Married to the Don - A Mafia Romance

Viktor

T

he neon signs from the store window wash my dashboard in red light. When I look over at the entrance, I see the husk of a beer can lying discarded on the steps. Most of the other stores on Bundt Street have closed for the night. But the liquor store is still open. The owner has been glancing out at me once every thirty seconds. My windows are too tinted for him to see inside, but I can see him. He looks nervous.

My phone is pressed to my ear, waiting for Fedor to continue.

“I only have another couple minutes,” Fedor says, his voice growing quiet as he turns away from the phone. He’s probably looking to see where the guards are. Maybe the guy in line behind him is bugging him to get off the phone so he can get a chance. Phone time in prison is a precious commodity. “I tried to get someone else’s phone time this week, but no dice. Even the guys who don’t give a shit about their kids are trying to call them up for the holidays. Christmas turns everyone into a fucking saint, apparently.”

“I have to go anyway,” I say, looking up as the only customer who’d been lingering in the store exits. He’s a big man with a dusty pair of overalls on, probably a construction worker. He tosses his six-pack into the passenger seat of his lifted truck and rumbles out of the nearly empty parking lot. The only cars left are mine and the owner’s.

“What’s on your schedule tonight?” Fedor asks. Then, he sighs before I can answer. “God, I miss going out with you. Beating people down. Taking what’s ours. We fucking ruled the streets.”

More accurately, I ruled the streets. Fedor mostly got himself arrested. Time and time again.

My rap sheet is almost spotless, except for a small bar fight I got into when I was seventeen. The police nabbed me for public intoxication, battery, and possession of alcohol as a minor. I spent a few weeks in juvie. That was more than enough lock-up time for me. Since then, I’ve steered clear of obvious shows of criminal activity. But Fedor didn’t learn from his older brother’s mistakes.

“How do you know I’m working?” I ask.

He snorts. “You’re always working.”

Fair enough. “I just have to deal with someone who wronged me.”

“There are plenty of people like that. Who is it?”

“No one you know,” I say.

I hear a guard in the back shout that his time is almost up, and Fedor growls. “I’m missing everything in here. When are you going to get me the fuck out?”

Our conversations always go like this. Fedor wants me to tell him what I’m doing, but when I do, he starts to miss the lifestyle he had and then gets angry that he’s locked up and wants me to break him out. When I try to spare his feelings and don’t tell him what’s going on in the Bratva, he gets angry because he’s missing it and still wants me to break him out. No matter what, the conversation ends with him wanting me to save him.

Like I always have.

“Kent is trying to get the charges lowered from second-degree murder to involuntary manslaughter,” I explain for what feels like the hundredth time. “If he can, then you’ll be out a lot sooner, especially if you don’t cause any trouble. But we don’t know yet.”

“Pay someone off,” he says, loud and clear into the phone. “You control this entire city. Open up your wallet and help your baby brother.”

The suggestion that he’s in prison because I’m not generous enough makes me grip the phone even tighter, my knuckles going white. I take a deep breath. “We’re going to get you out the right way.”

I emphasize the last two words heavily, trying to remind Fedor that our conversation is being monitored. I’ve explained to him too many times to count that we can’t talk business on this line, but he doesn’t care.

“Fuck that!” Fedor yells. I’m sure he would have said more, but before he can, the line goes dead and the call is over.

I slide my cell phone into my pocket and lean back against the headrest.

Fedor has always been impulsive and reckless. He has the charm of our mother with the impulse control of our father, which is a deadly combination. Fedor can draw you in, make you love him, and then he detonates a bomb in your face. He threatens to ruin your entire life, but as soon as you get mad at him, he says something to remind you of all the good times, the better times. He looks at you like you’re his only hope, and you just can’t help but help him.

At least, I can’t.

Ever since our mom died, I’ve looked out for my brother. Dad was too busy running the Bratva and killing people to come home to his kids, so I cooked and got Fedor dressed and gave him baths. Now, I’m twenty-eight and running the Bratva my father left behind, while still taking care of my twenty-five-year-old brother as though he’s five. Because in my eyes, he will always be five.

Five and crying next to our mother’s open casket.

The mortician put her in an uncharacteristic long-sleeved dress to hide the track marks on her arms. She looked thinner, but I hadn’t seen her in almost two months. Dad had put her in a rehab facility, trying to clean her up enough so that she could take care of us, but as soon as she got out, she bought from a sleazy street dealer who, unlike my father’s dealers, hadn’t been instructed not to sell to her. The drug was laced with a synthetic she didn’t know about, and she died in an alleyway.

I shake off the memory, pat my hip for the feel of my Glock, and pull my hood up. Fedor isn’t five anymore. He isn’t a helpless little kid. He’s a grown man, and I can’t clean up his messes forever. But it seems I will keep doing it for just a little bit longer.

I get out of the car and keep my face tilted downward as I walk up to the liquor store entrance. I stay that way as the bell above my head rings to announce my presence.

“Hey there,” the owner says, greeting me in a gruff voice.

I tip my head without looking at him and head to the back wall of refrigerators, pretending to scan the shelves of cheap beer. I stay there for no more than a minute, just long enough to register how many cameras are in the store. By the looks of them and the rest of the shabby shop, it’s a self-monitored security system. It won’t be hard to erase the footage of my visit.

When I’m ready to do what I came to do, I shove my hands deep into my hoodie pockets and shuffle back towards the door with my head still down.

“Nothing for you today?” the owner asks.

I don’t respond, lowering my head even further, and just like I hoped, he comes out from behind the counter and meets me at the door. His hand lands on my shoulder, jerking me back.

“I’m talking to you,” he growls in the voice he has no doubt scared countless teenagers with. Liquor store owners have to be tough. They have to be ready to confront shoplifters and underage thieves.

But even all of that experience hasn’t prepared him for the likes of me.

“No,” I say, pulling the gun from my hip and pressing it into his side. “I’m talking to you.”

The owner is middle-aged with a gut made rotund by beer and pretzels, but he still feels the pressure in his side. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by realization and then horror. His eyes go wide, and his face pales. He lifts his hands.

“On your stomach,” I order.

He drops to the floor in a second. I keep my eyes on him as I walk backwards towards the door and flip the switch to turn off the neon “OPEN” sign, then slide the deadbolt into place.

“Crawl between the aisles,” I say, walking towards him, gesturing with my gun for him to get out of view of the door.