Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Dark Romance, Russian Mafia, Yakuza, alternative universe, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pakhan Ilya Rozanov, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Ilya and Shane kill people, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is into BDSM, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike Friendship, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Kidnapping, Ilya Rozanov is Whipped, Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Jealous Shane Hollander, Crime Boss Ilya Rozanov, Bratva Ilya Rozanov, Yakuza Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-29 Completed: 2026-02-14 Words: 37,893 Chapters: 18/18

The Wakagashira’s Vow

Summary

Shane has never belonged to himself.

Raised by the Yakuza to kill without hesitation, he knows only loyalty, discipline, and control. When a political wedding threatens to expose the cracks in the underworld, Shane is ordered to attend not as a groom, but as a warning.

Ilya Rozanov is a rumor with teeth.

A Bratva ghost, feared even among his own, he sees Shane not as an enemy, but as something far more dangerous. Something he wants.

Notes

This plot wouldn’t leave my mind, so after almost twenty years without writing fanfiction, I’m back.

The last thing I wrote was a Brokeback Mountain AU on fanfiction.net!

English isn’t my first language—I’m Portuguese—so I’m relying on the internet and any help I can get along the way. I read a lot of dark mafia novels in English, and this story is very much influenced by that. Please don’t take this too seriously, this is just something I’m writing to quiet my brain.

Chapter 1: Prelude

Chapter Notes

3 months before

Shane 

Shane took a slow, steady breath before stepping into his father’s dojo office. He already knew why he had been summoned. Rumors had been circulating. People were always careful not to speak of him too openly. He was the Wakagashira, after all. The Oyabun’s son. Born and raised within the Yakuza of Vancouver. 

They knew what he was...secretive, silent, the most efficient killer in the organization. Antisocial. Controlled. And if anyone dared to comment on him, they feared his father far more than they feared Shane himself. 

Still, no matter how much people avoided him, whispers always reached his ears. 

He knew this day was coming. 

Intercepted communications had confirmed it: the Irish wanted a wedding. 

He straightened his suit and tie, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door. 

His father sat inside, smoking a kiseru, staring out the window at the green shores of the lake, as if the world beyond the glass could not reach him. 

The space was minimalist. The tatami floor was spotless, radiating discipline and control. His father sat on a higher cushion, a quiet reminder of authority. Japanese calligraphy lined the walls beside framed family photographs. Bronze and wooden sculptures rested on the furniture. Smaller cushions were arranged neatly for visitors, placed lower... always lower. 

The room was silent, broken only by the soft sound of wind slipping through the open window. The air carried the lingering scent of kizuru and incense—calm, restrained, commanding. 

“Shane.” His father said. “You’re here.” 

“Yes, Father.” Shane replied, bowing before sitting straight on the cushion in front of him, knees together, back rigid. 

His father did not waste time. 

“The Irish called today. They want a wedding.” 

“A wedding to stop the war over drug territory.” Shane said evenly. “I’ve heard. My people say they’re losing control of the Downtown Eastside. They’re afraid. Desperate. That’s why they’re offering you this girl.” 

“Yes.” his father said, a faint smile touching his lips. “I know.” 

Shane shifted slightly, fingers brushing through his hair—an old habit he never quite managed to break. 

“You don’t need to be nervous.” His father said. He knew those movements well. 

“I won’t force you into this marriage, Shan...” he continued. “The Yakuza knows what you are. Our best killer. Our sharpest mind. You shaped this organization. You made us rivals to the Irish and the Russians. They hate you for it. That’s why they sent this offer, even with the rumors about you.” 

Shane said nothing. 

“Honor comes first.” His father went on. “I won’t shame you with a bad choice. You will choose a man instead. Someone useful. I don’t care about preference. I care about results.” 

He paused. 

“We accept the offer. But we give another name as the groom. That name must come from you. Someone you trust completely. Family, maybe... someone close.” 

“There’s a very short list of men I trust,” Shane said quietly. He already knew the answer. “You’ve made your choice.” 

