Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

But this low-level gangster had been Jean-Pierre—a name that had meant nothing then. After three years of dodging my uncle and slowly killing off my men, he’d become an annoying thorn in my side.

They were now calling him the Butcher, and I’d seen some of the pictures of the men he’d tortured. He’d definitely earned the name.

But what’s a butcher to a lion? Just a soft fleshed little man holding a sharp object.

Last year, the Butcher’s name rose in our world. His exploits had earned him the top position among the Corsican. He’d even become bold enough to step into Russia and bring his men my way. His three cousins had helped. They’d injured many and killed a few, but nothing to make them top priority with me.

What was the Corsican next to the Bratva?

Pavel twisted the cigar in his hand. “You don’t see any problems with the perfumed pansies?”

“No.” I thought back to the first time I’d heard his name. It was when my Uncle Igor had asked for help. Valentina had been at the table. He’d set four pictures in front of us. Each showed Jean-Pierre and his three cousins walking in some street in America and causing dismay.

I glanced at the pictures and looked away. “What has Jean-Pierre done?”

“This Butcher guy has been stalking Celina’s niece, sneaking into her place and watching her while she sleeps. Sick things like that.”

Valentina picked up one of the pictures and grinned. “It all sounds romantic to me. Maybe he’s courting her.”

“He’s not.” Uncle Igor hit the table in annoyance. “Celina’s niece is a nice girl. She has no idea Jean-Pierre is breaking into her apartment and watching her sleep.”

Valentina shrugged. “Then, who’s really harmed in any of this?”

“What’s wrong with you, girl?” Uncle Igor shook his head. “Is this the type of men you like?”

Valentina screwed up her eyes. “This from a man who sits on his dead wife—”

“Enough.” I picked up a slice of bread and looked at Uncle Igor. “Has Celina talked to Jean-Pierre and tried to settle this herself?”

“Of course. Celina is fair after all. She said Jean-Pierre was disrespectful and threatened her.”

While I didn’t care about this Celina, barely knew her among all of Uncle Igor’s other mistresses, I tried to give my Uncle the proper respect and follow along with the problem. But, in the back of my mind, I was already wondering which of my own mistresses I would fuck that evening.

Uncle Igor disrupted my thoughts. “Do you see why I need your help, Kazimir?”

I nodded.

For Uncle Igor to ask me for help must’ve taken a lot out of his ego. He was from the old school where he’d never had to ask for anything. And now to handle some French, he’d needed to lower himself and come to me.

I took a slice out of my steak and ate. “What do you want, Uncle?”

“Their deaths.” He scowled. “I want Jean-Pierre dead. His cousins too—Rafael, Giorgio, and Louis.”

“Please, don’t kill them.” Valentina pouted. “They’re so cute. They bring color and elegance to our world.”

Uncle Igor argued, “They deserve to die. They disrespected Celina.”

“But you don’t even care about Celina.” Valentina rolled her eyes. “You’re just bored and want to bother people.”

Uncle Igor turned to me. “Will you help me, Kazimir?”

“Don’t.” Valentina whined and flashed the picture of Jean-Pierre in front of me as if that would do the job. “The Butcher is such a cutie. I love how he struts around with his gun.”

Uncle Igor huffed.

I finished my steak and wiped my mouth with my cloth napkin. “There’s no need for me to personally deal with the Butcher. He’s nothing to you or me.”

Uncle Igor kept a straight face.

“But I will give you as many brothers as you want and all the guns you need.”

Uncle Igor smiled. “That would be enough.”

“He’s nothing to you, Uncle, but if you need more, feel free to ask.”

Uncle Igor smirked at Valentina.

“Fine,” Valentina said. “This is actually better. It’ll give the Butcher a fighting chance.”

Uncle Igor and I laughed.

“What?” she said.

I grabbed my wine. “Against our Uncle, I doubt Jean-Pierre will survive the next week.”

“He won’t.” Uncle Igor grabbed his own wine and raised his glass. “To dead pansies.”

But Jean-Pierre had given my Uncle Igor a real fight, one that lasted for three years. By the time of Uncle Igor’s death, there’d still been no solution from the problem or peace between them. I just hoped their conflict would not continue to spill into Bratva business.

Does Jean-Pierre, of all people, require my attention? No. He’s too wet behind the ears to be coming my way.

I was confident that any of my lower level men could deal with him. A perfumed pansy was still a sweet smelling flower, even if it could kill.

One of my guards knocked.

Pavel and I looked at the door.