Page 3 of His Darkest Obsession

In three weeks, I’m to be wed to Lola Volkov in a union that is supposed to join two powerful crime families as one. The invitations have already all gone out. Everyone who is anyone in our merry band of thieves here in New York—and even some far-flung cousins and dignitaries from Kyiv and Moscow—will be attending.

But there’s just one little problem.

I have no desire to marry a woman who thinks that she already has the right to ordermymen around as if they’re her own. Nor do I have any interest in tying myself to a family whose only son and heir prefers thinking with the head between his legs, instead of the one between his shoulders.

The Volkov family has been nothing but trouble since Father signed the betrothal fifteen years ago. And fifteen years later, the deal has only gotten worse.

If anything, the rising fortunes of the Baryshev Bratva that bears our family name and the stunning collapse of Volkovs in city politics proved that perhaps Father wasn’t as wise as we imagined him to be.

Maybe that was why he was shot dead right here in this office three years ago.

My eyes flick in annoyance to the cream-colored envelope on my desk.

I know that if I were to open it, I will find expensive paper stock declaring both its importance and announcement of happier days of strength and unity ahead.

But all I see is my death warrant wrapped in letterpress printing and gilt edges.

And I have no intention of honoring that death warrant.

"Mother is concerned about seating the Filatovs and Golyshevs next to each other," Roma continues when I don’t say a word back.

I continue glaring at the lengthening shadows outside. "Am I supposed to be concerned about some minorbratokswho shouldn’t even have the right to drink my vodka?”

"Normally, no.” Roma shrugs. “But I was under the assumption that we're not looking for a bloodbath at your wedding."

There’s those two fucking words again.

My wedding.

Finally, I turn around, walk over to the desk, and pick up the invitation.

“Let the Filatovs and Golyshevs kill each other for all I care.” I crumple the invitation into a ball before throwing it into the trash can nearby. “Might even make the wedding worth attending.”

“Tolya,” Roma switches to my diminutive, as he has always done whenever he tries to appeal to my sensibilities. “This wedding is Father’s last deal. You can’t just back out of it.”

"Romochka." Now it’smyturn to usehisdiminutive. "When was the last time you looked at the books? At the Volkov debts? At the fucking baggage that family will bring to the Bratva? It’s a shit deal, and I have a plan to help us get out of this shit deal before it sinks us for good.”

“How?”

“A representative from the mayor’s office came by,” I tell him. “Not one of his official ones he can parade in front of a camera. One of his fixers.”

Roma’s eyebrow shoots up. His curiosity piques even as wariness still clouds his face. He’s mulling over the idea in his head, same as I did, and it’s at least intriguing enough for him to consider.

“The fixer told me that what Grant Bennet needs now, more than ever, is a friend.” I smile cryptically. “A friend who can make certain problems disappear, especially as he heads into such a contentious election.”

To say Bennet is heading into a contentious election is an understatement. As popular of a mayor as he has been for the last twelve years, Bennet faces the unfortunate problem that he’s seeking out a fourth term after having already secured an unprecedented third term.

Naturally, all of his opponents are happily digging up dirt in the hopes of finding something they might be able to use against him.

And they are finding alot.

Nothing to quite sink him just yet. But it’s got him spooked enough to want to tie up as many loose ends as he can before the election in a few more weeks.

“And what is Bennet offering this friend?” Roma asks.

“Oh, nothing crazy.” The smile on my face widens. “Just a gentlemen’s agreement to putourmen into key positions acrossthe city. Sanitations. Fire department. Buildings and business permits. Police commissioner.”

“Just how many problems are we talking about?”