Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

Russian Mafia, Alternate Universe - Mob, Mafia AU, Secret Relationship, Developing Relationship, Secret Identity, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Crime Boss Ilya Rozanov, Crime Boss Yuna Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, BAMF Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of love-a-nov (hollanov one-shots), Part 1 of mafi[oh]so in love - hollanov mafia au

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-14 Completed: 2026-02-22 Words: 11,821 Chapters: 2/2

mafi[oh]so in love with you

Summary

“Bratva,” Shane says. His accent is hauntingly perfect. “Kingpin, I’m assuming based on how easily you move around. Boston, New York, and Los Angeles.” Shane hesitates and then― "Solntsevskaya. Your family heads it.”

“My father is not a good man," Ilya says, and it's more than enough confirmation for Shane. "I do not admire him or what he made even though it makes me very powerful man.”

“And the rest of it?”

“All correct,” Ilya says with a smile.

Or: the Mafia AU in which Ilya owns the Russian mafia in America and Shane still plays hockey, but with a mob-boss mother.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

While I do use the terms "oyabun" and "solntsevskaya", I do not have the time or motivation to make sure anything is real-life accurate. So, for purposes of this fic, here is all the information about those specific terms that you might want to know:

Oyabun is the title of the family bosses in the yakuza.
Solntsevskaya is the Moscow section of the Russian mafia.

Ilya Rozanov is not a man who is frequently caught off guard. He was raised better than that. In a world where blood coated clothes more often than not and where the unexpected brought consequences, he couldn’t afford to not know things. It was too dangerous. So he taught himself everything and left Moscow with more knowledge than he thinks his father ever had, and it served him well enough to hold power in three―almost four, now―cities.

It is more than unfortunate that the one thing he did not learn is going to destroy it all. 

He keeps a hold of his surprise, luckily enough for him. It’s most likely the only thing that will get him out of this alive. That and maybe―just maybe―the way that Shane Hollander looks terrified in the half a second it takes for his mother to turn her attention from Ilya to him. The look is well hidden by the time her eyes land on him, but Ilya sees it and he knows what it was. He may not have known Shane as well as he thought, but he knows fear. 

“Yes?” Yuna Takayama is turned fully away from Ilya and he would be more offended that she found him so harmless if he weren’t still internally reeling.

“Mom―” Shane’s words had been clear when he’d walked through the door, “―when do―” 

And then silence as his eyes had met Ilya’s and filled with such a flash of fear that Ilya didn’t quite know what to do. Shane has never looked at him that way. Even now, it doesn’t feel like it is directed at Ilya. If Ilya’s new understanding of Shane is correct, though, then there would be no need for Shane to be afraid of Ilya in this current moment. 

Perhaps, Ilya thinks, they should have extended that strange 20-questions game that they had played so many years ago. Maybe then Ilya would have known that the man he'd spent seven years hooking up with was the son of North America's most powerful oyabun. Maybe then they wouldn’t both be so caught off-guard in her presence. 

Except―Well, Shane had called Yuna Takayama ‘mom’, so it’s Ilya who should be fearful. He has the sneakiest suspicion that Yuna is not the type of woman who would appreciate secret, casual hook-ups with her son. Her son who, Ilya would like it noted, has both a different last name and a very public lifestyle. 

“I wasn’t aware you were in a meeting,” Shane says. His eyes are no longer on Ilya’s. “Who’s this?”

“No one,” Yuna says. She waves a flippant hand and Ilya finds it reassuring somehow. “A new partner. May we help you, sweetheart?”

“It can wait,” Shane says. He still doesn’t look at Ilya. “Unless you’re done here.”

Yuna finally turns back to Ilya with a look he can’t read. It isn’t as unnerving as Ilya would have thought if they were alone. After all, Yuna has just agreed to his proposal. It may have been indirect, but it was an agreement nonetheless. He can rely on it now. 

“Yes.”

Ilya nods once and stands, taking the dismissal for what it is.

It’s easy to slip out of the arena. There are back doors and back halls, and both are empty and narrow. They weren’t built for hockey players, bulky and weighed down by gear that wouldn’t fit sideways through these tunnels. Because that’s truly what they are: Tunnels. He can hear jeering through the wall on his left and silence to his right, and when he finally steps out into the cold Montreal night, he thinks that he has a better picture of what he just learned.

It makes sense. Shane Hollander notoriously has the highest IQ in and about hockey. Yuna Takayama is also known for her hockey IQ; her almost-psychic predictions about the sport are unrivaled and have made her millions. She owns the Montreal Voyageurs and while many have claimed that the position gives her too-easy control over the results, it isn't just the Voyageurs who have made her a household name in the world of sports gambling. After so many years of running an operation out of the Voyageurs own arena―so many years of building an empire out of a sport she knows so well―few try to challenge it.

Hockey has made her who she is today. It's how Ilya learned of her in the first place: She was highly recommended by Vetrova―the better one, not the one who once was a goaltender and is now a disappointment. Yuna Takayama has made her money and fame in hockey, and so it seems has her son.

He confirms it an hour later when he pins Shane against his own apartment door.

The space around him and the man in front of him are familiar. The tension in Shane's shoulders is not.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane grumbles. He tugs once to test Ilya’s grip―firm but not more so than it ever is―but doesn’t pull free. His eyes are dark even as he scowls at Ilya. “Do you know how stupid it was to come here?”

“I am having an understanding of it, yes.” Ilya’s hold tightens almost punishingly when he accuses, “You are not Shane Hollander.”

“Technically,” Shane says in a way that Ilya immediately hates, “I am. That’s the name on my birth certificate.”

“Fuck birth certificates. They do not interest me,” Ilya snaps. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m exactly who you thought I was,” Shane says just as hotly. 

“Bullshit―”

“Shut up, asshole, I wasn’t fucking done.” 

For a moment, Ilya is looking at the spirit of Yuna Takayama and he thinks back to the first time he and Shane met: young, dumb, both a little too lonely for their own good. Had Shane looked at him with this same intensity? He must have. Ilya remembers dark eyes that drew him in too quickly―dangerous, he had thought back then―and he’d been too far gone just from that. He knows now where Shane got his intensity.

“I’m Shane fucking Hollander,” Shane says, and something grows molten in Ilya’s gut, “and I’m a great fucking hockey player.”

The best, Ilya wants to correct. The look in Shane’s eyes warns him against another interruption and Ilya finds it too hot to disregard.

“There is no Shane Takayama because he would be dead the day someone found his name in an Ottawa preschool registry.”

The look disappears―the dangerous one that had only further confirmed that Shane was his mother’s son―and something a little softer, more worried takes its place as Shane chews on his lower lip.

“So I took my dad’s name and my parents took hers,” he says. “My mom does not take chances, Ilya. You can never let her know that you know me. She’ll have you killed.”

Ilya does not doubt this. Yuna’s reputation precedes her; Ilya will be six feet under if she ever suspects he has crossed her. Still, Ilya hears the question that Shane won’t ask.

“No one will ever know, lyubov,” Ilya promises. He presses a kiss to Shane’s temple and loosens his hold on Shane’s wrists. “Your mother is not the only dangerous person who―likes you alive.”

He almost slips up. It would be an embarrassing moment to confess to something he’s known for years now; something that Shane can never know, not with his MLH fame and yakuza-boss mother. Ilya does not slip up, though, and he saves them both the embarrassment even as Shane’s brow pinches ever so slightly like he knows what Ilya almost said.