His father nodded once. “It must be Hayden.” 

The tension in the room tightened. 

“Shan...” His father said, his voice calm but unyielding. “The Yakuza needs an agreement that benefits us. Hayden is loyal. You trust him. That’s enough.” 

Shane frowned. “I understand the logic. But the Irish bride... she’s not more than a bargaining chip. Hayden deserves more than being traded like currency.” 

His father studied him for a moment. “This isn’t just marriage,” he said simply. “It’s protection. It’s alliance. Hayden can carry that weight.” 

Shane exhaled slowly. The decision wasn’t about emotion. It never was. 

“Then we make sure he isn’t just used.” Shane said. “He’ll be respected.” 

“Yes.” His father replied. “That’s how we show strength.” 

He straightened slightly.  

“So it’s decided. Hayden will marry her. And you will attend the wedding.” 

Shane’s jaw tightened. 

“You know I trust your judgment, Father. Hayden makes sense. But me being there...” He paused, searching for words. “You know I hate crowds. Social events. Irish weddings are loud. Long. Invasive.” 

His father lifted a hand. The air shifted. 

“You will go, Shan. You must. Refusing the first offer already cost us face. They’ll accept this because they know the Yakuza won’t give away its Wakagashira for some unknown Irish girl.” 

He leaned forward slightly. 

“But they will expect you. Everyone will be there. The Irish too.” 

Shane clenched his jaw. 

“This wedding will be the perfect opening for our shared enemies. Half the Yakuza. Half the Irish. Confined inside a small church. Limited exits. Predictable movement. A logistical nightmare.” 

“That is why you will be there.” His father said. “As my eyes and my blade. You secure our perimeter. Identify threats. Collect intelligence. If something shifts, you act.” 

“Jesus Christ...” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll go.” 

“And you’ll watch.” His father added. “Observe. See who looks too closely.” 

“Father!” Shane said, frowning. “An Irish man...” 

“Doesn’t matter.” his father cut in. “You attend. You give your blessing. Hayden is your closest friend.” 

Shane wasn’t sure how Hayden would take it. 

Hayden had been a gentle Canadian boy once... quiet, observant, already too careful for his age. He’d found shelter within the Yakuza as a child, brought in after a situation no one spoke about openly. Shane had been the first constant in his life there. The first to protect him. The first voice he learned to trust. 

His loyalty had never belonged to the organization in the abstract. It belonged to Shane. 

He followed orders flawlessly, but only because they aligned with Shane’s will. When Hayden had saved the Oyabun’s life during an assassination attempt, it hadn’t been out of reverence for the title. It had been instinct. Protect the man who stood behind Shane. Protect what mattered to him. 

Since then, Hayden had remained close. Trusted. Not by coincidence, but by design. Shane had placed him strategically near his father. As shield, as watcher, as insurance. A bodyguard to the Oyabun in name, but Shane’s man in truth. 

“Before you go...” His father said quietly. “There’s something else.” 

He paused. 

“The Pakhan is in Vancouver.” 

Shane’s eyes sharpened. “The Pakhan?” 

Ilya Rozanov. The true leader of the Bratva. A ghost. A name spoken carefully. Where the Yakuza ruled through structure and honor, the Bratva ruled through fear. And Rozanov was fear made flesh. 

Shane had hunted him before. Never found him. The Pakhan usually stayed in New York, sometimes Russia, protected by money and powerful friends. Vancouver made no sense. 

“What is he doing here?” Shane asked. 

“Talking to the Irish...” His father said. “Weapons. He came himself because someone tried to betray his Avtoritet.” 

“Should we be worried?” Shane asked. “Refusing the Irish while they deal with the Bratva isn’t smart.” 

His father didn’t hesitate. “This is the way.” 

A pause. 

“Or you marry the girl.” 

“I’d rather kill them all!” Shane said flatly. “Rozanov included.” 

His father’s voice went cold. “They’ll test you. At the wedding. They always do. But you’ll be ready. And if someone goes too far…” 

He let the silence finish the sentence. 

