Sinful Hearts: Chapter 3

“Here. You look like you could use this.”

With a grunt, I raise my head from the conference table at the sound of my sister’s voice. Callie leans against the table, eying me with a mix of amusement and genuine concern. Except that the mix is probably closer to ninety percent amusement and ten percent concern, rather than fifty-fifty.

“What?”

She snickers. “This.” When she raises the iced coffee and gives it a tempting shake, the fatigue and the pain from last night start to fade just a bit. I usually take it black, but I don’t even care that it’s got tons of milk and probably way too much sugar in it.

At this point, it could be laced with diesel fuel and fucking arsenic, and I’d probably still slug it back gratefully.

“Please tell me you’re not fucking with me.”

Callie grins. “Nope. For realsies, take it. You look like shit.”

“Well fuck you, too,” I mutter through a shallow smirk as I pluck the offered plastic cup from her hand. I suck greedily on the straw and immediately regret it.

“Christ, did you actually get any coffee with your sugar today?”

Callie makes a face. “What? I like it sweet.”

“This tastes like diabetes.”

“It’s gonna taste like nothing but your motherfucker of a hangover when I take it back because you’re being an ungrateful dick.”

Her hand darts out as if to snatch it back. But I pull away, taking another heavy slug. Tooth-rotting dose of sugar or not, in this candy-sweet mix is some caffeine. Presumably, at least. As I swallow, my nose wrinkles.

“Something’s off with this milk.”

“Oh, it’s oat milk. I’m going dairy-free.”

I wrinkle my nose. My sister rolls her eyes again. “Dude, come on. Gift horse. Mouth. No peeking. You ever heard that one?”

“This shit tastes like it from a horse’s mouth—

”

But in my exhausted, beaten-up state, I’m too slow for Callie’s sugar-fueled speed as she plucks the cup from my hand again.

“Enjoy the hangover, ass.”

I sigh, rolling the ache out of my shoulders and shoving my fingers through my hair. “I’m not hungover.”

“Jeez. Could’ve fooled me.” Callie glances at her watch. “How is it that the early ones?”

She’s got a point. Of all my siblings, Callie tends to be my partner in minor clock-related crimes. Like being late for family dinners. Or to meetings called by our oldest brother Ares, the relatively new head of the Drakos family empire.

That’s actually why we’re here today: a full family meeting in the brand spanking new offices of Thermopylae Acquisitions—so named after the place where the fabled three hundred Spartan warriors held their ground against thousands, because our grandmother Dimitra truly believes we’re the descendants of the shirtless guys with the CGI abs from the movie and nobody can convince her otherwise This new—and —business venture is the start of a new direction Ares is trying to push our historically criminal family in. I mean, yes, crime is still very much on the table. But with a fully above-board real estate and private equities management firm, we can better those crimes. Not to mention launder our dirty money much more easily.

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

My little sister snickers as she drops into the chair next to me. “Well, I was checking in at The Banshee on my way in. So I was practically right around the corner.”

“And how is your new Irish pub?”

She grins widely, the excitement shining in her eyes. “Oh my God, it’s looking awesome. You’re coming to the soft opening next month, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Recently Callie, my sister-in-law Neve, and sister Eilish went in together on buying an older Irish pub in the West Village. At first, I was skeptical, figuring Callie just wanted a place to party. But as they’ve gone through the process of remodeling the place into an amazing spot complete with a basement lounge and small stage, hiring staff, and working on branding and marketing, the more I’m convinced Callie might actually be a natural at this.

“Anyway, that’s my excuse for being early. You?”

I grunt noncommittally. When she sighs and passes the coffee back to me, I force another mouthful of not-even-close-to-milk and sugar down my throat. Callie gives me a smug look.

“Let me guess, you didn’t sleep at your place last night.”

I shrug. Callie snickers.

“Shall I bother asking what her name was, or should we stick to something easier for you to remember, like hair color? Or maybe cup size?”

“Ha-ha-haaa,” I drawl. “For the record, I was out with Sean.”

