Ivory Ashes - A Mafia Romance

VIVIANA

"Touch her again and I'll kill you."

The unfamiliar voice echoes through my bridal suite. I might be concussed, courtesy of my soon-to-be husband’s strong backhand across the face just a second ago, but is that the rumbling baritone of God? If so, excellent timing. The Big Man Upstairs hasn't done jack sh*t for me up until now, so I’d say some divine intervention in my shitshow of a life is long overdue.

I want to crack a swollen eye open and chance a peek at my savior, but lifting my face is what got me slapped for the third time this weekend, so I don’t.

The first was for not holding Trofim's hand during the rehearsal dinner. Then, when I mentioned that surely he’d hate to bruise my face the day before our wedding, he slapped me again for presuming to know what he does and doesn’t hate.

This third time was for… well, shits and giggles, I presume.

Nothing says “can’t wait to get hitched” like wearing the gaudiest signet ring in existence and slapping your fiancée around ‘til kingdom come. I probably have the Novikov Bratva crest indented in my left cheek by now. It’s fitting, since I’m being offered up to Trofim Novikov himself bright and early tomorrow morning. Might as well brand me like cattle tonight, before we make vows before God when the sun rises.

Not that Trofim gives a sh*t about vows before God. When we went to his cousin’s brother’s hairdresser’s… niece’s—well, hell if I know who it was for, but we went to someone's baptism together a few months ago, and I was positive Trofim would recoil in fear when the priest sprinkled holy water on the baby’s head and accidentally splashed some in our general direction.

I expected sulfurous smoke to pour out of his mouth. Maybe some Exorcist-style head spinning. Unfortunately, his head stayed facing forward, but I’ve been holding out hope he’ll burst into flames when we step up to the altar tomorrow.

Based on the booming voice coming from the doorway of my bridal suite, God might be a little ahead of schedule.

"Get away from her,” that voice snarls. “Now."

The words vibrate through my bones.

"The f*ck…? Get the hell out of our room.” Trofim’s voice is whiskey-slurred, but his grip on the back of my robe is immovably solid.

That's the real cause of all of this. Trofim is a heartless b*st*rd when he's sober. When he drinks, though, he's straight-up soulless. And right now, he's probably more alcohol than blood.

Maybe this new god of vengeance should be careful.

“This isn’t your room,” the deep voice corrects angrily. “It’s hers.”

I cringe and duck my head further. Don’t bring me into this! Maybe, if I make myself small enough, Trofim will forget I’m here.

Neck bowed, I look down at the floor and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored coffee table.

It’s enough to make me s*ck in a sharp breath. My eye is swollen. My cheek is as red as the parade of flags that have lined every inch of the road from the moment I met Trofim to now.

First, he’s a Taurus. I should have run for the hills the moment I made that little discovery.

Second, my father approved of Trofim. That in itself is the biggest red flag of them all.

As much as I wish it was because Daddy Dearest just didn’t know the horrible truth of my intended’s cruel and unusual ways, that’s not the case. My father was literally in the room for slap number one. He was actually, physically standing in the doorway right where Potential Savior #2 is standing now.

Except, instead of telling Trofim to back off and leave me alone in a soul-shuddering baritone, my father whispered in my ear—which was still ringing from Trofim’s slap, might I add—to “keep your head down and make him happy.”

In my father’s eyes, that’s all I am: a tool for others’ happiness.

Not mine. No, no, don’t be ridiculous—never mine.

I, Viviana Giordano, exist for his happiness. Whoever “he” may be in any given scenario. My father’s. Trofim’s. Any other man whose alliance might be of some value.

To my father, I’m a bartering chip who just so happens to have the blood of the Giordano mafia running through my veins.

And Trofim, by very specific design on my father’s part, just so happens to be the eldest son of the Novikov Bratva’s pakhan.

Tomorrow is the crime world’s equivalent of a royal wedding. Lighter on the fascinators, heavier on the bloodshed.

But if Trofim gets his way, the bloodshed portion of the event is going to start tonight.

Trofim laughs. The sharp, grating sound skitters down my spine. I flinch away from him, but he fists his hand in the back of my robe again. The sleeves are halfway down my arms now. I’m one gentle tug away from standing here in nothing but my silk and lace nightie. And Trofim is anything but gentle.

“What’s hers is mine,” he sneers.

“Not until tomorrow,” the deep voice barks again. “And not ever, unless you let her go. Now.”

“Or what?” Trofim challenges.

He’s the son of a pakhan. Unless it’s his father standing in front of us—which I know it isn’t, since the elder Novikov is just as bad as Trofim—there’s nothing anyone can say to scare Trofim. He always has the upper hand. And the backhand, as my poor cheek can attest.

There’s a brief pause. “Or I’ll have no choice but to kill you, brother.”

Brother?

Before I can stop myself, I look up.

Trofim has two brothers, and if you’d asked me three seconds ago, I would have put all of my money on it being Anatoly in the doorway. The man is a golden retriever in human form. If anyone would have a soft spot for a battered woman, it would be him.

But it’s not Anatoly in the doorway.

It’s the brooding, mysterious, never-met-a-smile-he-wanted-to-try-on youngest brother standing in the doorway.

It’s Mikhail Novikov.

Mikhail hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction since I first saw him at mine and Trofim’s engagement party, and now, he’s standing here. In my bridal suite. Threatening to murder his own blood brother to save me.

What in the ever-loving f*ck is going on?

“You’d kill me over her?” Trofim shoves me forward, but his hand is still fisted in my robe, so the material slides off my arms and I flop onto the floor between the brothers like a dead fish. A dead fish in very tiny, very revealing pajamas.

I glance up at Mikhail Novikov from my knees. He’s staring down at me, face as unreadable as ever. It’s the same blank expression he gave me the first day we met.

It was my engagement party. As the bride-to-be, I was the reluctant star of the show. Terrible as my groom was, I’m a Sagittarius through and through. I love a good party and the Novikovs throw great parties. Incredible parties, truthfully. Ice sculptures, champagne fountains, and canapés abounded.

With a smoked salmon cracker in one hand and three flutes worth of champagne fizzing in my veins, I marched up to Mikhail in the corner and hit him with my most dazzling smile.

Hello there. I’m Viviana, your new sister. Pause for polite laughter.

But… crickets.

Mikhail didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. He didn’t even bother giving me a disapproving once-over. No, he simply took a sip of his drink… and walked away.

Like I was nothing. No one.

Like I didn’t matter.

Now, I’m sprawled half-naked on the floor in front of him—while he is trying to save me from his abusive older brother, no less—and I still get absolutely nothing from him.

Mikhail sighs and meets his brother’s eyes. “I’d kill you for almost anyone, Trofim. F*ck*ng give me a reason.”

I start to lift myself up. Maybe I can slink away while the brothers duke it out. But Trofim’s foot lands in the middle of my back. He presses me down to the floor, stealing the air from my lungs.