Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“Of course. That’s what it was.” Pavel smirked and stood by my side as I returned to looking out the window. “You still stare at the moon?”

“I will until it goes somewhere.”

“Did you know Picasso carried a gun?”

“I didn’t.”

“It was a Browning revolver, filled with blanks.”

“Blanks?” I eyed Pavel. “What’s the point?”

“Picasso used to fire it at fans who asked about the meaning of his paintings.”

“Still, why blanks? Don’t bring a gun out, if you’re not going to use it.”

“It was a metaphor, lion.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t die from a gun wound.”

“A gun shot is better than heart failure.” Pavel left the window and went to my bar. “May I?”

I nodded. “Yes. And your favorite cigars are next to it.”

He went to the small chest on the bar, carved from camel bone. “Black Dragons?”

“Of course.”

He opened the chest, pulled one out, and sniffed. “That smells better than pussy.”

“Then, you need better pussy.”

“Have one with me?”

I checked my watch. “We’ll begin soon, and a black dragon deserves time and attention.”

He tucked two in his pocket. “Then, smoke with me later this evening.”

“I will.”

He stared at me. As usual, a secret always lay within his eyes. “What do you want, Kazimir?”

I ignored the question. “How is your room?”

“Impeccable.” Pavel grinned. “Who are all of the Africans upstairs? Seven of them. Wearing secondhand suits and scuffed loafers. But all of them have new weapons.”

“My mouse’s men.”

“Those are big men for a little mouse.”

“She’s bigger than you think.”

He frowned. “She better be with this group.”

I put my hands in my pocket. “I need you to stand beside me.”

“That’s a dangerous job.”

“Is it?”

“Most people don’t last too long. Either they get killed or you kill them.”

“But the benefits are good.”

“Really?” Pavel tilted his head to the side. “Full benefits and all that?”

“Yes.”

Pavel returned to the bar. “I’ve got a nice hold in Novosibirsk.”

Despite the absence of official political status, Novosibirsk was declared Siberia’s capital. It was the largest city in Siberia with a population of 1.6 million. Most of the population lived in the bottom part of the region due to the cold climate at the top.

Meanwhile, Pavel’s control in Novosibirsk wasn’t a small matter. The territory of Siberia started from the Ural Mountains and covered most eastern parts of Russia. It was a respectable position to have, but no amount of power in comparison to standing next to me.

Pavel finished pouring his drink and sipped. “There’s been talk that your mouse has over a hundred men.”

“Only thirty.”

Pavel held the glass in mid-air. “And will the mouse’s men have power?”

“I imagine many are wondering.”

“And what will you say when they ask?”

“They won’t. They’re too smart.”

Pavel took another sip. “Her men are coming from Abram’s district. Has he said anything?”

“He spends more time in Dubai than in Russia. He never gave that district any attention. It’s a slum filled with broken people. When my mouse came for them, they were starving and pickpocketing other broke people.”

Pavel maintained a neutral expression.

This was why I wanted him. He was thinking the position over.

The Bratva now had three high authority positions open—someone on my left, right, and a person to stand directly behind me. All jobs would come with high salaries and immeasurable benefits. They would be helping me run the world and become my closest confidantes.

If they didn’t lose their way in the process and try to kill me.

All would be eager for a promotion and excited to be closer to me—if only to smell the throne before they died.

Who will be ready to serve?

I studied Pavel.

Like a flirty woman, Pavel tossed his hair over his shoulder. “This may be a good time to join you. Your enemies may be quiet for a while due to your mouse and hanging Sasha’s body for all to see.”

“They should be.”

“But will the French be quiet?”

“They’re probably off somewhere baking pies. None of their men are in St. Petersburg or Moscow. All left the next day.”

“Good.” Pavel winked. “Those perfumed pansies are too sweet for our country.”

The French Mafia was known as the Corsican, but we referred to them as perfumed pansies. My father had coined the term. For decades, the Bratva never had a reason to take them seriously.

Their supposed leader was Jean-Pierre, but many weren’t sure who ruled. I hadn’t dealt with Jean-Pierre much. He might’ve been in the room when I’d done a few arms deals. Once or twice, the Bratva aligned with the Corsican to go after the Yakuza for some territory in Tokyo. But it had been long ago. I imagined we were pretty young to this world then, if he’d been around at all.

And then three years ago, Uncle Igor had become bored and started a fight with them. He’d given support to one of his mistresses named Celina and asked me for some of my men and guns. He’d explained that a low-level Corsican leader had been stalking the mistresses’ niece in America. Due to that, I’d given my uncle all he’d asked for and assumed the conflict would end in a week.