“Wow. Have you made your way through every single woman in New York so that you have to bat for the other team now?”

“Oh, we’ve got all the jokes today, don’t we,” I mutter. “Sean . And again, I’m not hungover. I’m fucking sore. That motherfucker put my ass through the wringer last night.”

Callie bites back a snorting laugh. “There are many tasteless jokes I could make right now.”

I roll my eyes. “

, you fucking weirdo.”

She chuckles. “Yeah yeah yeah, I know.” She arches a brow. “I’m not surprised you’re seriously hurting this morning. Sean is a beast.”

Sean Farrell, aka the son of Dominic Farrell, head of one of the vassal families to the Kildare Irish mafia family, has become a good friend of mine. Less than a year ago, if the two of us were fighting, it would have most likely been in the street instead of a ring, and there’d have probably been knives involved, possibly guns, not boxing gloves.

Because back then, the Kildares were our enemies, and we were headed toward an all-out, blood-in-the-streets, nuclear level war with them. Then my older brother Ares married Neve Kildare, joining the families, creating a united front and burying the hostilities.

I’d always known vaguely somewhere in the back of my head that Sean was a top-notch fighter. Then, when we accidentally crossed paths one night at the underground fights I sometimes go to, we hit it off.

I’m pretty good, but Christ. That dude is . Honest to God, there’s a solid chance he could go pro. And from time to time, like last night, I convince him to put me through my paces in a ring. This typically results in me getting my ass served to me. But it’s also a great way to learn and get better.

So, no, I didn’t sleep at my place in Brooklyn last night, because I was so knocked to shit after ten rounds with that motherfucker that I crashed on the couch of his Lower East Side apartment.

Okay…there have been a couple or twelve shots of whiskey last night too, since Sean insists on embodying every single stereotype of a hard-drinking, tough-fighting Irishman. Yeah, in fact Callie’s right: I rocking a small hangover to accompany the full-body ache of getting the absolute shit knocked out of me last night. Fun combination. Not.

Callie sighs loudly and glances at her watch again. “Ares did say ten, right? It’s nine fifty-eight. If he’s not here in two, I’m—”

As if on cue, the door to the conference room flies open, and the rest of our family crashes in like a wave of chaos, shattering the silence. Ya-ya walks in first, her eyes wide and bright as she clasps her hands together, drinking in the view of Lower Manhattan through the wall of windows. It’s our grandmother’s first time seeing the Thermopylae Acquisitions offices completely finished, and even though I’m exhausted, sore, and hungover, I grin at the pride and joy on her face.

“

”

Kratos, my younger but enormous brother, chuckles a rumbling laugh as he walks in after her.

“Not bad, huh, Ya-ya?”

Behind him, Ares strides in last, like an emperor storming into his war room. I can’t help but grin.

Ares was never supposed to be king. And not so long ago, he wasn’t, just like he wasn’t the oldest Drakos sibling. Back then, it was our older brother, Atlas, who reigned over our family empire, after murdering our father.

Luckily, that reign was comically—or tragically, depending on your point of view—short-lived due to Atlas’ idiocy and pride—and it was a dethroning that got him killed in the process. Ares took up the crown after him, moaning and groaning about “not being meant” to be king.

But the truth is, it’s a crown he was born to wear.

Atlas was the oldest, but also the cruelest. Years older than all of us, he always felt more like a mean uncle than a brother. And the particular irony of it being who killed our equally unlovable father is that it was Atlas who was always our dad’s favorite. The one he poured the most of his cruelty, malice, and pride into.

Ares was smart, though. He took the strength from our brutal upbringing, and left the cruelty and the wickedness on the table. My younger brother Kratos is the strong, silent one. Then there’s our brother, Deimos, who’s currently running the European side of our empire in London and is every inch the God of Terror he’s named after. Calliope, or Callie, the baby of the family, well… She’s her own force of nature, which is why we get along so well.

And then there’s me. The wild card. The unhinged one. The God of the Underworld himself.