He doesn’t tease Ilya about the near slip. Instead, he says, “You gonna send your guard dogs to protect me, Rozanov?”

“No, too obvious,” Ilya huffs. He has never thought about it, in all truth. Now, he wonders if he should. Knowing how close Shane is to danger makes Ilya’s neck prickle with worry.

“I always thought the bratva didn’t care about obvious.”

Ilya does not tense. Shane is smart. The moment he walked into that back office to see Ilya speaking with Yuna, Shane was always going to figure out who Ilya was. It was only a matter of time.

“There is reason they say Hollander has highest IQ in hockey,” Ilya murmurs.

“Could’ve figured it out sooner,” Shane grumbles to himself, “if I’d thought there was a reason to. It’s not like Rozanov is a name I haven’t heard before.”

“Oh?” Ilya grins. “You have heard of me? Do you search me on Google too?”

“No,” Shane says with a roll of his eyes. “You’d have to be stupid for Google to know you. My mom doesn’t work with stupid.”

“No,” Ilya agrees. “Yuna is very smart. Like her son.”

“Shut up.” There’s less heat to it than the last time Shane said it. His cheeks are slightly pink this time too. “You owe me an explanation now too, you know? I’m not the only one with a mob secret.”

“Oh, but I thought the great Shane Hollander would know everything now. It has been one hour.”

“And, what?” Shane asks. “You think I asked my mom about you?” 

Ilya shrugs and Shane rolls his eyes again. 

“Well, I didn’t, so tell me.”

“What have you figured out?” Ilya asks. He knows Shane knows something. He wants to know how close Shane got without an outside reference.

“Bratva,” Shane says again. His accent is hauntingly perfect. “Kingpin, I’m assuming based on how easily you move around. Boston, New York, and Los Angeles. Maybe Miami too? You’re there often enough.”

“Anything else?” Ilya prompts when Shane stops. There’s something on the tip of Shane’s tongue. He can see it.

“Solntsevskaya.” Shane hesitates on the word. “Your family heads it.”

Ilya hums. He wishes Shane weren’t so observant.

“You aren’t proud of it,” Shane says, but this one sounds like a new realization.

“No,” Ilya confirms. “My father is not a good man. I do not admire him or what he made even though it makes me very powerful man.”

“And the rest of it?”

“All correct,” Ilya says with a smile. “Miami too, yes. You have thought of it all.”

“And what have I missed?”

A lot, Ilya thinks to himself, but nothing necessary. He knows what Shane means, though, and what he would most likely want to know. There are some things Ilya will not tell him still. Shane may have grown up in the yakuza and know of the bratva―Ilya is not the first Russian who Yuna has allied herself with―but knowing brings danger. Nevertheless, there is one dangerous thing that Ilya will tell him.

“My father is dying,” he says, “and when he does, I will ruin his empire with your mother’s help.”

Shane whistles lowly. “That’s a dangerous thing to tell someone you hardly know, Rozanov.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Is good thing I know you well then, yes?”

Shane leans forward and kisses him soundly on the lips. Ilya can’t help but smile into it.

“Yes,” Shane says against his lips. “Good thing you know me well.”

There’s a balance that Shane has always walked. Half-Japanese, half-Canadian. Hockey player, oyabun’s son. He has a version of what he feels may be two lives, but they overlap just enough that Shane doesn’t think much about it. As a kid, it was a little more tenuous. Shane has always been a good secret keeper―perhaps a better one than even his mom knows―regardless of his inability to lie. There are ways to keep a secret that don’t involve lying, and there has never been a problem of his that has needed to be fixed. Even if there were, Shane is still the oyabun’s son. He would fix it first. 

His step into the spotlight has made things both easier and more difficult. With only two friends to count and a manager who fields all personal questions, no one ever wonders about his private life. Hayden had asked once during their first year together on the Voyageurs. Shane knows he said something awkward and stilted, something that makes people uncomfortable asking follow up questions about. Now, six years later, Hayden has still never followed up. Shane is glad. He doesn’t remember what he’d said that first time. The media―after being redirected one time too harshly by the PR director―had stopped asking altogether.

So he lives his double life and gets so used to living in secrets that he doesn’t realize that he has developed a third life until the afternoon he sees Ilya Rozanov in his mom’s back office. It’s not hard to guess why he’s there―Rozanov is a name he has always known―and by the time Shane has also left his mom’s office, he has put it together.

It would be smart to let it go―to give up this third life that he’s only had for seven of his twenty-five years of living. When Ilya pins him to his own door and demands to know who he is, though, Shane knows he can’t. Won’t. Of the three lives he’s ever lived, this one is his favorite. Whatever it costs to keep it will be worth it.

Ilya seems to agree.

So Shane walks a new sort of balance and he does not lie; and between hockey games on the American east coast and flights home to Montreal, Shane spends the night in bed with the bratva. He supposes nothing really changes, but knowing who Ilya is adds a new depth to it all, a new risk that Shane didn’t know existed before. It’s nice―domestic, almost―knowing each other in this new way. He’s known Ilya for so long that it’s odd to have a new thing to know about him. It fits right in along with the other things about him that Shane knows, though, and soon enough, Shane forgets it wasn’t something he always knew.

A violent banging on Ilya’s front door, however, reminds him otherwise. 

Ilya is awake faster than Shane can open his eyes. He’s a tense line at Shane’s back, stiff and alert whereas seconds prior he’d been so soft, half-blanketing Shane from behind.

“Rozy!” The banging sounds again. “Open up, man. It’s important.”

To Shane’s surprise, Ilya relaxes. He isn’t as relaxed as he was before, but the tension seeps out of his shoulders enough that Shane knows they aren’t in any danger. Whoever at the door, while unwelcome, is not a threat. 

“Marlow,” Ilya grumbles. Shane doesn’t know if it’s to himself or in answer to Shane’s unasked question. 

“Thought you didn’t have work today.”

“I don’t.” Ilya reluctantly pulls himself up to scowl at the bedroom door. “He’ll leave.”

As if he heard Ilya, Marlow bangs on the door again and shouts, “I know you’re in there, Roz. Open the goddamn door.”

Ilya turns to the nightstand and reaches for his phone. Shane watches in silence until Ilya’s scowl darkens at whatever he does or doesn’t find. 

“Everything okay?” Shane knows it isn’t if Marlow is here and not leaving. “Should I…”

“No.” Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s leg through the sheets and holds firm. “No, do not leave.”

“Okay,” Shane says after a breath. “What do you want to do about Marlow, then?”

Marlow continues to bang on the door, echoing one last threat that does not bode well for either Ilya’s front door or whatever news he’s bringing.

“Stay here,” Ilya tells him. “Be silent. I will make him leave.”

In a flash, Ilya is out of the room and Shane is left alone. The door is ajar―something Shane isn’t sure Ilya meant to do―and Shane makes no move to close it. The bedroom isn’t visible from the living room; the stairs curve in a way that makes the bedroom impossible to see from anywhere except the landing, even if the door were to be left wide open. Sound, however, is not impeded by stairs and as such, the reason for Marlow’s sudden visit is soon made known even to Shane.

“Vicky’s contact got a hit in Paris.” It sounds as if Marlow has hardly shut the door behind himself before the words escape him. “One of Paverlo’s passports was pinged―triggered a notice―boarding a flight to Atlanta.”

There’s silence from Ilya. Not so much as a grunt to indicate how he might be feeling. When Marlow continues, however, Shane gets the impression that whatever look Ilya has fixed him with is not one that’s impressed.

