Romeo The Mafia Casanova

To do what was needed, he couldn’t stand on the outside any longer. He needed to be on the inside. Only from there could he hunt for a killer.

“I’m not your puppet to control. I never was. I’m not Mikhail. Say what you want because this is the last you’ll see of me. The Volkov empire is under my rule now. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll slaughter any man you send my way and I’ll kill you too if you so much as lift a finger against me.”

From this distance, he could see the man’s thin lips turn white as he clamped his mouth shut. Holding back.

Murder-for-power spilled rivers of blood in the streets of every corner of the city before any semblance of peace came about. Years of war and death smeared the Volkov name to some and for others, it represented power and respect.

It made him sick.

His father’s steel gaze tracked him silently as he moved across the room in deliberate strides, the scent of old smoke and vodka hitting his nostrils. For the last four days he’d lived with the smell of burned flesh that leeched the life from his body and clung to his dreaming and waking hours like a nightmare that thrived from his misery, so the stale scents were eerily welcomed.

Images of what they’d left of his brother on his doorstep haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Not since his young adult years had he felt such desolation and hopeless despair.

Left to yet again pick up the pieces alone. His father was too self-absorbed to see the pain others suffered while he clawed out more territory, more power. More money.

His brother was the fool always trying to please their father. Looking for the man’s approval. Which pushed the idiot into doing anything their father wanted.

Fuck. Maybe he should have never left and instead assumed the burden that accompanied the Volkov name.

He understood his mistakes now.

The older man lifted his heavy frame from the comfort of his leather chair and slammed a meaty fist against the solid oak of his desk, sending another stack of papers to the floor, his eyes flashing bright with a warning.

“I didn’t ask you here to fight. Your fool brother got in over his head. What happened to him is on him. He was a traitor in the end. Traitors die.” A gnarled finger came up to point at Sevastyan. “You can blame yourself for that if you need pair of shoulders to place it on,” he told him grimly, his words thick and rolling. “The Volkov family is strong because of me. And only me.”

Sevastyan let the silence stretch between them for long seconds from where he stood opposite the desk. Fury singed his veins, pulling his lips back in a deep primal growl.

“Listen to me very carefully. All the man ever wanted was your love, and you turned him into someone I haven’t recognized for years. You did that. Not me. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Death. It all oozed from his pores. Everywhere he went the stench of sin followed.”

Browse pinched low over a sharp gaze, his father’s scowl turning darker by the second as rage brightened his cold eyes with a warning.

Bring it. In the mood he was in, he’d let fate determine whatever outcome she saw fit.

Despite what he said, guilt stalked the corridors of his mind. Coming here was a mistake.

Memories of all the times he tried to heal the gaping wound between him and his father tumbled through his mind and led him down a dead-end road. Foolish on his part to entertain the idea of death bringing them closer.

Sevastyan turned on his heels and edged around double oxblood chairs positioned between him and the exit. He paused, hand on the knob. “I’m done wasting my time on a dead man. Live your days knowing your family is gone.”

Sleep-deprived and filled with festering thoughts, he scrubbed a hand over his face before he turned his attention over his shoulder. “Whatever it is you wanted to say to me, you can die with it.” He deadpanned his tone, suddenly tired.Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

Neatly combed silver-striped hair never slipped a single strand out of place as he whipped his head up and pinned him with a lethal glare. The formidable man from decades ago makes a brief appearance.

His father pointed at the empty chair across from his desk, his charcoal dress shirt stretched tight as his muscles flexed. “Take a seat, boy.” Dark eyes flared with anger. The tangy spice of it left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

The barked command skated up his spine and set his teeth on edge.

“I stopped being a boy the day you threw our mother out of the house because you were tired of her, preferring something young, busty, and blonde. You left our mother broken. I was left to pick up the pieces of her wounded heart and care for her when it was your job.” His tone dipped murderously low. “You left her like trash in a back alley. If anyone has shamed our family name, sullied it, it has been you. Not me. Not Mikhail.”

He took a calming breath past the clawing agony that wanted to shred the last remaining pieces of his heart. His words fell between them, meaningless to such a cold-hearted bastard, he knew, but he’d said them and meant every single word. “There’s a house full of guests here to mourn the death of your son. You might want to consider coming out of your office long enough to acknowledge them.”

The head of the Volkov family swayed back on his heels with a glare as if he’d delivered a punch to the face. “Your mother was weak. Weaker than most. But what happened between your mother and me is none of your damn business. But your brother? He was weak, too. Disgusting. I should have killed him the day she pushed him out. And you should have stepped into my place as I wanted.”

Light from a nearby lamp caught in the man’s silver hair as he shook his head. Age weighed on him, his broad, ample shoulders rounded forward, and the fine lines of decades gone by were now deep-rooted ruts of worry against weathered cheeks.

“You made it my business when I was left to care for her after cancer left her so damn frail she couldn’t make it to the bathroom alone. Couldn’t feed herself. She needed her husband and you abandoned her for a young piece of pussy.” Sevastyan strode deeper into the room so furious he nearly foamed at the mouth at the rage pouring out of him. “Let that be the last time we speak of my mother or I won’t be held responsible for what I do next.”

Neither man spoke for a long moment as tensions grew so thick Sevastyan could rake his fingers through it and leave gashes.

Shame, or what passed for it in his father, crossed over the man’s face, making him appear vulnerable for a fleeting moment.

Emotion wasn’t exactly the older man’s strong suit, but buried beneath the egotistical dribble were the notes of what sounded like remorse. His father trailed off as though there was something more he wanted to say. Several seconds ticked by before he reanimated. He waved a hand as if batting away pesky memories.

“You can wallow in pity and useless grief.”

Sevastyan’s face went hard. “Any responsibilities Mikhail had now fall on me. His assets are mine. This house. The Volkov men, businesses, and money. Everything. My men have already made the transfers. Anything needs doing, it goes through me.”

“Your men.” The older Volkov spat on the floor. “Greedy bastards. They only want money and power. Everything you say you hate.”

“They never wanted anything from you. Just like me. Lucian, Roman, Matteo. They are my family now.” Sevastyan’s eyes narrowed. “And they’ll be the ones to help me find what I’m looking for. And when I do, there will be blood spilled. Take my words to heart, old man. I will catch Mikhail’s killer and everyone involved. That’s a promise. And Father,” he made sure the older man looked into his eyes, “…you’ll find I keep my promises.”

This was the only way he would find the answers he needed. Complete and utter control. To do that he had to step into the devil’s domain.

“Why the sad face, Father? You’re finally getting what you wanted. Me as king.”