It shouldn’t be the case, but somehow, even though sometimes we disagree, we all make these personalities work together—both as a family, and as an empire.

Ares pauses near the head of the table, arching a stern brow at Callie and me.

“Thanks for dressing up,” he mutters, eyeing Callie’s flip-flops, cutoff jean shorts and hoodie, and my black jeans, motorcycle boots and white t-shirt.

“You didn’t mention a dress code,” Callie fires back.

“I mean, it’s a business meeting at our new financial firm, Callie,” he sighs. “It’s sort of implied.”

“Yeah, ,” I grin at her. She flips me off.

“How did you guys not know to dress up?” Kratos grunts, glancing down at his sharp dark blue suit, custom tailored to his large frame.

“

,” Callie mutters, guzzling her iced coffee.

Ares sighs and shakes his head before taking his seat at the head of the table. Kratos and our grandmother sit across from Callie and I, and Ares leans forward to push a button on the speaker in front of him. After a few rings, the line picks up.

“D, you with us?”

“Loud and clear,” Deimos’ unmistakably gravely tone rasps through the phone. “Hi, Ya-ya.”

“

,” she chirps back.

“Well, we’re all here,” I sigh, quickly jutting my arm out to snatch Callie’s iced coffee out of her hands. I take another heavy pull, grimacing before I give it back. “Should we start this thing?”

“One sec,” Ares glances at his watch. “We’re just waiting for—”

The door behind him swings open.

.

I mean, of she’s here. She’s our family’s legal counsel, and a partner at Crown and Black, the firm we use for most of our legitimate business legal needs. But even still, the second Elsa Guin strides into the room, my brow furrows deeply.

The woman’s my fucking nemesis.

Honestly, I don’t even know how that started. It’s not like we ever clashed over something big and important. It’s just…

. Everything about her gets under my fucking skin. The fact that she’s a fucking ice queen with a stick up her ass the size of the Chrysler Building. Those conservative, drab, gray skirt suits she’s always wearing, with her ice-queen white-blonde hair—hair that makes her look like a long-lost Targaryen sister on scraped back in a severe bun or, on the days she’s feeling wild, just a ponytail.

There are some people you meet in life who are just your fucking opposite. And that’s Elsa for me. She’s the decaf chamomile tea to my shot of whiskey. The electric scooter to my gas-guzzling American muscle car.

The wet fucking blanket to my raging fire.

She’s a bloodhound for anything fun, and an at extinguishing that fun with her schoolteacher-in-charge-of-detention vibe.

But, all of that aside, there’s another thing about Elsa that pisses me off beyond anything else. And try as I might, I can’t fucking change a thing about it.

It’s complete and utter bullshit. Something totally fucked with my inner wiring. A critical flaw in my programming. But whatever it is, despite being a thorn in my side and the coldest ice queen in the western world…Elsa’s fucking .

Not in an overt way. I mean the woman is like a robot who’s been programmed to find zero humor in anything and speak like a goddamn legal briefing all the time. She wears thick-rimmed glasses, and I honestly doubt she owns a single piece of clothing that isn’t office attire in various tones of gray or black.

She isn’t hot in the way the women I’m usually attracted to are—leggy model types with vapid thoughts, nothing but slutty clubwear in their closets, and mouths far better suited for sucking my cock than engaging in anything even remotely approaching intelligent conversation.

No, Elsa’s hot in that sexy librarian you want to gag with a paperback while you fuck the shit out of her against the shelves of the Classic Lit section kind of way.

…

that I’ve thought that particular scenario through.

Several times.

I think it’s her accent, too. There’s something about that posh British tone that makes me want to hear her say things with it.

When she walks in, her eyes catch my glare for just half a second. But it’s enough for her nose to wrinkle, a small sneer curling her lips before she almost instinctively rolls her eyes and pulls her attention away from me.