“It’s the first move,” Marlow says. “We’ve been waiting for it―”

“No,” Ilya interrupts with a hum, “we’ve been waiting for my fucking father―”

He continues in more rapid Russian that Marlow clearly doesn’t understand. He doesn’t respond even when it becomes clear that Ilya is done.

“This is not why you come to wake me up, is it?” Ilya asks. “Tell me no, Marly, or I demote you.”

“Jesus, Roz, you’re in a fucking mood, aren’t you? Of course this is why I came. You don’t want to know? You’d rather just find out when the motherfucker wakes you up with a gun to the head?”

“Yes,” Ilya says shortly. “Paverlo cannot aim gun well enough to hit me.”

“Oh, fuck off. You wanna tell me why you’re being such an asshole about this? You got a hot girl up there or something?”

For the third time yet, there’s a ringing silence. This time, something in Shane’s gut twists nauseatingly and he wishes, for once, that Ilya would have let his mouth run instead.

“Shit,” Marlow says. “You do, don’t you?”

“No,” Ilya says, “I don’t. You are done now? That is all your news?”

There’s a shuffling that Shane fears may be moving closer to the stairs, but it doesn’t. Instead, it moves toward the door as Ilya very loudly speaks over any of Marlow’s attempted follow-ups.

“Thank you for news.”

“Roz, you can’t let a fucking girl hear―”

“Is very useful, yes. I am not mad―”

“This is serious. It’s a liability.”

“―you are very good second in command―”

“Don’t fucking shove me, asshole!”

“―bye-bye now. Goodbye. Never come without text again.”

The door slams definitively and the jumbled argument comes to a sudden end. After several long breaths, he finally hears Ilya turn around and make his way back to the bedroom. His footsteps are loud enough that Shane knows he does it on purpose; he’s grateful. Even though there is little chance of there being someone in the house that Ilya does not trust, the way Shane had been woken up has left him on edge. 

Ilya stops in the open door, an unreadable expression pinching his face.

“Marlow seems nice,” Shane ventures. Ilya’s frown deepens.

“I do like him,” he says. “But not when he interrupts mornings with you for shitty news.”

Shane’s face warms. It isn’t often Ilya says things that can be taken as sweet; when he does, Shane tries to revel in them even though he knows his blush goes deep. This time, however, Ilya doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Is it? Shitty news?”

With a groan, Ilya trudges back to the bed and throws himself down. His face lands near Shane’s hip and he burrows close, throwing an arm over Shane’s waist.

“No,” he mumbles seconds later. “Is important news. Marly was right to tell me.”

Shane combs a hand through Ilya’s curls. He won’t tell him to apologize. It isn’t Ilya’s style and Shane doesn’t really think it would help. Instead, Ilya will come to the conclusion on his own, and he will act on Marlow’s intel in a way that Marlow will recognize as Ilya’s version of an apology for his outburst.

“I will make sure he does not come without a text ever again,” Ilya says, and it sounds like a promise to Shane. “He does not get to see you here. Like this.”

Ilya’s fingers begin to wander, finding their way into the curve of Shane’s hip and then drifting down and in. The sheets are still covering Shane from the waist down, but that has never been enough to deter Ilya’s explorations before. One time, it even encouraged them. 

“Oh?” Shane prompts. The next brush of his fingers through Ilya’s curls borders on tugging. Ilya hums happily and his hand continues to tease over the thin sheet. 

“Yes,” he says. “Is only for me. This―” His touch is firm, right where Shane is beginning to ache, and Shane’s breath catches, “―is only for me. Yes?”

“Yes.” Shane can’t nod fast enough. “Always. Only yours.”

Ilya moves lightning fast, pulling Shane down and propping himself up. It’s dizzying and hot, and Shane can’t even admire the sight of him before Ilya is kissing him deeply. Shane doesn’t care if it’s a distraction. Marlow interrupted their morning; the least Shane can do is let Ilya put it back on track.

Ilya is not a religious man. His mother believed, he thinks. She wore the necklace he now guards as if it were her only hope; would whisper promises about better days shortly before she left him behind. 

In the deepest parts of his memory, he thinks he remembers a church service that he was too young to understand. His feet swung high from the pews. His mother’s voice was soft as she sang and when they left, Ilya remembers a cold wind trying to take his shapka with it. He doesn’t remember returning and he never asked his brother or father if the memory was real. By the time his mother left, the memory had already grown fuzzy. He doubts he’ll ever know if it was real; he’s not sure he wants to.

Russia is not religious and neither is Ilya, but when he gets the call that he’s been unconsciously praying for, he thinks that he could become religious for this. He would do it solely to thank an unknown deity for her one mercy to him. 

The call is both a relief and a burden. There’s no more waiting―the time is here, whether Ilya wants it to be or not―and he knows what to expect from it. He was raised in the fucking bratva; he knows how the bastards think. Unfortunately, it also means that Ilya’s peace is about to be ruined for an unknown amount of time. It won’t be safe―for him or for Shane, which means that he won’t be able to see Shane until things calm down. He doesn’t like not knowing how long that will be. Video calls, despite whatever Shane may try to say, do not fill the ache in his chest in the same way that simply having Shane around does. It puts an extra itch under Ilya’s skin.

“Russia called,” is all Ilya needs to tell Marlow over the phone to convince him to come over. It takes ten minutes and in that time, Ilya has packed a single duffel of all the things that he needs and is arranging his flight. Marlow lets himself in.

“Vicky is on his way to New York,” Marlow says, “assuming you’re still a fan of the Ostrich Plan.”

Ilya has never been a fan of the Ostrich Plan. He does not stick his head in the sand. He is determined to know things―it’s what has kept him alive this long―he does not intentionally make himself blind to them. Even the thought of someone thinking he does so makes his skin crawl. It doesn’t matter if it is a good plan. He hates it.

“Stupid name,” Ilya mutters. “Am not ostrich.”

“You’re close enough. And anyway,” Marlow says, “we don’t actually want you to be. The whole point is that they think you are.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Don’t care. Call me ostrich again and Vicky takes your place.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

“Don’t do that, either.”

Marlow salutes him mockingly. 

“Alexei will keep me long,” Ilya tells him. Might as well dive into the real reason Ilya called Marlow over; he won’t want to say it over the phone from Russia any more than he wanted to say it over the phone in America. “Vetrov will force his hand. Sveta will watch flights. You get a text from unknown number―” Ilya turns sharply to Marlow, “―you fucking answer it.”

“I have Svetlana’s number.”

“Not this one.”

Marlow frowns and Ilya returns to his laptop to confirm his flight details. Three hours until take-off. It’s both too long and not long enough.

“Contrary to what you may think,” Marlow says, “I do actually know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do,” Ilya says. “Is why you are my favorite.”

He enjoys the twisted surprise that crosses Marlow’s face. Clearly he had not been expecting Ilya to agree, especially when the last time he was a smartass, Ilya shouted at him like a bastard.

“You’re an asshole,” Marlow grumbles. “Fuck off.”

Ilya laughs and when his phone rings, he doesn’t blink at the unsaved number. Vicky is due to call him any moment now according to the Ostrich Plan. Vicky also goes through phone numbers like Carmichael wishes he could go through women. Nevertheless, Ilya never speaks first unless it is Shane and this time―despite being so sure it is Vicky―he is glad for what many people have called a rude habit.

“Hello?” It’s a very unfamiliar voice. “Is this Ilia?”