“Are you sure, Father?” Shane asked. 

He smiled, slow, precise, merciless. A smile that had ended lives. 

“Yes, my son.” His father said. “You have my permission.” 

The smile faded. 

Permission, Shane thought. 

To kill. To break. To send a message. 

The wedding wouldn’t be a celebration.  It would be a battlefield dressed in silk and gold. The Irish would test him. Bratva would watch from the shadows. Rozanov would judge him without ever stepping into the light. 

Let them come. 

I don’t need a weapon. 

I am the weapon. 

Chapter End Notes

Glossary – Mafia & Cultural Terms

Oyabun
The supreme leader of a Yakuza family. A paternal figure with absolute authority over the organization.

Wakagashira
The second-in-command of a Yakuza family. The Oyabun’s right hand and enforcer, responsible for strategy and discipline.

Yakuza
Japanese organized crime syndicates structured around hierarchy, loyalty, honor, and strict codes of conduct.

Bratva
Russian organized crime. Unlike the Yakuza, the Bratva rules primarily through fear, brutality, and informal power structures.

Pakhan
The highest-ranking leader of the Bratva. Comparable to the Oyabun in the Yakuza hierarchy.

Avtoritet
A highly respected and powerful figure within the Bratva, often commanding influence without holding an official title.

Kiseru
A traditional Japanese smoking pipe, historically associated with nobility and authority.

Kizuru
A refined type of Japanese tobacco, often used in formal or ceremonial settings.

Dojo Office
A private space of authority and decision-making, combining tradition, ritual, and power—more than a simple office.

Tatami
Traditional Japanese floor mats made of woven straw, symbolizing order, discipline, and respect.

Face (Loss of Face)
A concept referring to honor and reputation. Losing face means losing respect, authority, or status.

Chapter 2: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Two Weeks Before The Wedding

Shane

“Do you want to go over the security plans again?” Shane asked for the third time in the last thirty minutes. “Recheck our placement. Adjust exit coverage.” 

“Shane, I’m fine,” Hayden said calmly. He smiled. The small, genuine one he only ever showed when they were alone. “It’s just dinner with the Irish. I can handle it. Focus on keeping our people safe.” 

Hayden, with his soft features, easy smile, and striking blond looks, could have passed for a Ralph Lauren model. Since entering the Yakuza, he had learned to weaponize that appearance. Charm first. Disarm second. Extract information with a smile... and if that failed, break a finger or two without hesitation. 

Shane had always thought Hayden’s softness was his deadliest weapon. 

People underestimated him but Shane never once did. 

Hayden followed orders, but he listened to Shane. Hayden moved through people the way Shane moved through threat assessments... effortlessly, instinctively. Shane had memorized social behavior the way others memorized maps. Hayden felt it. That difference had always unsettled him. 

It was also why Shane trusted him with his life. 

“I’m bad at social events...” Shane said quietly. “You’re tense. And this wedding is getting under my skin.” 

Shane didn’t hate people. Hate required energy, and people were rarely worth the effort. What he hated was unpredictability... the way conversations bent without logic, the way smiles hid intentions, the way social rituals demanded reactions he had learned to imitate but never instinctively felt. Dinners were the worst. Too many variables. Too many eyes watching for weakness. 

Violence was simpler. Violence followed rules. 

Weddings did not. 

“I also think my father is hiding his real intentions from me.” He confessed to Hayden. 

“Oyabun is using my marriage to collect information on the Irish while stabilizing the drug borders.” Hayden replied with a shrug. “Seems straightforward.” 

Shane turned toward the window, watching fireflies drift through the manicured gardens. “Sometimes you still surprise me with how innocent you can be.” 

They were at one of the Irish’s secured properties. A vast mansion with a glass conservatory large enough to host an outdoor dinner beneath crystal chandeliers. Officially, the evening was meant to celebrate the bride and groom. 

In reality, it was damage control. 

A pre-wedding security summit. A test run. A forced collaboration meant to smooth unresolved conflicts between the Yakuza and the Irish mob. 

