Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Russian Mafia, Alternate Universe, Mafia AU, Alternate Universe - Mob, Crime Boss Ilya Rozanov, Crime Boss Yuna Hollander, Established Relationship, Shane Hollander's Cottage, Protective Shane Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, Down Bad Ilya Rozanov, Home Invasion

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of mafi[oh]so in love - hollanov mafia au, Part 12 of love-a-nov (hollanov one-shots)

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-28 Words: 3,076 Chapters: 1/1

too much love will kill [for] you every time

Summary

The cottage is their safe place. Only Shane’s parents have ever visited; only they know the address. If Ilya is secretly smoking and on his work phone at the cottage, Shane wonders how worried he should be. When he asks, Ilya's voice is soft despite his frown

“Vicky said it was urgent," Ilya says. "Something in Russia.” 

Normally, Shane wouldn’t ask anything beyond that. But again, they’re at the cottage and Ilya is on his work phone. Shane asks.

“There is a man we thought dead,” Ilya says. “Turns out that he is maybe not so dead.”

Or: How the Russian mafia ruins a perfectly nice stay at the cottage, and how Shane isn't just good at shooting hockey pucks.

Notes

Shane knows. He knows this is Ilya’s favorite place to be; knows that his boyfriend would give up anything to spend every passing hour here at the cottage and fights hard to ensure that they always have time during the summers to come. 

The cottage has always been a safe spot for them―for him―and Ilya fits there so well that Shane forgets there was ever a period of time where Ilya didn’t know about the cottage. It had been less than a year, really. Hardly a blip of time in the many years they’ve been stealing away together. But still. There was a time when Ilya didn’t know about the cottage and that feels more wrong than seeing the way Ilya frowns at his work phone.

“Thought you weren’t working this week,” Shane hums. It's nice out this late in the evening, but Ilya has been out on the porch long enough that Shane knows it's time to intervene. “Thought you had quit smoking too,” he adds as he drapes himself over Ilya's back.

“I’m not. I did.” Ilya turns his head to press a kiss to Shane’s temple. “Is old shirt. I have not washed it.”

“And the ashes at your feet?” Shane asks. “Are those old too?”

Ilya huffs and doesn’t respond. Shane hugs him tighter. 

The cottage is their safe place. Only Shane’s parents have ever visited; only they know the address. If Ilya is secretly smoking and on his work phone at the cottage, Shane wonders how worried he should be.

“Baby?” he asks in Russian. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, my love,” Ilya replies. His voice is soft but he’s frowning deeply at the message on his screen. Shane doesn’t read it. “Vicky said it was urgent. Something in Russia.” 

Normally, Shane wouldn’t ask anything beyond that. But again, they’re at the cottage and Ilya is on his work phone.

“What about it?” 

“There is a man we thought dead,” Ilya says. “Turns out that he is maybe not so dead.”

“And?”

“You want to know more?” Ilya shuts off his phone and turns in Shane’s arms. “You don’t like knowing about my work.” 

“You’re smoking.” Shane switches back to English now that he has Ilya’s full attention. “You’re on your work phone.”

“I am sorry, lyubimyy,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s brow. “Could not wait. But it is done now. No more work. Just you.”

Shane makes him prove it. They’ve been at the cottage for forty-eight hours now and Ilya has only fucked him twice. It’s a record low number and Shane blames the work distractions. If Shane let him, Ilya would argue that it was because Shane is still recovering from his season. That has never stopped Ilya before, though, and Shane certainly isn’t letting it stop him. By morning, they’ve doubled their count and Shane is sore enough that it doesn’t matter if he’s still bruised from his last game.

There is a sense of peace that exists only at the cottage and they take full advantage of it. Ilya swims every day. They rotate between video games and soccer games, and both end the same way: With more kisses than strictly necessary, but not enough to satisfy either of them. By the end of the first week, it’s hard to remember there is a life outside of the cottage.

They order groceries. Ilya frowns at his work phone twice more. Shane rearranges the living room furniture as a way to stay busy during an exceptionally rainy morning. They wrestle in the gym and in the bed, and they cook together in between. Halfway through week two, the routine has stuck and Shane can hardly remember why this isn’t what they do everyday.