“Ilya,” he corrects shortly. “Who is this?”

Marlow’s eyes narrow but Ilya doesn’t get the feeling that this stranger is a threat. She sounds too hesitant, almost apologetic.

“Isabelle,” she says. “I’m a medic for the Montreal Voyageurs. You’re listed as Shane Hollander’s emergency contact―”

She says ‘medic’ and Ilya all but sprints to the TV. She keeps speaking but Ilya is only half aware of what she’s saying as he turns on Shane’s game. There’s a replay―one that starts with Shane crumbling on the ice―and Ilya’s entire body seizes.

He knows Shane gets hurt in games. It’s part of hockey. There are bruises on his skin more often than not, but Shane is always alright. He gets up. He keeps playing. He is never so still as he is on Ilya’s TV now. A sharp bolt of fear shoots through Ilya and his fingers go a little numb as he watches the replay and tries to listen to whatever the medic is telling him. 

“―had a hard hit and is being taken to Montreal General. Are you able to meet us there?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says without thinking. “Yes, I am―I can be there.”

He doesn’t know when the next flight to Montreal is, but he’ll be on it. If there isn’t one, he’ll drive. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again because Shane is hurt and he―He isn’t getting up.

“He is okay?” Ilya asks. On the TV, the replay shows Shane’s unmoving body being lifted onto a stretcher. 

“He’s unconscious again―was only awake long enough to say your name,” Isabelle tells him, “but he’ll be okay. Now, I know his mom is in the city but we’re having trouble reaching her. Do you know anything about his medical history?”

Ilya doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything―not even Shane’s blood type or if he’s afraid of needles―and suddenly, he feels very useless. 

“No.” His voice comes out a little more strangled than he had hoped for. “No, I―Yuna is not responding?”

“We’ve only tried twice,” Isabelle soothes. “We’ll keep trying. You just focus on getting to Montreal and I’ll meet you in the hospital lobby, okay?” 

Ilya doesn’t think he says goodbye. He knows he doesn’t thank her. Instead, he hangs up and resists the urge to dial Yuna’s phone number himself. It’s too dangerous. She would ask too many questions. Of all the times for Yuna Takayama to ask questions, now is the worst. 

Except―Well, it’s Shane. Ilya doesn’t know what to do and it’s Shane. The TV is still playing that terrible replay but Ilya wishes it wasn’t. 

“Rozanov!”

The way Marlow jostles him makes Ilya think this is not the first time that he’s said Ilya’s name. It is, however, the first time since hearing the medic’s voice that Ilya remembers he isn’t alone.

“I need to go.” He reaches for his laptop again―the flights page is still open―and has to try three times to type in the right cities.

“What the hell was that about?” Marlow asks. He glances at the TV then back to Ilya. “What’s Yuna Takayama have to do with anything?”

“Not now, Marly.” The next flight leaves in an hour and a half. He can be in Montreal in three hours if he makes it. “You still have thing that stops police scanner?” Ilya looks up to see Marlow nod. “Get me to airport in ten minutes. You get whatever you want.”

“Ten minutes―Roz, what is happening?”

“Does it matter? Get me to airport, Marlow. Now!”

They make it in nine minutes and while it isn’t a world record, Ilya is still impressed that Marlow got him to the airport so fast. It’s nearing rush hour so traffic is starting to backup. Marlow drives on the shoulder in a complete disregard of traffic law. If Ilya’s sole focus wasn’t getting to Shane, he would be more aware of it.

“You really aren’t going to tell me what this sudden change in plans is about?”

“No.” Ilya is out of the car before Marlow puts it in park.

“And what about the plan?”

“What about it?” Ilya asks. “I go to Russia from Montreal. You do ostrich in Boston. Everything is good and great, and I come back king of world.”

Ilya does not like the way Marlow looks at him. It feels worried―for Ilya―and Ilya cannot have that when he is about to face his greatest fear and then Russia.

“You sure you’re alright, Roz?” Marlow asks gently.

“Yes!” Ilya shouts, and it draws attention that he ignores. “I have flight. Go home.”

He shoves his way into the airport and to the front of the ticket line. With minutes to spare, he books the last seat and checks his duffel bag. He makes it through security and all the way to the gate as they call final boarding, and it isn’t until he’s seated on the plane that he realizes this may be a bit insane.

Shane is probably fine. He has played hockey his whole life. This isn’t his first major injury and it won’t be his last which means that Ilya should be better at controlling his impulses than this. Especially when his father has just died and everything Ilya has built―everything he’s carved out for himself against the odds that piled up against him―is about to come crashing down. If Ilya is lucky enough, he’ll be killed before he can see it happen. Unfortunately, there is something in his life now that Ilya would give up his empire for, and he is lying in a hospital bed in Montreal General.

Shane is awake when Ilya sees him and it’s such a relief that Ilya nearly cries at the sight of slightly-unfocused doe eyes.

“Ilya!” Shane grins so widely it looks like it hurts his face. “You’re here!”

“Your medic called me,” Ilya says softly. “She said you were not conscious.”

“Wrong.” Shane tries to blow a raspberry but only succeeds in sticking out his tongue and huffing. “I’m conscious. Been conscious for hours,” he drawls. “So boring.”

“I am sorry I could not be here sooner, lyubimyy,” Ilya says. “I took the first flight I could.”

“I know.” Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand―his aim is off from the concussion the medic had warned Ilya about―and very confidently says, “I knew you were coming. Told them, like, seven hundred times. They think I like you, but they’re wrong.”

For a split second, Ilya’s heart drops out from his chest. Shane doesn’t let it stay there long.

In the world’s worst whisper, he says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Ilya closes the remaining distance between them to press a kiss first to Shane’s temple and then to the bruises under his eyes, the split across his nose, and finally his lips. His skin is warm under Ilya’s lips and is more reassuring than the heart monitor that beeps steadily at their side.

“You scared me,” Ilya admits quietly. “You did not get up. And then team medic called and I―”

He was on his way to Russia. Three hours later and Ilya would have been on a plane above the Atlantic. He wouldn’t have known that Shane was injured for hours and by then, all he would have had would be a voicemail from the medic. Maybe he would’ve had a reassuring text from Shane by then, but maybe not.

“I’m okay.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. “Probably out for the rest of the season―” He scowls at that, “―but I’m okay. Sorry they called you, though. I meant to remove you from my emergency contact list after you had that thing with my mom―it seemed like a risk you wouldn’t want to take―but then I forgot and―”

“I am glad they called,” Ilya says. “I would have found out online and that would be worse.”

“So you’re not mad about the emergency contact thing?” Shane asks hesitantly. “Cause my mom is totally gonna see that whenever she gets here if she hasn’t already.”

“I am not mad,” Ilya promises. And then, because Yuna’s lack of response is beginning to worry Ilya more than it should, he asks, “Yuna is still not here? The medic said she was not answering phone earlier.”

“They got ahold of her, I guess,” Shane says with a shrug. “She’s on her way. She’s been in the Bahamas for the last week.”

“She will be here soon?” 

As badly as Ilya wants to stay at Shane’s side until he is healed, he really does need to be in Russia. Already, this layover in Montreal is going to cause problems that Ilya is not looking forward to solving. It's worth it, though, to see Shane smile at him while high on painkillers. Anything is worth problems if it is for Shane.

Shane nods and reluctantly, Ilya forces himself to leave. He presses a kiss to every inch of Shane’s face and makes Shane promise to take things easy.