Her boss, or at least one of her bosses, Alistair Black, strides in behind her. I don’t really know Alistair at all. But I do know that despite being a champion of the law, there’s a darkness in him. Call it game recognizing game, or one individual with fucked-up tastes recognizing another. But that blond-haired, blue-eyed charm of his doesn’t fool me. Plus, rumor has it that he’s a member of the very club I plan on going to tonight. The kind of club deviants like me go to.

Alistair shuts the conference room door before he shakes Ares’ hand.

“Hope we didn’t keep you?”

My brother shakes his head. “Not at all. We were just starting.”

Alistair flashes the room one of his charming million-dollar smiles that seems like it was custom made to win over juries and judges before he unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat at the table.

Elsa, meanwhile, looks around the room like a teacher surveying the detention room she has to monitor. The facade only cracks a little when she gives my sister—who she’s been helping with the legal aspects of re-opening The Banshee—a quick flash of a smile before taking her seat.

Ares clears his throat. “Since we’re discussing the acquisition today, I’ve asked Mr. Black and Ms. Guin to sit in on this meeting.”

I arch a brow, perking up when he says it. “The acquisition” is something we’ve been idly talking about for months. But if we’re all here to talk about it, with legal representation, I get the feeling it’s become more than a hopeful idea.

“As we’ve all talked about before, Serj Mirzoyan, the head of certain Albanian”…he glances at Elsa and Alistair, clearing his throat…“

in New York…”

It’s a cute way of avoiding the word “mafia” in front of the lawyers. Even if they’re both painfully aware of what our family does and who we are, plausible deniability is always a good thing.

“…wants out. He’s done with running things, and he wants to leave with a fat paycheck in his hands. And we’re very well-positioned to be the ones who that fat paycheck, in exchange for full control of all his business assets.”

Deimos clears his throat at the other end of the phone line. “Remind me again why he’s snubbing his own kids on this? Why wouldn’t one of them just take over if he’s ready to retire?”

Ares shakes his head. “He’s not snubbing them. They’ll be compensated well for—”

“Because Melik and Vanya Mirzoyan were raised like trust fund brats, not mafia heirs,” I break in. “And Serj is smart enough to understand that a flat payout is a much better inheritance for them than an empire they’ll almost assuredly burn to the ground or sell off piecemeal for cocaine and shopping money.”

Ares smirks. “That’s basically the short version, yeah.”

“We’re not worried about his motives, though?” I frown. “I mean, Serj has plenty of reasons to try and fuck us over on this.”

My older brother nods. “You’re referring to the bad blood from years ago?”

“

, I’m referring to the fact that our father, may-he-burn-in-Hell, put a bullet through Serj’s father. Call me old-fashioned, but I feel like that’s not the best foundation for a—”

“Mr. Mirzoyan has been quite open about the…

between your two families.”

My jaw grinds as I slide my eyes from Ares to stab my gaze lethally into Elsa.

“I’m sorry, are you here again?”

Callie kicks me under the table. Ares glares at me.

“Because she’s been working on this deal since the get-go and has done significant research into the financials Serj provided, ,” he mutters, with a look that says, “knock it the fuck off.”

I shrug, leaning back in my chair.

“Yes, there’s history between our family and his,” Ares nods. “But I’m confident after speaking with Serj that the past is truly in the past. He had about as much love for his father as we all did for ours. And he wants this deal. He’s hungry for it.”

I frown, folding my arms over my chest. “Okay, so what’s the damage going to be?”

“A hundred and fifty mil. That’s for the whole thing. Every asset, every business Serj controls.”

Kratos whistles. Deimos mutters a curse in Greek over the line that draws a sharp look from our grandmother as she goes to swat the speakerphone.

“It’s a lot, I know.” Ares steeples his hands on the conference table in front of him, and he glances across to Elsa and Alistair. “Could you please give us a minute?”

The two lawyers nod, standing and closing their legal pads before making an exit.

My brain refuses to acknowledge how good Elsa’s ass looks in gray tweed, even if my eyes insist on following it out the door.

When they’re gone, Ares grins at us.

“Ya-ya, do you want to take over for this part?”