He is, unfortunately, forced to remember at 10:58pm on an otherwise peaceful Tuesday night.

Ilya goes to bed early. He will forever deny it―will argue with even Shane that he does not go to bed early―but when they are at the cottage, the bed sheets are folded down by roughly 9pm and it is all Shane can do to keep one lamp on. Most of the time, the lamp is unnecessary. There’s a reason Ilya likes his early bedtime, and it has everything to do with getting Shane under him early enough that, after whatever amount of sex they end up having, they can actually fall asleep by a decent hour. If Shane wasn’t so appreciative of Ilya respecting his nighttime routine, he would tease him more.

Still, Ilya goes to bed early, and most of the time he can convince Shane to join him in one way or another. Tonight, Shane is sore and fucked out. His book is calling his name and Ilya takes his gentle, “Not tonight,” without a single complaint. Instead, he presses his lips to Shane’s and tucks himself into bed with his phone. They spend the next hour silently enjoying their own entertainment.

At 10:38pm, Shane’s phone lights up with a notification he doesn’t see. Ilya’s phone gets an identical one. He frowns, Shane reads on, and Ilya sits up.

Shane hums at the movement and looks up when Ilya leaves the bed.

“Where are you going?” 

“Security alert,” Ilya says, still frowning. He nods toward Shane’s phone where the notification waits to be read. “I will check. Stay here.”

He kisses Shane before he can protest and disappears on silent footsteps. Shane returns to his book, but only half of his attention is on it.

The cottage is in the woods. It’s not unusual for an animal to trigger their front door camera. The security alert, however, is not from that. Rather, when Shane check it, he finds that it came from the alarm at the end of their driveway; the one that tells them when someone is pulling in the driveway. A deer could have triggered it, of course, but that’s never happened before and Shane isn’t willing to write it off so easily. When Ilya doesn’t return within the next few minutes, Shane sets his book aside.

He checks the front door camera but the feed is down. A static buzzing is all he can see; something blurring the camera’s vision beyond recognition. It’s more than enough confirmation that Shane’s suspicions are correct: The security alarm wasn’t triggered by a deer. 

There is no sound downstairs. Nothing that indicates Ilya is in danger or has discovered anything amiss at all. Shane hadn’t even heard the door open. For all he knows, Ilya is still treading around the house on silent footsteps and hasn’t seen the blurred camera footage. Just as Shane steps through the bedroom door, that changes. 

“Fuck!” Ilya hisses. It’s loud for how silent the house has gone, and it repeats in Shane’s brain like a record scratch. There’s a scuffle that is quickly over, silence, and then, in Russian, “How did you get here?”

“You’re famous now,” an unfamiliar voice says. “There are photos everywhere. You aren’t so hard to find when there are photos of you with your famous slut.”

“Don’t fucking call him that.”

Shane stops listening. He’s heard enough in Ilya’s tone to know that whoever is in their cottage―whoever has found their safe place―is not someone who will be walking out of here.

It’s a bit unfortunate. The cottage will never feel as safe as it once did and that, more than anything, is what angers Shane about it all. There’s a stranger downstairs who is threatening the love of his life, but the worst part is that Shane hadn’t even seen it coming. He knows Ilya hadn’t. There would be a gun on Ilya's nightstand and they would no longer be at the cottage if he had. Ilya, Shane has learned, is perhaps overly paranoid even for someone raised by the bratva.

Sometimes, Shane wonders if he should be similarly paranoid, but right now is not one of those times. Right now, there is a stranger threatening the love of his life downstairs, and Shane had been quite content laying in their bed up until then. He’s in the middle of a chapter. Ilya had been so warm and soft beside him. Shane wants to go back to that.

Shane does not think as he reaches around a shelf in the hallway and makes his way downstairs, stuffing Ilya’s gun in the waistband of his pajama bottoms and wondering what awaits him downstairs. 