“I have to go to Russia,” he says, when Shane asks why he’s leaving so soon. “But it will be short trip and then I will be back. It will be like I was never gone.”

“You gone is the worst,” Shane grumbles.

Ilya kisses him again just because and when he walks out of the hospital two minutes later, he tells himself that he does not see Yuna Takayama because it’s easier that way.

Chapter End Notes

And that's part one! I'm currently working on the next part, so we'll see how this goes.

I'm really not sure how I feel about this even though I'm always a slut for a Mafia/Mob AU... So please let me know your thoughts on this!

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Shane hates being on injury release. He loves his parents and how they care so much for him, but he hates how limited his activity is and that he is―more or less―trapped in his own home. They won’t even let him go to the arena and stand in his skates. Apparently, a broken collarbone and moderate concussion are big enough injuries that the doctors want him to sit at home and do nothing. Shane disagrees.

After two weeks of fighting to keep him in his apartment, his parents finally give up and take him home. To Ottawa. For the first three days, the change is enough. His parents’ property is vast and peaceful. The sounds of birds and wildlife keep him entertained enough that Shane doesn’t mind sitting on the porch and doing nothing else. By the end of the week, however, he’s itching to do something more. Luckily for him, the third week is when the doctors finally agree to let him participate in minimal activity, so his dad joins him on walks and Shane tells himself it’s enough.

It isn’t. He does this all summer―he and his dad have a routine by now and it’s essentially just this―but right now, he’d rather be doing anything else. Sure, part of it is because the hockey season is still running and he loves playing his sport. The other part of it, however, is due to the unanswered text chain on his phone.

Ilya is ghosting him. Shane doesn’t know why, but he is. He has been since leaving Shane in that hospital room with a kiss and a promise that is proving to be a lie.

It’s not like Ilya was never gone. It’s so much worse. At least when Ilya is usually far away, he responds to Shane’s texts and calls him several times a week. Shane can’t even ask his mom if she knows what’s going on, either. It’ll raise too many questions that he doesn’t want to have to answer; and worse, it’ll put Ilya in a position that Shane can’t gauge.

He doesn’t know the extent of Ilya’s alliance with his mom, but he knows it’s important. Shane has always been very intentional about distancing himself from his mom’s work and―by extension―Ilya’s. It doesn’t interest him. He knows how his mom runs her rings and just what she does as owner of the Voyageurs, but he never gets involved in her planning. Playing hockey is what he loves; he’ll leave running the organized crime ring to his mom and Ilya.

Now, Shane wishes he were more involved.

By week six, Shane caves. His arm is no longer in a sling and his head is more or less fine. He still can’t play but there’s only one game left―the Voyageurs aren’t making the playoffs this year―so he swallows his worries and walks into his mom’s office with a purpose. This time, Ilya is not there.

For half a second, Yuna looks surprised that it’s Shane who walks into her office. He isn’t here often―especially not when he isn’t already at the arena for practice or a game; again, he really tries not to be involved with the whole organized crime aspect of his mom’s work. The surprise doesn’t last long, though, and by the time Shane has shut the door behind himself, she almost looks expectant.

“Shane.” She smiles. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

“Uh, nothing much.” Shane gestures to the chair in front of her as if she isn’t his mom and this is instead a formal meeting with Theriault or Crowell. “Just bored, I guess. Curious about how things are.”

He gestures at her desk and his mom doesn’t voice her doubts, but he sees them in her raised brow.

“They’re good.” She doesn’t continue.

“And things not in Montreal?” Shane asks. Her brow stays raised. “Like America? Boston? Didn’t you have that, like, arrangement thing with Boston?”

“With Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yeah, him, I guess.” 

His mom’s expression shifts and Shane doesn’t like it, but not for the reason he expected. He figured she would be suspicious, would question him when he brought up Ilya and Boston. Instead, she has a soft smile that he does not trust.

“He’s okay,” she says, and her voice is soft. “We’ve got his back, sweetheart.”

It is decidedly not the answer or tone that he thought she’d give. Shane has no idea how to respond in any way that isn’t damning. He’s bad at lying but he doesn’t like doing it in the first place, let alone to his mom, so he says nothing.

She stares at him for a very long time. It takes everything in Shane not to fidget or redirect her attention back to his primary concern. He couldn’t do it subtly. 

“You know,” Yuna says eventually, “when you were hospitalized during your last game, your dad and I passed Rozanov on his way out. He looked worried.”

The fear that hits Shane is overwhelming. His mom sounds perfectly normal―no hint of anger or disgust or whatever else could be hiding in her voice. It’s just―There’s a lot that could mean. In no scenario is it normal for Ilya Rozanov, head of the American bratva and son of the leader of the solntsevskaya, to visit Shane Hollander in the hospital. It doesn’t matter if that was the worst hit Shane has taken in his professional career; Ilya Rozanov shouldn’t care. And yet… 

“I don’t think he wanted us to see him leaving your room,” Yuna adds gently, “but I’m glad we did.”

It’s all the confirmation Shane needs. She knows. She knows and she’s known for nearly two months now, but she hasn’t so much as asked him about it. Maybe she looked into it―sent somebody to do a deep dive into just how long he’s been tied up with Ilya―but Shane doesn’t think she has. He would notice someone poking their nose into his life. He may not share the same love for the work as his mom does, but Shane was still raised in it. He isn’t stupid.

So he doesn’t think his mom has done anything more than sit with the knowledge that Ilya Rozanov visited him in the hospital, but she also is not stupid. She’ll have drawn conclusions by now and Shane has no doubt that they’re the right ones.

He doesn’t know what she thinks about him and Ilya, but the mere thought that she knows is enough to send him spiraling. He can’t do much to fix the way his throat closes up and his eyes start to sting.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry that you found out that way.”

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t care how I found out.” Yuna pulls him into a hug across her desk. It’s awkward and the edge of the mahogany digs uncomfortably into Shane’s ribs, but he hugs her back. “I trust your judgment,” she says as she pulls away, “I’d just like to know what, exactly, I found out.”

In for a penny… Shane thinks to himself hysterically. 

“We―We’re―” He can’t seem to find the words even though he knows that he’s going to tell her. Unhelpfully, he hears Ilya’s voice in the back of his mind trying to fill in the last part of whatever miserable sentence he’s failing to concoct: Lovers. “We’re together,” he settles on with another choked sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Shane, honey.” Yuna reaches for his hand and squeezes reassuringly. “I’m not upset. I love you. I don’t care if you’re gay or bi or anything else. I just want to know that you’re safe. Ilya Rozanov isn’t exactly the type of man a mom envisions for her baby.”

Shane lets out a huff of a laugh and wipes at his face. His eyes are still stinging.

“I know you know a different side of him,” he says, “but he’s perfect, mom. The Ilya I know is someone you would love.”

“Then you’ll have to bring him by so I can meet him,” Yuna says. “Properly,” she adds. “As your partner, not as a business alliance.”

“I’d like that,” Shane says quietly. He means it, too. Just the thought of Ilya standing in his parents’ home, helping with the dishes or setting the table, makes Shane miss him that much more. He’s immediately reminded of why he came to see his mom in the first place.

Yuna seems to sense his change of focus and her lips thin even before Shane can ask the thing he’s been worried about for weeks now.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” 

“Not… yet,” Yuna says carefully. “But things are not good.”

“He isn’t responding to my texts,” Shane tells her. “I know he’s busy but he’s never―It’s not like him to ignore me.”