A complete waste of time. 

They’d be lucky if no one started shooting before dessert. 

“Besides...” Hayden said, cutting into Shane’s thoughts. “The Irish girl is actually kind of hot. I doubt she’ll be trouble.” 

“Don’t let her become a liability.” Shane warned, shooting him a sharp look. “My sources say she knows almost nothing about the organization. Raised isolated. Trained to please, not to think. But maybe that’s your type.” 

“Fuck you!” Hayden snapped, barely holding back laughter. “Not all of us are into whatever unholy shit you are. I still have nightmares about that guy you tied up like a turkey...” 

Shane shot him a warning look. They were on Irish territory. Even with Shane’s meticulous security layers, some topics were off-limits. 

“It’s not like they don’t know you’re a psycho.” 

“They know.” Shane replied flatly. “But let them think the rumors are exaggerated.” 

His expression shifted... intensity snapping into place like a mask. 

“If you end up liking her, we keep her useful. Test her. Pressure her. Make sure she’s not a Trojan horse. Father expects nothing from the girl herself. She’s the only daughter of the capo who controls alcohol imports. Your new position—and your connections—will matter.” 

“Or so we hope.” Hayden muttered. 

“They will.” Shane said. “With time, they’ll forget you’re Yakuza. You don’t even look like one of us. And I’ll give you the perfect opportunity to impress your future father-in-law. I already have plans.” 

Hayden smirked. “See? No reason to be anxious. You’re already three steps ahead of everyone.” 

“Not Father.” 

Shane still didn’t understand his father’s long game. The ease with which he dismissed the Irish proposal told Shane he’d already chosen someone else for himself. 

A man, most likely. 

“And definitely not the Pakhan.” Shane added darkly. “Why is he coming back for the wedding? It ruins my security models.” 

“Oh...” Hayden said, slipping on his suit jacket. “Your new obsession.” 

Shane looked through the window trying to hide his reaction from Hayden. 

The fireflies moved in slow, erratic patterns... beautiful, pointless, impossible to predict. 

Shane tracked them anyway, mapping trajectories, calculating habits that didn’t exist. He always did this. Tried to impose order where there was none. That was why Rozanov bothered him. A variable without data. A shadow that refused to resolve into something clean and killable. 

“You’ll thank me when I find out what he’s planning and save our asses.” He finally said looking back. 

“You got worse after that blurry photo of him with the Don at the weapons exchange.” Hayden paused looking Shane in the eyes. “You don’t stare at people like that unless they’ve already gotten under your skin,”  

Shane didn’t answer.  

It wasn’t attraction. He knew what attraction felt like... clean, physical, transactional. This wasn’t that. This was irritation. Intrusion. 

Rozanov existed where Shane preferred empty space. 

Eventually Hayden fixed his tie and exited the room before Shane could respond. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Shane muttered. 

The weapons deal was a cover. Rozanov was here for something else. 

And Shane didn’t like not knowing what. 

___________ 

Shane had always imagined the Irish Don had been an imposing man... handsome once, powerful in his prime. Reality was less flattering. In his fifties, overweight, skin dulled by years of excess and constant smoking. Thick brown hair. Large hazel eyes. 

A stroke had slowed him. A cane supported his steps now. His mouth moved oddly when he spoke, lips pulling into strange shapes that disturbed Shane more than he cared to admit. He couldn’t maintain eye contact for long... Shane’s gaze kept drifting back to the Don’s mouth. 

“The elusive Wakagashira.” The Don announced loudly as they entered the conservatory. “Finally gracing us with your presence.” 

“I am the best man...” Shane replied, mentally bracing himself. 

The greetings. He hated this part. But as a guest on Irish territory, refusal wasn’t an option. 

“Send my regards to your father...” The Don added. “It’s been years. One wonders if he’s still alive.” 

“He values privacy.” Shane replied coolly. 

“And Mr. Pike.” Yhe Don continued, pulling Hayden into a warm embrace. Hayden leaned into the kisses effortlessly. “We’ll be family soon.” 

