15
KRATOS
“Mr. Drakos?” The man in the dark suit bows. “Mr. Kirakosian will see you now.”
I nod back, standing stiffly and grimacing as I flex my shoulders in my tuxedo.
I hate getting dressed up. That’s not to say I don’t like looking good or dressing sharp. But when you’re my size, “fancy” clothes are usually a major pain in the ass. People shit on NFL players for showing up to prestigious award banquets in track pants. But for real? I get it.
I haven’t donned a tux specifically to meet with Davit. But Bianca’s and my engagement “party”—if you want to call it that, which I don’t—is starting soon, and I needed to see Davit quickly before it begins. Obviously, he was invited to this shitshow, as were many heads of criminal organizations here in New York: the Kildares, the Reznikov Bratva, Jayden Robinson—who helms the Jamaican Cartel here in the city and is a close family friend—and more.
Oddly enough, Davit sent word just last night that that he’d be unable to attend. So I’ve opted to stop by before the party starts, to see if I can suss out why.
I follow a guard through Davit’s stunning Gilded Age mansion on the Upper West Side. They may be new to New York, but the Kirakosian family and Te Mallkuarit have done extremely well for themselves over the years. Spoiler: it shows.
The man opens a set of double doors, and I step into what appears to be Davit’s personal study—a huge, light-filled room with ornate furnishings and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. What stops me cold isn’t the elegant room, though.
It’s the fact that Davit nods his head in greeting from the hospital bed he’s lying in.
My brow furrows. “Mr. Kirakosian, I—”
“Didn’t know?” He smirks. “Well, that would be because I’m keeping this a secret.”
“And it’s going to stay a secret,” a stern voice growls from behind me.
I half turn and nod my head at the younger man around my age striding into the room. Arian Kirakosian, Davit’s only son and next in line for his father’s position as head of Te Mallkuarit, gives me a dark, lingering glare.
“Is that clear?” he mutters, eying me. “Or is that secrecy something else you and your family will carelessly destroy?”
I could take the bait, but I choose not to—just as I choose not to drive my fist into his face right now. Because I can see more than five minutes into the future, and I’m smart enough to know that settling any animosity between the Albanians and my family is ultimately a good thing.
So I just nod, smiling politely at him.
“It won’t be shared,” I say evenly. “You have my word on that,” I add, turning to Davit.
He smiles and nods back. “Forgive my son’s zeal. He’s merely trying to protect me and the family. You’ll understand why my…condition has been kept quiet, especially while your family and I were engaged in a bidding war.”
“May I ask…”
“No,” Arian says flatly.
His father sighs. “A temporary issue with my liver, it would appear. Nothing serious.”
Says the man in a hospital bed, in his own home.
He smiles wryly. “I suppose now you see why I turned down your gracious invitation to the festivities today.”
I clear my throat. “Once again, I want to apologize for what happened involving your family’s heirloom—”
Arian mutters something in Albanian. His father shoots him a warning look, responding in the same language, before he turns back to me.
“I’m told the responsible party was the Italians.”
I nod.
“Specifically, your fiancée,” Arian adds, smirking.
His father chuckles. “What did you do, Mr. Drakos? Fuck her friends?”
No, but I did chase her through an abandoned church, cut her panties off, and fuck her mouth afterward.
I smile quietly. “It was a very unfortunate misunderstanding. However, my family has prepared this as a token of our esteem, together with the hope that we can continue to build a mutually beneficial relationship and peace between our families.”
I slip the envelope containing a check out of my tuxedo pocket and walk over to hand it to Davit.
Arian barks a cold laugh. “Money? You destroy a priceless heirloom that’s been in my family for nearly a millennium, and you think your fucking money will fix the problem?!”
“Arian!” Davit snaps. “Be civil.”
“Babai—!”
“Enough!!”
Davit exhales slowly, his face pinched and tired. Then he composes himself.
“Arian,” he says, more quietly now. “Mr. Drakos is our guest. And what occurred was beyond his control.”
“Perhaps Mr. Drakos should have better control over his own fucking fiancée,” Arian hisses, shooting me a cold look.