The answer is, as it turns out: Not great. The stranger has a gun―unsurprising, but inconvenient―and is aiming it squarely at Ilya’s chest―also unsurprising, but quite infuriating. Ilya’s hands are devastatingly empty. By his ears, above his shoulders, Ilya’s hands are only holding air. For half a second, Shane thinks about asking him why he didn’t grab a gun on his way down. There are three between Ilya’s side of the bed and the bottom of the stairs. Shane had grabbed the second one.

“Ah, famous slut is here,” the stranger says in English. “Is party time.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Ilya hisses in Russian. Why, Shane doesn’t know. They all speak the language. Shane will understand them both just fine whether the threats are in English or Russian. “It’s me you want, yes? Fucking talk to me, then.” 

“No, I think slut should know,” the stranger says, resolutely in English. “Would be sad if he does not know you are dying because you are traitor. Are coward.”

“Are you the not-dead guy?” Shane asks. He keeps his hands at his sides and glances at Ilya for confirmation: Was this the guy Ilya was on his work phone for nearly two weeks ago?

“Am not dead, no,” the man says, as Ilya’s jaw tightens. Ilya nods. “Is funny story. Ilyusha tries to kill me. Dumps me in river and does not know I swim away. I am very lucky boat saved me.”

Boston, then. One of the Russians that Ilya had spent weeks getting rid of so they could be safe. So they could see each other again. One of the Russians who tried to ruin Ilya’s empire and deliver it to Alexei. Shane wonders if this man knows that Alexei was the coward in the end. It seems like something the man cares about.

“Did you hear about how Alexei died, then?” Shane asks. It borders enough on taunting that Ilya fixes him with one of the coldest stares he’s ever dared to turn on Shane. “A coward? Crying? Begging?”

It’s maybe not all true. Alexei died a coward, but he didn’t live long enough to beg or cry. This man doesn’t need to know that, though. This man will be joining Alexei soon enough, Shane is sure of it.

“You are slut,” the man tells him with a sneer. “Whore. You do not know who is strong man, but when Ilyusha is gone, I will show.”

The pet name grates on Shane more than the threat does. It’s a soft name―one that Shane uses when Ilya is particularly fragile or when Shane wants to be heard while being gentle. That this man is throwing it around as an insult hurts Shane more than anything else he says. Ilya, unfortunately, takes the threat to heart.

“Do not touch him.” 

Uncaring for the gun in the man’s hand, Ilya throws himself forward. The gun fires―the shot goes wide―and Ilya doesn’t so much as flinch. He and the man hit the floor, but the gun remains firmly in hand even as they wrestle. Shane doesn’t know how the man does it―training, probably―but he doesn’t care. He watches as the man tries to aim the gun again; tries to angle it in a way that will lead to Ilya bleeding. Shane takes the shot before he does.

This time, Ilya does flinch. His entire body goes rigid as he holds tightly to the stranger’s arm, fighting a now-useless battle to keep the gun aimed away. Even when the stranger goes still beneath him, Ilya doesn’t move. 

“Ilya, hey.” Shane drops onto the ground beside him and shoves both guns out of their reach. “Hey, are you alright?”

Ilya turns to him, confused at first. His eyes are wide and wild, and shortly after glancing at Shane, he stares back down at the body beneath him. A single shot blows diagonally through the man’s head. Shane had aimed for his forehead; had hit his cheek. The angle had sent the bullet up, and while Shane isn’t sure the death was instant, it was immediate enough that nothing more than a groan escaped the man after it.

“You―” Ilya pokes at the man’s eyes. They’re still open, but now they are unseeing. “You shot him.”

“Yeah, cause you were going to get yourself killed,” Shane replies with a frown. “What were you thinking, throwing yourself at a gun like that?”

“Is not first time.” Ilya shrugs and Shane’s eyes narrow. “I am okay, lyubimyy.”

Ilya stands swiftly and there’s blood splattering his face from Shane’s shot, but he doesn’t seem to care as he drags Shane into his arms.

“I am okay,” Ilya repeats. “You are my hero. My very sexy hero. You did not tell me you could shoot.”

“You never asked.”

If he had, perhaps Shane would have told him that an ice rink wasn’t the place where he made his first shot. There’s no way to gauge how Ilya would react to that, though. Shane doesn't know if he would be worried about what that implied or too turned on to question it. Given the way that Ilya’s eyes go dark with heat, Shane thinks the latter is most likely. 