Once the pleasantries ended, they took their seats at a round table with only a handful of close family members. Shane had briefed Hayden on every single one... 

Except... 

Shit. 

Patrick “Pat” Doyle. 

They had intercepted one of his alcohol shipments last month. Three million dollars gone. Shane had been certain the man was still in Ireland. Yet there he was, seated two chairs from Hayden. 

A test. 

“Nice to see you, Wakagashira.” Doyle said with a thin smile. “You cost me three million dollars three weeks ago.” 

Shane barely acknowledged him. 

He had strict orders to behave. Until the wedding. After that... 

All bets were off. 

His control felt fragile. The pills weren’t helping. Meditation wasn’t helping. Even the carefully staged encounters with strangers did nothing to quiet the itch beneath his skin. 

He wondered briefly if putting a bullet between Doyle’s eyes would help. 

Probably. 

“Pat!” the Don snapped. “No business in front of the women.” 

Shane lifted his gaze slowly, checked his sniper placements, then locked eyes with Doyle. 

“Not surrounded by family...” he said softly. 

Doyle’s eyes widened as realization hit—Yakuza men everywhere. 

“Later.” Shane added, tapping twice against the holster beneath his jacket. 

“I propose a drink,” Hayden said quickly, raising his glass. “To peace.” 

He always knew when Shane was at his limit. 

Shane stared at his glass, untouched. 

He realized, distantly, that he no longer trusted his instincts the way he used to. The calculations were still there. The routines. The rules. 

But something was interfering. 

He thought of Rozanov again... uninvited, unresolved. Shane didn’t know why the thought lingered. Only that it did. 

Weddings were supposed to be about union. This one felt like a convergence. 

And convergences always ended in blood. 

Chapter End Notes

Any feedback and support are welcome.

Chapter 3: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

The wedding

Ilya

Ilya had always hated weddings. That was why he arrived only after the religious ceremony had ended. He despised religious weddings most of all. The notion that some higher being could sanctify the union of two people had never sat right with him. If gods existed, they had long ago abandoned men like him... and men like him did not beg forgiveness from empty altars. 

He paused near the back of the church, his gaze catching on his reflection in the polished glass behind the altar.  

Saint Michael the Archangel loomed above him. 

Ilya’s three-piece suit was pure black—jacket, vest, trousers—worn over a black shirt, matte black tie knotted tight at his throat. His blond hair was pulled back into a half ponytail, sharp features locked into stillness. Steel-gray eyes stared back at him, cold and unblinking. In the reflection, Saint Michael’s sword appeared to rise directly from Ilya’s shoulder. The saint’s foot crushed a fallen demon beneath it. 

Ilya’s mouth curved, just barely. 

I suppose I can relate after all. 

But not to this... this small, perfumed farce masquerading as sanctity. 

Weddings were transactional. Contracts dressed up as devotion. At best, mutually beneficial. At worst, slow executions. There was nothing sacred about them. Perhaps it was his upbringing that had made belief impossible. Or perhaps belief simply required a kind of weakness he had never possessed. 

His gaze swept the church. 

White flowers. Silk drapery. Gold-trimmed candles burning steadily along the walls. Everywhere, carefully arranged smiles stretched across carefully empty faces. People performing happiness because it was expected of them. 

There was no heat here. No hunger. Nothing like Bratva weddings. 

Among his people, men loved absolutely or destructively. There was no middle ground. Love was fire... burning unseen beneath the skin until it was too late to escape the damage. Bratva men did not survive love. They were consumed by it. 

The men in his family had always mistaken obsession for loyalty. 

His father had called it devotion. 

His brother had called it love. 

Ilya stepped forward, finally spotting the bride and groom near the altar. He gestured once to one of his guards. The man moved instantly, retrieving the gift. 

“I wish to offer you something on this special day.” Ilya said calmly. 

The groom turned sharply, spine straightening at once. 

“It’s an honor...” the Yakuza groom began. 

