Dez
"You have one year."
My father's words hung in the air of his study like cigar smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. Ivan Moretti, king of the Russian bratva around these parts. Thepakhan.
I stood in front of his desk, hands clasped behind my back, spine rigid. The same posture I'd held since I was eight years old and he'd first started grooming me to take over the family. Over twenty years of training, of proving myself, of bleeding for the Moretti name.
And apparently, it still wasn't enough.
"One year," he repeated, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. He didn't look up from the documents spread across his mahogany desk filled with contracts, probably, or kill orders. With my father, it was hard to tell the difference. "Take a wife, start producing heirs, or I'll name Nikolai my successor."
Nikolai. My youngest brother, who could barely manage to protect a fly without turning it into a goddamn circus. Out of my four siblings, he’d chosen my youngest brother as a jab to my pride. He’d been unsuccessful. We both knew that if he meant what he was saying, I was going to do it. But did he?
"You're serious." It wasn't a question.
"Dead serious." He finally looked up, his gray eyes were flat and emotionless. "You're twenty eight, Dante. Almost twenty nine. The families are starting to whisper. They think you're weak. Damaged. That you prefer men, or you're secretly dying, or you're too fucking picky to do what needs to be done. Whatever the fucking reason, you’ll do this because it’ll show how much power you really have. How much we really have."
"I'm not?—"
"I don't give a shit what you are." He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "I care what theythink. Perception is reality in our world. You know this. Because if they think that you’re weak, they’re going to come for everything we have."
I did know this. Had it beaten into me alongside proper trigger discipline and how to make a man disappear without leaving evidence as well as other survival tools for this world.
"The Outfit needs stability," my father continued, using the old name for our organization like he always did. "We're expanding into new territory. The Italians are pushing back. The Colombians are getting bold. We need our allies to be confident that the Moretti line will continue. That we're strong. That we’re not afraid to do what it takes to survive."
"And a wife proves that?"
"A wife and an heir prove that." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Preferably multiple heirs, in case one of them turns out like Nikolai."
Despite everything, my mouth twitched.
"One year," I said slowly, tasting the timeline. "And if I don't?"
"Then you'll still have a place in the family. You're too valuable to waste. But Nikolai becomes my heir. The business goes to him when I step down." He paused, letting that sink in. "Along with everything else. The houses. The offshore accounts. The respect."
The knife twisted, exactly as he'd intended. This time the jab landed exactly where it needed to. He knew that I could never let our family’s survival depend on Nikolai. Not because he wasn’t capable, but because he hadn’t been trained for this.
While he knew what we did, he’d been spoiled and running around being the playboy. He was always at the hottest parties, with the skankiest girls, making sure that he spent every bit of his allowance on shit that didn’t matter. Giving him the keys to the throne would guarantee his death. He wasn’t me, and honestly, I hoped he never was.
I'd spent my entire life preparing to lead this family. Had killed for it. Had buried friends, lovers, pieces of my own soul in service to the Moretti name. The thought of watching Nikolai—reckless and impulsive—take what should be mine and that I wanted to protect him from, made something dark and violent coil in my chest.
"Understood," I said, my voice carefully neutral.
My father nodded, already looking back down at his papers. Dismissed.
I turned to leave, my hand on the door handle when he spoke again.
"Dez."
I paused.
"Don't pick some empty-headed socialite who'll embarrass us. I need someone strong. Someone who can handle this life." His eyes met mine. "Someone worthy of the Moretti name."
"Of course."
I left his study and walked through the marble hallways, my footsteps echoing. Several soldiers nodded as I passed. I barely saw them.
One year.