“I suspect he’s doing it because of what’s happening with Russia.”

“Russia?” Shane doesn’t know the last time Ilya mentioned Russia, let alone visited. He’s never seemed all that attached to his home country. “What’s happening in Russia?”

“Grigori Rozanov is dead.”

That’s bad. Shane knows that’s bad. 

Ilya doesn’t care about his father―not in the same way most children would when a parent dies. However, Grigori’s death does pose a significant issue. Shane doesn’t know everything about what Ilya has created in America or left behind in Russia, but he knows organized crime. When a parent dies―specifically the parent in charge of the operations dies―rest is not what follows.

He tells himself to give Ilya two weeks after the text he sends right there in his mom’s office. He makes it ten days. By noon on day ten, he’s on a plane and headed into what might be a bratva warzone if Shane’s anxiety has anything to say about what the future there looks like. While he’s hoping things are a little less dramatic than that, he won’t hold his breath. He was born and raised in organized crime; things aren’t nice and easy when a turnover is on the horizon.

Luckily for Shane, the warzone isn’t visible from the airport or from inside the cab that he takes to Ilya’s home. There isn’t blood painting the streets―not that he expected there to be―and there aren’t giant men loitering in alleys or smoking as they watch him pass. All things considered, Boston both looks and feels like it always does.

Knocking on Ilya’s front door changes that. 

Ilya answers with wide eyes and drags Shane through the doorway before he can even say ‘hello’. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ilya hisses at him. He flips two locks on the door before focusing on Shane. “You are injured. Is dangerous here.”

“So I’ve heard,” Shane drawls, “but not from you. My mom says hi, by the way.” Shane’s pretty sure she doesn’t, actually; not in this context, anyway. Maybe in the future she’ll send him along with such a message. “She knows about us.”

There is not as much surprise on Ilya’s face as Shane would have hoped for, but the reaction confirms his suspicion: Ilya had seen his parents at the hospital as well. Shane wonders if they made eye contact; he knows they didn’t talk. Knowing Ilya, Shane doesn’t think they did either, especially not if Ilya was running late for a flight to Russia that Shane knows he should have already been on by then.

“It is dangerous here,” Ilya repeats. Shane rolls his eyes and it only hurts his head a little.

“Guess you should have answered my texts then, hm? If you didn’t want me to show up just to make sure you were okay?” Shane doesn’t wait for Ilya to respond before he continues. “I don’t care that you didn’t want to tell me what was going on―” He does, “―but you can’t just ignore me for eight weeks. I was already going insane because I was stuck at home. I didn’t need to also be worrying about why my―you weren’t responding.”

It’s then he realizes that he doesn’t know what Ilya is to him. They’re together. He knows that much. But is Ilya his boyfriend? His convenient hook-up? Surely they’re more than that, but Shane has never thought to clarify. Until a week and a half ago, Shane hadn’t told a single soul that he was seeing someone; he hadn’t needed a label for Ilya because all that mattered was what Shane knew. 

“Your me?” Ilya echoes. Of course that’s what he picks up on. “I am a ‘you’?”

“Well, what do you want to be?” 

It’s mostly rhetorical―Shane does not expect Ilya to be into labels―but Ilya still answers.

“We are boyfriends, no?” He frowns.

“I mean,” Shane hesitates, “Yes, I think so, probably.” 

The words feel weird in his mouth, but he likes the thought of what they mean. Him and Ilya. Boyfriends. Yes, that’s probably what they are. At the most insignificant of levels, they are boyfriends. In truth―at least in Shane’s opinion, but he believes Ilya would agree that―they are so much more. But “boyfriends” is something other people will understand. They’ll know that Ilya is important to him. 

“Okay.” Ilya’s grin is a happy, boyish thing that makes Shane’s heart ache with love. “Boyfriends.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, and his smile feels a little dopey too. “Boyfriends. Which is why―” He continues suddenly, almost having forgotten what triggered this side conversation in the first place, “―I was worried when my boyfriend―” He and Ilya share giddy smiles, “―didn’t answer my texts.”

Ilya’s smile falls. Shane tries not to feel guilty about it.

This is why he came to Boston: To confront Ilya about his radio silence. In all the years they’ve been together, Ilya has never ignored him for more than a handful of days at a time. To have gone almost eight weeks without so much as a ‘read’ notification has been more worrying than Shane is willing to admit out loud. In the safety of his own mind, he can recognize that he’s been on the verge of panic about it for a while now. He doesn’t think telling Ilya that will help.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says quietly. He doesn’t meet Shane’s eyes when he says, “I was afraid when my father died. I did not want you to be brought into it.” 

“I get that.” Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand. “It’s scary, I know, but you can’t shut me out. I love you. Let me be here for you.”

“And I love you,” Ilya says, “which is why I do not want you here.”

“Ilya―”

“No,” Ilya interrupts, “Boston is dangerous for me. It is deadly for you. If anyone learns who you are―if Alexei learns who you are―I don’t want to think.”

“My mom owns the North American yakuza,” Shane reminds him softly. He squeezes Ilya’s hand. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not this.” Ilya shakes his head. “Alexei is a monster. He is furious and determined. He will hurt you just to watch me suffer and I cannot allow that.”

“Well, good thing he won’t ever find out.” Shane presses a lingering kiss to Ilya’s cheek. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. If you’re so worried about it, I’ll go. In the morning, though,” Shane adds. 

Ilya is quick to usher him through the house then. Now that they’ve both laid their cards out on the table, there’s a familiar ease about being in Ilya’s home. Ilya makes them both dinner and asks Shane roughly three times if he’s sure that his collarbone is healed. When Shane’s last answer comes with a vague threat, Ilya stops asking.

In an ideal world, they wouldn’t keep talking about Russia or Alexei or anything other than whatever they wanted. Unfortunately, Ilya is still facing an active threat and Shane can’t ignore it even if he only plans on being in Boston for the next twenty-four hours.

“We think there will be a power play in New York,” Ilya tells him over dinner. “Vicky and Marly have been playing at the Ostrich Plan since I left for Russia.”

“The Ostrich Plan?”

“Is stupid name, yes?” Ilya rolls his eyes. “Is good plan, though.”

It consists primarily―from what Shane understands―of Ilya playing dumb: Pretend he doesn’t know that Alexei is aiming for New York. It’s a game of risk that requires Ilya to prepare for the bratva in New York while not letting on that’s what he’s doing. If word gets out to the wrong person that Ilya is moving resources so that people can easily be mobilized when the time comes, then the entire plan fails. It’s a fine line to walk but Shane knows that Ilya can walk it. 

The plan itself really is a good plan, all things considered. Shane is sure there are things that Ilya isn’t telling him and he prefers it that way, but it’s clear that this has been in the works for a while. Even before Ilya’s father died, Shane suspects that he’s been preparing. That alone isn’t odd; Ilya is nothing if not ahead of things. What is odd, however, is that it has taken so many weeks for Alexei to rise to the bait. 

“It will be soon now,” Ilya says confidently. “Sveta has seen it. She is sure it will happen in the month.”

“And how long will it last?” Shane almost doesn’t ask it. He’s sure he won’t like the answer. The look Ilya gives him confirms it.

“I do not know,” he sighs. “You cannot be here until it is over.”

Shane knows that. It’s what he had feared. At least during the hockey season he could have distracted himself from it, but the season has just ended. Officially; not just for him. There’s nothing for him to do now for several months, and based on how the last few weeks have gone, Shane knows that most of his free time will actually be spent agonizing over the distance between them. 