Our grandmother smiles, drumming her fingertips on the tabletop. She may be small and frail, but the list of people who’ve rued the day they underestimated Dimitra Drakos is lengthy. The woman is as sharp as a blade, with all the destructive power of a hurricane when she puts her mind to it.

“One hundred and fifty is not a small number,” she says in a slow, measured tone. “But, it will get us more than even Serj is aware of.”

My brow arches curiously.

“As you know, I sit on a number of boards overseeing rezoning and redevelopment throughout the city.”

Despite her age, Dimitra sits on no less than of these boards. First, because she genuinely does want to better New York, and make sure the city keeps affordable housing available, especially for immigrants, given that she’s one, too.

But second, because her insider knowledge picked up at the various meetings of these boards helps funnel a of construction jobs to Drakos-owned companies.

“One of them is the new West Side Urban Redevelopment Sector,” my grandmother goes on. “Which encompasses Nine-Fifty-Two Lincoln Place.”

Something clicks in my brain. But Deimos beats me to it.

“That’s Serj’s parking garage.”

Dimitra grins. “It is… At the moment, yes.”

I frown. “Why is a parking garage of interest to us as it pertains to this deal? I mean, it’s New York, I get that parking is easy passive income. But—”

“It’s of interest,” Dimitra smiles, “because in nine months the city is going to approve rezoning that whole block for mixed-use housing and retail.”

The room goes silent.

Holy , that’s huge. Serj’s parking garage—a dismal, brutalist thing from the eighties—takes up almost two thirds of the block.

Ares grins. “Tell them the best part, Ya-ya.”

She shrugs, a smug grin on her face. “The rezoning discussion is under a strict gag order. All closed-door meetings, all participants buttoned up with NDAs. Not a soul knows it’s happening. Not even Serj Mirzoyan.”

The eyebrows of everyone around the table begin to raise as the implications of all this settle in.

“Actually, the part,” Ares growls hungrily, “is that given comparable properties in the area, we’re looking at a potential two-

dollar profit from this.”

“

,” Callie breathes.

My own lips curl into a smile. “And Serj really doesn’t know?”

Ya-ya shakes her head. “No. None of the property owners will find out about it for another six months, to avoid a price war or any issues with landlords trying to push out existing tenants on the adjacent properties.”

Ares’ brow furrows. “There’s something else, though. Up until two weeks ago, Serj was extremely keen on our deal happening. Since then, he seems to have cooled a little. My guess was that he was courting another offer, and it seems I was right.”

He pulls an envelope from of his jacket and slips out a number of black and white photos, which he tosses across the table for all of us to see.

“That, obviously, is Serj Mirzoyan meeting with Gavan Tsarenko.”

I scowl at the pictures of the older, graying, greasy-haired Serj shaking hands outside of the Russian Tea Room with the young, tall, dark-haired, heavily tattooed, and very handsome head of the Reznikov Bratva’s New York City operations.

He’s quite possibly one of the most powerful men in the entire city, despite only being something like twenty-four years old.

“Guess we know who Serj’s other interested buyer is,” Deimos mutters.

Ares nods. “Yeah. And knowing Gavan, there’s almost no he doesn’t know about that rezoning, or he’d have even less interest in dealing with Serj than we do. The Russians and the Albanians had a turf dispute less than a year ago, and Serj’s men capped one of Gavan’s top , whom I gather was also a close friend of his.”

“And now he and Serj are doing business…?” I scowl. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening unless Tsarenko knew for a fact he was screwing Serj over bigtime.”

“Exactly,” Ares sighs. “So we need to be smart. If we come on too strong, Serj will probably realize we know something he doesn’t, which’ll spook him. And even if that doesn’t happen, we can’t win a bidding war against the Russians. They’ve got deeper pockets than we do.”

He frowns as his eyes meet mine.

“You still go to that…” He clears his throat, shooting a quick glance Ya-ya’s way before turning back to me. “That of yours, yeah?”

I lift a non-committal shoulder. “At times?”