“No need.” Ilya lifted one hand, silencing him with effortless authority. “I am here as a guest.” 

His guard placed the box gently into the bride’s hands. 

“A hand-etched vodka service from Siberia...” Ilya continued. “Crystal thick enough to survive a fall.” 

A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention. 

Is someone signaling? 

Across the nave, a man with dark hair and a face too striking to belong to a room like this stared past him, toward a stained-glass window depicting Saint Thomas the Apostle. 

Not fear or confusion... pure calculation. 

Did he see something? 

The thought barely finished forming when a hand closed around Ilya’s elbow and yanked him sideways. Hard and impossibly fast.  

Before his guards could react, Ilya was spun sharply to the left... face to face with the man who had moved him. 

As tall as he was. Asian features, sharp and severe. Eyes dark as polished obsidian. A sinful mouth carved into stillness. Freckles scattered across pale skin like imperfections left by a god who had grown careless. 

The Wakagashira. The Oyabun’s only son.  The real spine of the Yakuza. The rumors had done him no justice.  

A deafening crack split the air. And soon gass exploded. 

Pain flared white-hot along Ilya’s right ear. 

Two more gunshots followed in rapid succession. 

Ilya stared directly into the Wakagashira’s eyes. 

No panic. No rage. Only cold calculation. 

Did he just... 

The thought was severed as the man moved. In a blink, the Wakagashira was gone, already past the newlyweds, dropping to one knee beside the Irish Don. Blood poured from the older man’s bicep, dark and soaking through fabric. 

Covering his ear with a loose strand of hair, Ilya lifted his hand once. His bodyguards snapped into position, weapons raised, forming a shield around him. 

Screams erupted. Gunfire echoed against stone. A heavyset woman near the aisle collapsed in a faint. Suddenly irishmen in tailored suits swarmed the Don within seconds. Guns rose, aimed at the groom and at the Wakagashira. 

Shane. 

The name surfaced from memory. The Oyabun’s hidden blade. Brilliant. Silent. Lethal. 

Their eyes met again. The truth landed cleanly. 

The bullet was meant for me. 

No words passed between them. No acknowledgment. A pact, sealed without agreement. 

“Everyone drop your weapons.” The Irish Don barked, voice cutting through the chaos. “Secure the perimeter. Whoever did this is still close.” 

When his men hesitated, the Don snarled. “Go!” 

Accepting Shane’s offered hand, the Don was hauled back to his feet. 

“Wakagashira...” The Don said, staring at him. “You saved my life.” 

His gaze lingered on the crisp white shirt beneath the deep navy suit—sharp shoulders, flawless tailoring. As Shane shifted, Ilya caught a glimpse too. 

Blood stained the fabric. 

“Just a scratch.” Shane replied. His voice was deep. Steady. Unaffected. His eyes never stopped moving tracking exits, bodies, threats... 

Men who saved lives for praise were predictable. Men who did it because they calculated outcomes were lethal. 

“Yakuza discipline saved more than one life tonight.” Ilya said aloud before he could stop himself. 

Shane frowned...just slightly. 

Then movement. Three men surged forward, guns raised, converging on Shane. Ilya’s guards lifted their weapons instantly. 

“You little bastard!” the shortest of the three snarled. 

Shane moved. He drew and fired in one fluid motion. 

Two shots. 

One man dropped with a bullet between the eyes. The second collapsed as the round tore through his chest. Shane pivoted, back to Ilya now, gun leveled at the last man standing. 

“Doyle.” Shane said, almost pleasantly. 

“I said stop!” The Don shouted. “This is still a wedding! Wakagashira enough!” 

Shane’s hand lowered. 

For half a second, Ilya thought it was over. Then the gun fired again. A scream ripped through the air. Ilya stepped to the side... and saw it. 

Doyle’s left hand. The pinky finger gone. Blood pouring freely. 

“You son of a bitch!” Doyle screamed, kneeling, trying to raise his remaining gun. 

The Don moved faster... kicking him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling. 