“Better make it short, then,” Shane grumbles.

Ilya grins and kisses him with a murmured promise between their lips. 

They finally stop talking about Russia.

Ilya wakes up warm and content for the first time since receiving the news of his father’s death. His eyes don’t hurt when he opens them and his body doesn’t ache from a sleepless night. He isn’t completely rested―it will take several nights of sleep this wonderful to fix the weeks of insomnia―but he feels okay.

He feels even better when his eyes land on Shane.

Still in Ilya’s bed, Shane is pressed against him from shoulder to toe. Ilya is all but blanketing him from behind. It’s warm under the covers and Shane is still asleep judging by the way his body is relaxed and loose. His mouth is just slightly agape as well. Ilya’s heart throbs just looking at him. He’s missed this. Missed Shane. Russia is awful at the best of times and unbearable at the worst; the fact that his homeland has followed him back to Boston has been miserable. But here, with Shane tucked so close to Ilya and sleeping very soundly in his arms, Russia and all its miseries seem very far away.

Ilya doesn’t wake Shane. He can’t do it. Instead, he traces Shane’s features with his eyes and presses feather-light kisses to his skin when Ilya simply can’t stand it anymore. He isn’t sure how long he does this but eventually, Shane shifts in Ilya’s arms and lets out a soft sound that tells Ilya he’s waking up.

“Good morning, lyubimyy.” Ilya presses a firmer kiss to the hook of Shane’s jaw and Shane hums.

“Good morning.” His voice is rough but his smile is soft. Ilya has to kiss him again. “Sleep well?”

“The best.”

“Me too.”

“You slept late,” Ilya notes absently. He’s been trying not to let it worry him even though he couldn’t help but notice the time earlier. “Are you feeling okay?”

Shane nods, eyes still closed, and says, “It’s just the concussion. What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Shane doesn’t bolt upright like Ilya expected. Any other day, he would. These days, with his concussion, apparently he does not. 

“Are you sure you feel okay?” Ilya asks again. It feels odd for Shane to be this calm about having slept in so late.

“I promise.” Shane turns his head to smile at Ilya. “I might have a headache, though. Do you have tylenol?”

“Downstairs.” 

“I’ll get it later.” 

Shane turns all the way around to hug Ilya as he goes back to dozing. Ilya―although confused―lets him until he can’t hold his bladder anymore. By then, noon has struck and while Shane isn’t asleep, he also is not awake.

“I’m going to shower,” Ilya tells him. “You stay.”

Shane hums in response and Ilya slips out of bed without pulling the covers off of Shane.

Ilya takes his time in the bathroom. He would rush back to Shane, but the calm of the morning has put him in a peaceful mood. Shane will still be here when he gets out―possibly will still be in bed. There’s no need to hurry so Ilya doesn’t, but he doesn’t take his time either. He’s in and out in the same amount of time he usually is and when he steps back into the bedroom, Shane is gone.

Ilya ignores the slight disappointment at this. The fact that he got Shane in bed until noon is impressive enough; he isn’t that surprised that Shane―despite his drowsiness―would get up once Ilya was gone. He likely went to get the pain medicine.

Ilya does not take his time getting dressed. Shane is somewhere downstairs and it has been twenty minutes since Ilya has seen him. That needs to be fixed.

He expects to hear Shane rummaging around in the kitchen. Instead, it’s quiet. There’s a chance that Shane has either finished cooking already or decided to put off breakfast, but both are equally improbable. Ilya can’t even hear his footsteps.

Ilya rounds the corner, taking the last stair a little quieter than usual as something wary starts to grow in his chest. The wariness is joined by a sharp fear when Ilya steps into the kitchen to see Shane sitting stiffly in one of the bar stools. Alexei stands beside him. 

“Rumor has it,” Alexei says in Russian, “that I’m supposed to be in New York. This must be disappointing.”

Shane doesn’t look at Ilya. His eyes stay forward, locked on the fridge, while Alexei holds a gun loosely against his throat and faces Ilya. Ilya wishes it were the other way around: That Shane were looking at him and Alexei was not. 

“How did you get here?” Ilya asks. He has a security system―a good, very expensive one―and yet there was no notification on his phone when he’d picked it up.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Alexei grins. “Your whore let me in. So kind.” 

“No, he didn’t.” Ilya knows Shane would never. “Leave him be.”

“But he makes you so happy,” Alexei says. He brushes the gun against Shane’s throat and jaw in a caressing manner. His tone shifts suddenly. “You don’t deserve to be happy,” he snarls, “not after what you took from me. Rozanov is my name―mine!”

“It is ours,” Ilya snaps in return. “It’s not my fault you were too slow to use it.”

“I waited!” Alexei shouts. Shane flinches at the loudness. “It was our father’s and I waited. Like a good, respectful son. I did not sully our father’s name before he could even give it up.”

“He was never going to give it to you,” Ilya says. “You’re too brash. He was never going to let you take over. Good thing he died before anyone could learn otherwise.”

Alexei’s face darkens at the implication and Ilya thinks distantly that taunting his brother right now may not be a good idea. It is true, though, and Ilya wants Alexei to know that he knows. Their father may have been sick, but Ilya knows what a man who has been poisoned looks like. Alexei is only lucky for now. One day, someone else will point it out too. 

“You are a stain to the family,” Alexei growls, “to our father and his empire. It is time someone showed you what you deserve, and it is not happiness.” 

The gun against Shane’s throat is no longer loose. Alexei tangles a fist in Shane’s hair and angles the barrel of his gun dangerously under the hinge of Shane’s jaw. Shane doesn’t flinch, but his eyes squeeze shut and Ilya sees his breath catch.

“No!” Ilya starts forward but Alexei snarls out a warning that stops Ilya in his tracks. “No,” Ilya repeats in Russian, “please no.”

“Tell me,” Alexei says. He yanks on Shane’s hair until his head turns to face Ilya. “Tell me,” Alexei says in rough English, “how he means to you and I do not shoot.”

Shane’s eyes flicker open at the words and Ilya almost wishes they hadn’t. There is no fear, only apology. They both know Alexei won’t keep his word. Ilya can say exactly what Alexei wants and he will still put a bullet in Shane’s head. Nothing Ilya says can stop it.

“Tell me!” Alexei demands. “Tell me or I will make him suffer while you watch. What does he mean to you?”

“Everything.” It’s too simple. “More than everything. You take him away from me, Alexei, and I will stop breathing. I cannot live without him.”

He doesn’t know how much his brother understands. Alexei has never been good at English. This whole confession is more of a show than anything, but Ilya begs every deity―known and unknown―that his brother understands what he says.

“What is he worth?” Alexei asks. “Your empire? Life?”

“Everything,” Ilya repeats, and Shane’s eyes narrow. “He is worth more than all of it. If you let him live, I will give you America. I will give you my empire―everything I have. Please, Alexei,” Ilya says in Russian, “please let him go. I will give you my life in exchange.”

“No, Ilya―”

There is something especially feral in Shane’s eyes. Ilya does not think it’s because Shane cares so deeply about the empire that Ilya has made for himself.

“I don’t need your permission,” Alexei says, cutting Shane off with a firm hit of his gun, “to take any of that. I will take it all after I’ve taken care of your whore.”

