Chapter 19: Corrupted Heart: Chapter 19

“This is ground control to Major Drakos. Can you hear me, Major Drakos.”

I blink before I pull my gaze back to Ares.

Yes, I was zoning the fuck out. And no, it’s not because I’m disinterested in going over the quarterly financials of our legitimate investments with my brother.

It’s because somewhere along the line, the game became real. Somewhere, Bianca went from my toy to my wife.

My plaything to something more.

Much more.

Someone who doesn’t flee or try to hide from my darkness. She complements it. Encourages it. And yet also soothes it, like a cool drink of water my parched mouth never knew it needed.

The other night at the engagement party, I should have spiraled. Being cooped up in a room with Amaya, being threatened by her and backed into a corner, should have shoved me down into a black pit for the next month.

Instead, I kissed Bianca.

Our first kiss. My first kiss at all.

Bitterness clouds my thoughts. That’s another aspect of my fucked-up brokenness that the she-devil is to be thanked for. I’ve put this all out on the table enough times to enough “expert therapists” to know that my need for darkness, dominance, and yes, some violence in my sexual encounters stems from that time when I was the one without the power.

Are you going to be my good boy today?

A viscous, inky blackness bleeds though my brain, then I force it back into the shadows.

Yes, kissing is another of my hangups. Because it was the one thing Amaya wouldn’t do with me.

Assaulting me for years when I was barely a teenager was fine in her books. But kissing, allowing a modicum of human intimacy, was strictly off the table.

And that’s precisely why I’m the way I am. Because it was hammered into me, far too young, that sex equals power, not love. Sex is a war. A battle to be won. And battles and war necessitate strength, brutality, and ruthlessness.

Needless to say, there’s a reason I’m the last of my siblings to have found someone. Why I don’t date. Why I seek women for temporary arrangements, and why those temporary arrangements usually entail an NDA and me radically toning down who I am, because there’s no way women want that.

Women fantasize about the monster. But they don’t really want him when he comes out to play.

Or, at least, no one did until Bianca.

Bianca, who entices him out of his cave. Who goads and antagonizes. Who seems to delight in the darkness as it pours out of the mouth of that rocky opening to consume her.

Bianca, who may very well be as fucked up as I am for some reason.

Well, not as fucked up. But at least we’re playing in the same league.

“Kratos.”

Once again, I drag myself from the thoughts swirling in my mind.

“Sorry. What?”

Ares and I are sitting by the massive wall of windows in his gorgeous corner office at Thermopylae Holdings. Thermopylae, a nod to Ya-ya and her obsession with the Spartans, is our legitimate business venture. A hedge fund, to turn our dirty money into a LOT more money. Lots cleaner, too.

I never went to business school like Ares. But I’m a quick learner, and I’ve been absorbing this stuff by his side for years. But today, I’m distracted.

I’m thinking of that first kiss, and the ones that came after.

And how I want more.

It’s sort of tough to pay attention to a goddamn P&L sheet when I’m trying to process the idea that I might be far more emotionally invested in my fake fiancée than I should be.

“Welcome back,” Ares says dryly.

“You were saying…?”

My brother sighs, leaning back in his chair. “You want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Kratos. I do know a thing or two about marrying to stop a war.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I shrug. “It is what it is.”

Ares’ brows furrow. “But I’m sorry you weren’t given a choice. And that this was the way this shook out to avoid⁠—”

“You don’t have to apologize. This is what we do. What you give for family.”

His mouth thins. “Look, I know you keep a lot that goes on inside that big head of yours from us…”

I smile wryly. “Nah, I’m an open book.”

“And I’m the queen of fucking France. I’m not asking you to let me in, man. You have your reasons you don’t want to, and that’s cool. But I know you had it rougher than most of them realize when we were kids.”

I say nothing, staring at the floor, my jaw clenched.

“Obviously I don’t know the details, and again, you never have to tell me, although you know you always can. But I caught…glimpses.” His brow furrows as he leans forward, steepling his hands. “I saw how brutal Atlas and Dad were to you. I saw the way Dad paraded you around to his buddies like some sort of heavyweight champ. Like a weapon. And⁠—”

“Let’s focus on the numbers and not the monsters under my bed, okay?”

Ares is silent for a moment. Then he reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. “I’m here for you, that’s all.”

“I know,” I growl quietly.

He nods. “Good. Oh, before I forget.” His brow furrows. “I got a weird call here at the office the other day.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a Ms. Mircari’s assistant called?”

I freeze.

I know now that me getting busted in that sting was deliberate. It’s why Amaya or anyone else in the CIA never let my family know what happened and quieted all the paperwork.

She wants to use me. She wants me to spill secrets from my own family. And, apparently, now that it’s clear that it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever do that, she’s moved on to the Italians.

I’ve been ignoring her since she crashed the engagement party. So I know what her calling Ares is. This is a warning shot across the bow.

“Thanks,” I grunt. “I’ll call her back.”

“Who is she?”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ares eyes me. “Don’t worry about it because I’ve been handling less of that stuff?”

It’s true. With Ares running our family and Thermopylae, Hades, Deimos, and I have all taken on a lot more of our…less than legal business ventures, to keep Ares’ hands clean.

“Or don’t worry about it because something’s fucked and you’re trying to keep cool.”

“Yes.”

He scowls. “Which one, Kratos.”

I glance at my watch. “I need to run, actually.”

He gives me a look that says he’s not even a little ready to drop this. But just as he opens his mouth, the door to his office swings open and Hades comes charging through, a black expression on his face.

“Fuck,” Ares growls, rising. “What is it?”

