Page 47

The air has a faint whiskey scent to it, and I know that my father is the reason why.
I glance around, looking at our family’s estate. The main hall stretches before me with tall windows lining the walls.
The sunlight shines through, and for one second—one solid second—I feel pity for Chiara.
She has moved from her beautiful home country into dark and gloomy London, and now that the sun is bright here over in the outskirts of New York, she is still forced to remain in a dark and gloomy room.
But when I remember that she’s here now—with us—I no longer feel pity. Instead, I feel pride.
Mikhail walks beside me as we both make our way towards our father. We have lived in this house throughout our entire lives; we know every nook, every corner, and every shadow of this place.
This is our kingdom.
This is our birthright.
This house has held generations of us, fulfilling the legacy of the Bratva, and it will soon hold our children too.
My cock stirs with the thought of Chiara so swollen with our child. She will be a wonderful mother, and Mikhail and I will learn to be good fathers.
The best fathers.
Our own father has taught us well.
As we reach the first floor, his voice calls us from one of his offices. I step forward first, my mind already running with the details of what needs to be said to him, and what needs to be discussed. Behind me, Mikhail follows, and together, we make our way towards him.
His voice is steady, cold and commanding as he speaks into his phone, and as soon as he spots us, he cuts the line.
I breathe a little easier now.
Our father is a calm man.
And in this house, his word is law.
As we both approach him, my eyes glance over the glass bottles of liquor on his oak desk, and the half empty crystal decanter. Our father leans back in his leather chair, his eyes sharp as he waits for us to finally approach him. Once we do, both Mikhail and myself settle into our seats across from him.
Immediately, a subtle smile appears on our father’s lips as he looks between us both.
“My sons,” he begins to say. “How are you today?”
It’s a routine question, one we’ve heard countless times, but it’s a question he always asks us, using the same tone he useswhen he addresses us about matters of the Bratva, or when he’s simply making sure that we’re not slipping up.
“We’re good, Otets.”
I reply, glancing over at Mikhail who nods in agreement.
We don’t say anything else for now.
Our father looks between us, his expression focused as though he’s about to say something important. His fingers drum across the table, his ring catching under the light in the room. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, this time, his tone more serious.
“There’s been an unfortunate situation within the Italian mafia. A princess has been taken from them.”
Every word that leaves his mouth is deliberate, and measured too.
I straighten up slightly, the mere mention of her piquing my interest. Beside me, Mikhail shifts in his chair, leaning forward a fraction.
“A princess?” My brother asks, his voice low. He’s always been the more curious one of the two of us, and he’s always been quick to question anything,andeverything. “Why do we care about an Italian princess?”
Our father’s eyes harden.