“Good. Clear your schedule for the night. I want to run something by you later.” I nod, and he presses a button on the table in front of him. “Jenna, can you send Ms. Guin and Mr. Black back in, please?”

Twenty minutes later, we’re wrapping up the last bits of legitimate business that Ares needs the lawyers for. Then, everyone’s standing and filing out solo or in pairs. It’s not until I nod goodbye to Callie that I realize that the only two people left in the room besides me are Elsa and Alistair.

“You’re still good for the sit-down tonight with Taylor and Dante Sartorre?”

My ears prick up at the name. Besides being a major player in the New York City underworld, not to mention a majority owner of Club Venom, Dante Sartorre is also a cousin of Luca Carveli, a west coast big time player with, shall we say, unfortunate connections to our family.

“Connections”, as in, our father made a business deal with him years ago in exchange for Callie’s hand in marriage when she turns twenty-one. Which is…coming up.

It’s something we’ll definitely have to deal with at some point. Probably sooner rather than later.

So, yeah, damn right my brows fly up when I hear Elsa and her boss mention Dante’s name. I pull out my phone and pretend to be doing something on it with my back to them.

“Absolutely,” Elsa replies in that prim, proper, frosty ice-queen with a stick up her ass way of hers.

“Good. Thanks. Taylor’s a stone-cold killer lawyer, but it’s always good to have back-up. Especially with a guy like Sartorre.”

I tap away on my phone, glancing up to give a small nod of my chin to Alistair as he walks past me and out the door.

And then, it’s just the two of us.

I swivel my chair around lazily, frowning as Elsa packs her laptop and stacks of legal pads into her giant shoulder-strapped briefcase.

“You have a meeting with Dante Sartorre?”

Her head snaps up, those flinty hazel eyes of hers narrowing suspiciously, like they always do around me, as if she’s confident I’m perpetually scheming something.

I mean, it’s at least half true.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“I was sitting eight feet away from you and my ears work.” My brow furrows. “Sartorre is a dangerous man, you know.”

Elsa shrugs. “Your family is equally dangerous, and I’m just fine.”

“Dante is different. You should be careful.”

She sighs heavily, like she’s waiting for me to drop the punchline of some joke I’ve set her up for. When it doesn’t come, she frowns.

“Is there a reason you care?”

“Just looking out for my favorite ice queen. If you get whacked, how else am I going to cool off a room in the summer?”

Elsa’s pink lips curl into a sarcastic sneer. “Hades, it’s perpetually to me how a man can reach the age of thirty without ever having evolved past children’s playground insults.”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

“I really don’t care.”

I grin widely. Elsa glares at me over the rim of her glasses.

“Something amusing?”

“Yes. It’s how immune you think you are to my charms.”

She rolls her eyes, shouldering the strap of her bag. “I , in fact, immune to you, Hades. To every dimension of you—both of them, actually. And I’m sorry if no woman has had the heart to tell you this before, but sophomoric humor and trust fund cockiness do not, in fact, make you charming or attractive.”

“I think there are woman probably within spitting distance of this very building who would disagree.”

Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Precisely. Hades, let me put it this way,” she snaps coldly. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth and the continuation of the human race depended on it happening.”

My brow furrows as I stroke my jaw. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“Oh?

, pray tell, is interesting?”

“It just seems like you’ve put a of thought into the mechanics of, and situations involving, fucking me.”

Her pale face turns crimson in half a second, her eyes widening as her mouth forms a little “O” shape.

“

, Hades.”

She storms past me to the door.

“Oh, and Ice Queen?”

She tenses in the open doorway, turning back to glare at me.

I just grin. “Next time you’re thinking about me—”

“I think about—”

“Just know that I could make you come harder than you’ve ever come in your life with just one finger.”

She stares at me, face bright red and fuming as I grin at her.

“Which finger would that be?” She smirks as she brings a hand up. “This one?”

Elsa’s middle finger stands stiffly up in the air, a tight grin on her lips, before she whirls and storms out the door.