous Cosa Nostra Dons. Italian in bloodline, the Cosa Nostra started as a Sicilian-based mafia who considered their unit a family structure. They, too, handled running guns and drugs, as well as partaking in other illegal operations to make money.
Why, she wondered. Why now, when he could move on, forget about it, and take whoever else he wanted for a wife? Surely after nine years, whatever connection she thought they had was all but gone, right?
“But, he can’t.”
Boris eyed her like Viviana had grown a second head. Despite the situation, her nerves were making an appearance by way of the inappropriate laughter that bubbled its way out from her chest into dead air.
“He can. Anton is preserving the wishes of his dead grandfather and your father. It was important to him.”
“But I’m useless!” she cried, feeling tears well and fall again. “Nothing to him—not Russian, not connected, and just … a fucking liability.”
With a sharp whisper in Russian, Boris grabbed her roughly and forced Viviana to move. The long barrel of a silencer pressed to her side. “Now, shut those lips of yours, Miss Carducci. We wouldn’t want to wake up the rest of this dorm and cause more issues than necessary. A car is waiting for us at the entrance. Viktor will meet us five miles past the border after he cleans up.”
Only then did she notice the plastic gas cans sitting outside in the hallway. Even though it was late afternoon and the hallways were seemingly quiet, there were still students and faculty in the building. “You can’t burn—”
“I will tape your mouth shut, girl, if you can’t keep quiet. I promise.”
As he dragged Viviana from the room, she made the mistake of looking back.
Sam’s still form was sprawled half on, half off the bed. Struck helpless, he was far too pale to be alive. Blood and matter had splattered across the wall behind him. Open, dead eyes stared blankly as blood ran red with spidery lines over the muscles on his arm, slipping in slow dribbles from his fingers to soak into the floor.
The vomit she had been holding back finally made its way out.
Chapter Two
Seated in a black SUV with heavily tinted windows, Viviana trembled in the passenger seat. The side of her shirt was soaked with blood—Sam’s—and spatters of her own vomit. Bile rose in her throat again as she found herself staring at the large spot of morbid crimson.
“If you vomit in my car, I will knock you out and put you in the back. Are we clear?” Boris asked gruffly, sitting beside her, never once taking his eyes from the road. “It’s bad enough you vomited on my shoes. These were not cheap, my dear, at nearly six hundred dollars a pair, and detailing this car will cost far more when it’s blood and vomit they’re cleaning out.”
Wanting to keep that very thing from happening, she decided to engage him in conversation. “I didn’t realize bulls were paid that much in the Russian mafia.”
His dark laughter filled the vehicle. “A bull would not have treated you so well when you fought back, not to mention if you had made one bleed like you did to my friend. Besides, their job is to protect members and high family of the Bratva, not collect payments.”
“I’m a person, not a payment,” Viviana bit out, her teeth clenching.
“The Cosa Nostra will not be too bothered by your loss, girl. You are their liability.”
Curling back her lips in disgust, Viviana hated that he wasn’t wrong. “And what, now I’m Anton’s?”
“I’m sure that uncle of yours will attempt some show at getting you back, hoping you’ll be killed in the process. Worth the risk to Anton,” Boris replied quietly. “Though, I cannot begin to fathom why. You’re a pretty enough thing, that’s for sure. Lord knows he’s got enough women—taken enough women,” he corrected with a shrug as he turned onto the exit for the TransCanada Highway.
“Cooz chaser,” she muttered sarcastically. “Just what my mother always wanted for my husband.”
“Cooz?” Boris sounded confused. “Italian slang isn’t my speciality, but Russian on the other hand…”
“Pussy.” She smirked as he coughed under his breath to hide the surprise that flitted across his features. “He likes to chase it. How many whores does he have on the side?”
Boris considered his passenger for a quick moment. “You will have to ask him those questions. He does not lack female attention, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Great.