Hades’ mouth twists. “Hope neither of you had any bets going on when Davit was going to be back on his feet. That ‘temporary liver thing’ just killed him.”

Shit.

“Fuck,” Ares swears. “FUCK!” He glances at me, then back to Hades. “Has Te Mallkuarit given any indication about⁠—”

“Arian Kirakosian was officially made head of the organization about an hour ago.”

Goddammit.

That’s not good.

The phone on Ares’ desk rings. When he answers, his face darkens as his secretary, Leigh, chirps something on the other end.

“I understand. Call him back, tell him we’ll be right over.”

He hangs up with a grim expression as he glances first at me, then Hades.

“Drazen Krylov would like to speak to us. Now.”

Hades whistles low when we step off the elevator into the entryway of Drazen’s penthouse.

“God damn,” he mutters, looking impressed as his eyes scan the pinnacle of opulent luxury surrounding us.

Not gonna lie, Ares and I have the same “holy shit” look on our faces as we gaze up at the enormous, vaulted ceilings and staggeringly huge walls of windows past the foyer that look out over Central Park.

Drazen doesn’t live that far from the Drakos estate, actually. He’s recently moved into the top of New York’s newest ultra highrise on “billionaire’s row”, which looks out over all of Manhattan from near cloud level. As you might guess, there’s a reason they call this billionaire’s row: you’ve gotta have three damn commas in your net worth to even consider buying a unit here.

Drazen owns three, which he’s had gutted and merged into what is almost certainly one of the top five most expensive residences in the city at this point.

When I say the Serbian-Russian motherfucker exploded onto the New York scene a year or so ago, I mean it.

“My friends,” Drazen rumbles in his gruff but polished accented baritone. He appears from around the corner, clad in one of his usual custom dark gray suits that fits him perfectly. Yet, he always wears them with an element of disdain. It’s like he knows it’s part of the trappings he has to wear, but he hates the fact that in this world, he needs a well-cut suit to be taken seriously, rather than an AK-47.

“Please, come in.”

There are a number of Krylov men in black suits standing around Drazen’s gargantuan living area, which has double if not triple height windows overlooking the park from ninety stories up. But at the slightest dip of their boss’ chin, they wordlessly file out.

“Fuck me,” Hades mutters quietly, well out of earshot of our host. “How do we get that kind of discipline from our guys? That shit was surgical.”

“Go fight an ethnic cleansing civil war in the Baltics,” Ares mutters over his shoulder at us. “Most of Drazen’s men were child soldiers with him during the Yugoslav Wars.”

“Yeah, think I’ll pass,” Hades grunts back, making a face.

After his men have left, Drazen turns to us with a tight smile. He’s objectively a handsome guy. But there’s a bitterness to his looks, like there are scars hidden beneath the surface that still pain him.

“Please,” he grunts, gesturing to the three huge, dark leather Chesterfield couches arranged near the windows. “Have a seat. May I offer you drinks?”

As a rule of thumb, if a Bratva pahkan offers you a drink, you take it. Doesn’t matter if it’s nine in the morning and you’re in church.

The three of us nod as we sit. Drazen pours us all crystal tumblers of vodka and then strides back over.

“Živeli,” he says, raising his glass.

Cheers.

We all drink and then set our glasses down on the table in the middle of the couches. Then Drazen takes a deep breath, settling back in his seat with his fingers tented in front of him.

“I have found New York extremely welcoming since moving here,” he growls quietly. “In particular, your family has been very generous and fair in our business dealings. I want to thank you for that.”

“And we appreciate the relationship, of course,” Ares adds. “Especially with the West Side development”.

Drazen’s silence speaks volumes. My older brother smiles wryly.

“I’m guessing that’s why we’re here, isn’t it.”

The Serbian nods slowly.

“I’m afraid it is. You see, yours isn’t the only family or organization that I’ve gone into business with since arriving in New York. As you know, I’m an investor in Club Venom, which puts me in bed…so to speak…with your fiancée’s brother.” He glances at me with a raised brow. “And by extension, the rest of The Commission. Additionally, I have…business with the Chernoff Bratva.”

Fuck.

I clear my throat. “I’m guessing you heard about the dustup at my engagement party after you left.”

Drazen nods again. “I doubt Mr. Chernoff is exactly pleased about his friend’s nephew’s broken face.”

“He’s lucky that’s the only thing I broke,” I growl quietly.

Drazen smiles slightly. “Again, I have no emotional tie to these people. However, money talks. And, at the end of the day, I’m a businessman.”

“You have our word that nothing will be pursued against Grisha or any of Mr. Chernoff’s interests,” Ares says sternly.

“There’s more.” Drazen exhales thoughtfully. “Davit’s passing and Arian’s ascension to the throne is…troubling to me. Not just because Davit, may he rest in peace, raised a terror of a son. But because that son has the backing of a splinter group within Te Mallkuarit—one that would like to see the organization become much more…aggressive…in its methods of acquiring new territory and business.”

God damn. I knew I didn’t like Arian when I met him.

“So that’s why I’ve invited you here,” Drazen growls. “Out of respect to you, Ares,” he says, nodding his chin. “I need you to know that none of this is personal. However, business is business, as I’m sure you’d agree. Right now, the Drakos family is…entangled, I suppose you could say…with two other business interests of mine, and one direct threat.”

One of his eyebrows arches severely, a dark look spreading like smoke across his face.

“Should any of these entanglements escalate any further, I’m afraid I’ll need to sever my business relationship with your family, including my investment in the West Side development.”

Fuck. Me.