Mafia Daddy by Aster Rae

 

1

Igor

"Congratu—"

The word hasn’t left my mouth when I see him.

The boy by the ice cream counter.

He's eating a waffle cone.

He’s licking a droplet of melted ice cream that spilled on his hand.

A pair of blue coveralls sits over his lanky frame.

His floppy blond hair is delicately parted to one side.

On his feet, two plush socks boast rows of tiny duckies, each as soft and beautiful as the sun.

My heart stutters to a halt.

I swing my arm out and slam my brother Nikolai in the chest.

"Who's that?"

My movement sends Nikolai's ice cream cone to the floor.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Nikolai groans, bending down to pick up his spilled ice cream. “You owe me a fresh scoop of strawberry.”

My eyes are burning embers as I ogle the boy across the parlor. "Tell me who that boy is," I demand a second time, ignoring my brother and his plight.

I won't ask again.

As the new leader of the New York division of the Antonov Russian mob, I don't demand things twice.

I see more dead bodies than most NYPD officers do in a lifetime.

I'm ten times more vicious than the most seasoned criminals in Rikers Island and thirty times nastier than the most brutal Bratva Dons in NYC.

Nikolai will pay dearly if he doesn't tell me this man’s name.

Nikolai rolls his eyes. "I'm not telling you, dumbass. If I give you his name, you'll lock him in your penthouse and never let him go."

“Don't test me, Nikolai."

My blood thrums as I stare at the young man's perfect face across the parlor.

A million thoughts swirl around my mind as I wipe a bead of sweat from my burning forehead.

Who is this boy?

Why is he at Nikolai's engagement party?

Why is he wearing a pacifier on a lanyard around his neck?

My curiosity turns to need as his duckling socks glisten in the sunlight from the storefront window.

I try to mentally calculate his age as I lap up the sight of him running a dainty hand through his thick hair but I come up short.

Twenty-one? Twenty-two?

Has this young man even entered college yet?

Heavenly bells sing in my head.

All at once, I want to set fire to the ice cream parlor and heave this baby boy into my arms.

I don't even give a fuck that it’s the brand-new parlor Nikolai opened for his much-younger fiancé Christian last week.

I'll burn it to the ground.

I’ll burn down fucking everything.

All I fucking need are two uninterrupted minutes to press this boy’s lips to mine.

"Tell me his name." I stare my brother dead in the eyes. "Give me his fucking name or I'll turn Christian over to the Riccis."

This is a lie. I’d never turn my younger brother's fiancé over to our mortal enemies.

But Nikolai needs to know I'm not fucking around.

"You're such an ass," Nikolai groans, ignoring my threat. "But his name is Rowan, if you’re so fucking curious. He's one of Christian's friends."

Rowan.

Perfect. Angelic. Sugary sweet.

There's no mistaking it now.

This boy needs a protector.

A man to blast away his scaries so he'll never fear again.

I've been involved in the scene long enough to know that this boy needs a helping hand.

He needs a Daddy.

A man who will fight for him and give him a safe space to be himself.

I’ve barely taken my first step toward him when a firm hand grips my shoulder.

"Igor."

I whip around. Rage unfurls when I see my brother Timofey standing behind me with an urgent expression on his face.

“Back off, Timofey,” I growl. "If you ever approach me like that again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Timofey's eyes turn to slits. "We have to go now, zhopa. Demetri is holding the bastard we caught snooping around the wharf. But he can't hold him much longer. We have to interrogate him before the Riccis discover he's gone."

Anger slices through my chest. "Wait.”

Timofey narrows his eyes. “We’ll blow our fucking cover if we don't do it now. That's three months of hard work down the drain. You can't risk that.”

Fuck.

Mother-fucking-fucker.

I must talk to Rowan.

But I've worked too fucking hard to gain the upper hand in our turf war with the Riccis to throw it away now.

Timofey is right.

I'm the pakhan of the family now and I can't afford to blow our lead over a boy.

Rage pounds me from every direction when I realize I have to head out.

“Inessa," I bellow.

My Glock is already in my hand when my middle-aged Russian assistant with black hair and beady eyes rushes to my side. “Yes, Sir?"

I direct her attention to the boy across the parlor. "I need you to write a note to this boy. His name is Rowan. Tell him that I'm looking for a housekeeper for the next thirty days. He has seven days to call my personal cell number before the offer is gone."

Inessa's brow furrows. "Are you sure, Sir?”

“Do not question me."

“You know what happened last time, Sir. I'd hate to see that happen again.”

I see red. “I know that the last arrangement was a shitshow,” I bark. “Write the fucking note anyway and give it to Nikolai to give to him. I want to have this boy in my penthouse by next week."

I growl as I exit the parlor and slam the door behind me.

Inessa scribbles on a fragment of paper before handing it to Nikolai and joining us outside.

As my chauffeur steps on the gas and whisks us to the wharf for the interrogation, I can only think one thing.

Rowan is mine.

Mine.

He doesn’t know it yet.

He doesn’t even know who I am.

But one thing’s certain.

By the time the month is over, I will be this boy’s motherfucking Daddy.