“Do you think—”
“I am not paid to think about what Anton does behind closed doors,” he interjected sharply. “I am a brigadier—your equivalent to a capo. You, girl, are my boss’s … betrothed. That is all.”
“I am not marrying him!”
“Discuss that with Anton.”
She swallowed back her anger, wanting to keep him talking. “He’s a little young to have reached his ranking, no?”
“His grandfather prepared him well. He was a made man—a vor in our terms—at eighteen, never finishing his studies formally but still well versed and intelligent. He’s quick, cunning, and knew what he was doing because growing up, he had watched more than he spoke. The little Russian prince, his grandfather called him. They all called him that. It’s in his blood, girl, what he was meant for. Most of us respected that, and when it came time, Anton was the best choice to take over, given his own father was too sick by that point.”
“You don’t think taking me after my father was killed for striking that deal with Nicoli Avdonin is bad leadership?” Viviana snorted, crossing her arms and turning to look out the window. “He’s practically declaring war between the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra.”
“Perhaps that is what he wants; have you considered that?” Boris asked. “His decisions have to be approved by the other Pakhans who may have issues because of his desires. There were reasons his grandfather and your father thought you two would be a good match. Besides the obvious reasons why they wanted the families to join in certain aspects, you have to know it was about more than just money.”
He shrugged and added, “You shouted about not being Russian back at your dorm because the Cosa Nostra demands full-blooded Italians when joining. We do not, and any boys you birthed for Anton would still be eligible to join the Bratva, should they be what we’re looking for when they become of age.”
“My children would—”
“Not your choice to make,” he interrupted swiftly with a raised brow. “You know this, girl. You were raised in this life. You avert your eyes and ears. Walls do not speak, and windows do not see. And if your husband wishes for you to know things, only then will he tell what he considers safe for you to know.”
Viviana felt her jaw clench at his words. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not marrying him.”
Boris chuckled. “You’ve forgotten then, little Vine, what it was like nine years ago when you were a young sixteen and he only eighteen. You didn’t know he was already a dangerous man, but you knew he would be. It did not bother you, and you were both willing to fulfill the arrangement, happily.”
He’d shocked her speechless. Again, Viviana’s memories were filled with years long past. Of a time when she was young, dumb
, and head over heels for someone she didn’t even know, not really. For years, her father had repeated words, conditioned and prepared her for a marriage that was simply understood—accepted—because he said it was so. While arranged marriages were rare in the modern mafia, it sometimes happened to gain more power or wealth, but it was never spoken of publically. Roman had made the mistake of celebrating Viviana’s openly after she turned twenty, and it resulted in his death. Not that it would have made a difference when it came time for the actual marriage to take place.
The Italian daughter of a mafia Don had no business marrying the Bratva prince, they said. She should have been picking from the many sons of the Cosa Nostra batch. They would have been better suitors.
Sure …
“I was only sixteen; I couldn’t have known any better! And, anyway, how did you know that?”
“You don’t remember me, but I was always there as a bull of sorts for Anton. While he worked under his father and grandfather, I was there with him, ensuring he did what was correct and what we expected of him.”
“You were there.”
Viviana’s breathing halted for a split second, taking in what he said. That meant he probably knew what it had been like during the only two meetings between Anton and her, how happy the families had been that they took so well to one another as young children, and then when they were older, how they had fallen in …
“I didn’t … didn’t love …” She couldn’t finish the sentence as shame pulsed through her core and ached from the inside out. The words would be a lie because she had. And if she were an honest woman, Viviana would have to say those feelings never really went away. How could they when in her life there was only one person who was supposed to be just hers? “I didn’t.”
“You did,” Boris replied quietly, his hand reaching out to open the glove compartment. There, yet another small handgun sat atop a package of tissues. “Wipe your face, but do not touch my gun.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “It was a good match—still is—if you want it to be, Vine. Anton is taking major risks here. You were right in that assumption, but he is doing it for more than just the Bratva, too.”