“You were not afraid to hit me?” Ilya asks. It doesn’t feel like a taunt, so Shane answers honestly.

“Of course not.” He presses a barely there kiss to Ilya’s lips. “I’m a good fucking shot.”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Ilya breaths in terse Russian. “Holy shit.”

Suddenly, Shane is being kissed within an inch of his life. All of his senses are filled with Ilya. An endless loop of IlyaIlyaIlya courses through him as fingers curl in his hair, press hard into his skin, flit over his throat and around to rest on his nape. The sense of Ilya surrounds him as his boyfriend kisses him fiercely, and Shane loses all thought for long enough that Ilya is able to push him backward onto the couch. Only when his boxers are ripped off and Ilya dives nose first into his groin does Shane realize what Ilya is doing.

“Hey, wait, you’re covered in blood.”

It comes out more breathless than Shane hoped for, but Ilya’s lips are trailing warm kisses up and down his cock. His hands grope mercilessly at Shane’s thighs and one floats up to press over Shane’s chest, pinning him to the couch.

“Yes,” Ilya replies. He’s just as breathless. “Is that a problem?”

He lifts his head just enough to make eye contact with Shane. There is blood splattered and smeared across his cheeks and forehead, and his eyes are so dark with lust that Shane feels the heat of them in his own chest. 

“No,” Shane breathes. “Not a problem.”

Ilya grins and ducks his head, taking Shane into his mouth in one smooth move. Shane scrambles for something to hold onto, gasping out something that could be Ilya’s name, could be a curse. He doesn’t know what he says, but it only encourages Ilya. Soon enough, Shane is stuttering out a warning. Ilya doesn’t slow.

Shane comes with a cry that echoes through the house, and Ilya only swallows. His tongue continues to work at Shane’s cock, teasing and too much in all the best ways, and Shane can only pull him off when he starts to twitch from the over-stimulation.

Ilya pulls off with a sweet, too-much kiss to the tip of Shane’s spent cock and hoists himself up to lay over Shane like the best weighted blanket. His own cock is hard between them, but Ilya doesn’t make any move to get off. Once Shane catches his breath, he promises himself that he’ll take care of it.

“God, fuck,” Shane breathes. “Give me―Give me a minute.”

Ilya hums, tracing an indiscernible pattern across Shane’s shoulder. 

“Do not rush, lyubimyy,” he says softly. “Is my favorite part.”

“Your favorite part?” It takes everything in Shane to form the words and Ilya grins as if he knows this.

“Yes.” He kisses Shane gently, firmly. “You. Fucked out. Beneath me.”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs. He swats at Ilya but knows it won’t do any damage. His limbs are still tingly. Ilya may very well have just sucked his brain out. “You caught me off-guard.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Ilya teases. “You shoot Karchev. I am caught off-guard. Is very hot.”

“Yeah, well, so was that,” Shane admits. Because yeah, Ilya sucking his dick while there’s still blood on his face is―apparently―something that Shane is very into. He doesn’t think a blowjob has left him this breathless since the first time Ilya had blown him.

“Good.” Ilya kisses his brow. His cheeks. “We are even then. We are both very sexy. Very hot.”

They lay on the couch until Shane can feel his legs again. By then, his skin is starting to pebble from the cold and Ilya is no longer so hard, but that doesn’t stop him from letting Shane pin him to their bed and ride him until they're both near to tears. In the morning, they’ll take care of the body downstairs. Or rather, Ilya will take care of it while Shane cleans the floors and passes the gun off to his mother to dispose of. He also, unfortunately, has to endure Ilya frowning at his work phone for the remainder of their time at the cottage.

Not all is lost, though. They stay three more days―enough to take care of the stranger and ensure that no one is following him―and then they are gone. Back to Montreal for a day, and then off to Boston where Shane pretends he doesn’t know what Ilya’s work is focused on. So long as Ilya doesn’t ignore the not-dead Russian, Shane can. Besides, it’s his off season. Shane is―rather notoriously, he’d like it noted―not supposed to be working right now. His boyfriend can handle it.