In the span of a single second, Alexei’s finger drifts finally to the trigger and something protective flashes in Shane’s eyes. The moment feels infinite to Ilya. He's too far away to stop the gun from going off; too close to hide from the destruction it’s about to cause. And then―

“My mother is Yuna Takayama,” Shane says in rapid Russian. “She knows where I am.”

The most surprising thing about Shane’s words―Ilya thinks―is that they are in flawless Russian. Shane has never spoken Russian. He does not know Russian. At least, that is what Ilya had thought.

“Takayama has no son,” Alexei says, but he hesitates. 

“Are you so sure?” Shane asks. It sounds almost like a taunt. “Are you so sure, Alexei Grigorivitch, that you would kill a man claiming to be so? That you would risk her destroying your measly beginnings of an empire?”

Ilya learns two new things about himself at that moment. The first: He is very into the fact that Shane speaks―apparently fluent―Russian and has managed to keep it a secret for years. The second: Ilya wants nothing more than to hear Shane speak it just like that again, threat and all. Preferably alone in their bedroom. 

The confidence Shane has in his words is also something Ilya is into. This, however, is not a new realization. Confident Shane―when he makes an appearance―makes Ilya go weak in the knees and desperate.

Shane's words make Alexei hesitate. There’s a reason Ilya went to Yuna Takayama when he first began to worry about what Alexei would do when their father died. Even in Russia, her reputation precedes her. For all of Alexei’s hotheadedness, even he knows when to stop in the face of such a big threat.

“Prove it, whore.” 

Or maybe not. Regardless, it won’t be Ilya’s fault when Alexei faces Yuna's wrath. He just really, really hopes it isn’t because Shane is―

Ilya can’t even think the word without something lodging in his throat. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. There’s an opening―the smallest one that Ilya has ever considered taking advantage of―and it won’t last long.

Alexei’s attention is on Shane now. His gun is no longer pressing marks into Shane’s skin.

Ilya doesn’t think. He just acts.

He lunges and the motion catches both Shane’s and Alexei’s attention in the way he hoped it would. Shane flinches away and the gun fires in Ilya’s direction. In the time it takes Alexei to remember what he’s doing, Ilya has pulled Shane off the bar stool and shoved him behind the kitchen island. They both tumble to the floor as Alexei shoots again―this time intentionally rather than instinctively―and Shane hisses as he’s pinned between Ilya and the floor.

“Shit, are you―”

“Shut up.”

Shane, somehow, is the one who finds the nearest gun first and hands it over. Ilya isn’t even done asking if Shane’s alright before he has a loaded handgun being pushed into his chest with a whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Ilya frowns―confused―but Alexei rounds the island, gun raised, and Ilya can’t think. Alexei’s gun is loaded and aiming at Shane. It had been pressed against Shane’s throat so hard that there’s a mark there now. It isn’t really Ilya who acts when he turns and fires at Alexei, but it is his body. 

He doesn’t know how many shots he fires or if Alexei gets another one in before he joins them both on the floor. One breath, Ilya had cold metal being pressed into his chest. Three breaths later, his brother is lying dead on the floor. 

It’s an odd thing. Alexei has always been big and loud. He is not that anymore. He is silent―dead―and Ilya can only stare at his body with apathetic curiosity. Half of Ilya expects Alexei to get up in spite of the dark red puddle growing under him. The other half is surprised that killing him was that easy.

“Ilya?” Shane pulls on his shoulder until Ilya is facing him. Immediately, warm hands are on Ilya’s face and Shane is looking at him with more worry than Ilya feels is necessary. “I’m sorry,” Shane says again, and Ilya is just as confused as he was that first time.

“Why?” he asks.

“He was your brother,” Shane says. “You shouldn’t have had to kill him.”

“He was not going to live,” Ilya says harshly, “after he threatened you. Me―Is okay. You―no.”

“You shouldn’t have had to be the one who did it.”

“I am glad it was me.” Ilya realizes it’s true only as he says it. “He would be martyr otherwise. Like this, he dies coward. In his enemy’s home.” 

Shane looks at him as if he’s thinking long and hard about something. Ilya doesn’t know if he should worry. Often, Shane has to think about things before he reacts to them. Ilya didn’t think this would be one of those things.

“I love you,” Shane finally says. “You’re a bit crazy―” Ilya frowns at that, “―but I really, really love you.”

Shane kisses him fiercely before Ilya can return the sentiment, but Ilya doesn’t mind. He’d just watched Shane sit in front of him with a gun to his head for much too long of a time. Kissing him, feeling the warmth of his skin under Ilya’s fingertips, is very reassuring.

“Thank you for not letting me die,” Shane says in soft Russian, his lips brushing Ilya’s. 

“Thank you for not dying.” 

It’s a stupid thing to say. It doesn’t really make sense. With a sharp bark of laughter, Shane pulls back to look at Ilya only to start laughing as soon as they make eye contact. Ilya rolls his eyes and lets Shane laugh―it has always been one of his favorite sounds―and hugs him as tight as he dares. Shane’s hiss of pain had not escaped Ilya when they both went crashing to the floor. He doesn’t know where Shane hurts but he refuses to make it worse.

“Since when do you speak Russian?” Ilya asks. “If I had known, I would have said much less nice things about you in it.”

“The whole time, you asshole.” Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek and pulls back. “You could’ve asked, you know?”

“Oh yes,” Ilya drawls sarcastically. “I could just say Shane, darling, love of my life, do you speak Russian? This very difficult language that you have no reason to know?”

“Yes, exactly.” Shane stares at him, deadpan, and Ilya rolls his eyes again. “I took it in high school, since I know you’re curious,” Shane adds. “I was terrible at it. Only started actually studying it when I met you.”

Ilya does not linger on how that’s one of the sweetest things Shane has ever said to him. It would give too much away. He can never go back to Russia―since learning that his father was sick, he’s known that would be the case one day. He cannot miss it. He cannot miss speaking the language. 

“I will only speak Russian to you now,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t think he means it. “Payback for making me speak English all those years.”

Shane only grins. 

There’s a body on the floor behind him―something that Ilya thinks Shane is intentionally distracting him from―and unwelcome guests somewhere in his city. Alexei didn’t have the chance to say much about how he knew that New York was a trap, but Ilya is good at knowing things. There is a rat somewhere in his chain of command. He’ll have to take care of that and soon. Alexei may be dead on the floor behind him, but that doesn’t mean his minions won’t be out and about trying to upend Ilya’s empire.

Fortunately, there are only so many people who knew that Ilya had been moving resources in the first place. He’d been very careful in choosing who knew which means the betrayal is closer to him than he wants to think about. He’d like to think that it’s neither Vicky nor Marly, but he can’t afford to assume so. They’ll have to be his first stop. 

Ilya doesn’t truly think Marly would betray him, but neither would Vicky. The two have been better brothers than Alexei ever was, but that’s a low enough bar that Ilya won’t be able to sleep until he knows they weren’t involved. He has to ask and the accusation alone will hurt them all, but it won’t hurt them beyond repair. He’ll make the accusation, they’ll prove it was as unlikely as Ilya hoped, and then they’ll hunt down both a rat and some Russians. 

Right now, though, those are all later problems.

He has Shane alive and warm in front of him. A handful of minutes ago, he wasn’t sure he would ever have that again. The fear in his veins is settling, eased by the soft kisses that Shane presses to Ilya’s skin, and Ilya can breathe again. For now, work can wait.

Chapter End Notes

And that's all, folks!

Sorry that it's a little open ended, but I wasn't sure that I could keep going and still make it good, so I decided to stop here.

Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!