Shane didn’t move. 

Didn’t flinch. A statue carved from violence. 

Violence had always been the language of his bloodline. Bravta men didn’t leave. They burned. Ilya felt his pulse spike. His focus narrowed until there was nothing left in the world but the man standing before him. A familiar sensation stirred... dark, sharp, intoxicating. 

He refused to finish the thought. 

“The Don should be moved to a secure location.” Shane said calmly. 

Controlled brutality. Precision punishment. No wasted motion. This was Bratva language, but spoken fluently by a Yakuza man.  

___________ 

With his arm bandaged and his men restrained, the Don offered Ilya his deepest apologies. The groom remained nearby. So did Shane. Apparently, he was the best man. 

No one noticed the dried blood behind Ilya’s ear.  

No one but Shane. 

“No need...” Ilya said evenly. 

“I trust our agreement still stands.” the Don said carefully. 

“My interest in stabilizing Bratva operations in Vancouver remains unchanged.” 

The Don nodded. 

Ilya noticed Shane listening from a distance. The man gave no reaction. Blood dried fully behind Ilya’s ear. He touched it absently. Something inside him shifted. Expanding into Vancouver with Irish support had made sense when dominance was the goal. But control was better than dominance. And control required leverage. 

He needed Shane. 

Vancouver was a city. Cities could be bought, bled, burned. 

Shane was something else.  

Shane was a choke point. 

“With your permission...” Shane said coolly. “I must return with my men. Word of tonight has reached the Oyabun. I won’t worry him further.” 

He didn’t look at Ilya. Ilya watched him leave, but Shane never looked back. 

The groom and the Don discussed cleanup and security. The wedding resumed. Somewhere, the bride was likely crying before her first dance. 

But the balance had already changed. The alliance had shifted. 

Ilya’s thoughts returned, relentlessly, to the beautiful, lethal man who had moved him without asking. 

Shane. 

Ilya had not planned to want him. Want implied hunger. Hunger implied weakness. But this was different. Shane was a structural flaw in every plan that did not account for him. Vancouver could wait. Cities did not disappear overnight. Men like Shane did. 

His father had believed obsession was loyalty. 

His brother had believed it was love. 

Ilya intended to prove them both wrong. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed Ilya's pov. I had a lot of fun :D Please send love and feedback

Chapter 4: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Present time

Shane

Shane leaves the church, followed by several of his men. After hours of searching, none of them manage to identify the shooter. 

Outside, the sounds fade unnaturally fast... sirens, murmurs, prayers swallowed by distance. 

His mind reels with a thousand theories about what just happened. No matter how many times he replays it, none of them fully make sense. Not even his own reaction does. His heart is beating harder now, tension building behind his eyes, yet his breathing remains perfectly controlled. His voice doesn’t quiver when he speaks to the men trailing behind him. 

“You know the protocol. Back to base.” 

He gestures toward the four black SUVs parked nearby, then turns and strides toward the black Lexus LS at the front. He drives alone. He needs silence. 

The engine starts smoothly. He heads toward the highway. No music, windows sealed shut, hands placed precisely on the wheel. He regulates his breathing, times the traffic lights. When he finally merges onto the highway, he lets his mind reconstruct the scene once more. 

The shot doesn’t make sense. It was too sloppy. The angle was wrong. No follow-up shooter. No attempt to capitalize on the chaos. 

The conclusion is unavoidable: the intention was never to kill the Pakhan. Either it was intimidation—aimed at the Bratva for encroaching on Vancouver—or a provocation meant to destabilize the Yakuza–Irish alliance. Whoever pulled the trigger wanted noise, not bodies. 

Either way, they missed one variable. 

Shane. 

His reaction had been unpredictable... so much so that he couldn’t even justify it to himself. 

Why did he push the Pakhan? Why couldn’t he keep the man out of his mind? 

He had noticed him the moment he entered the church. Who wears mourning to a wedding? The all-black suit had unsettled him, drawn his attention in a way he hadn’t appreciated. And yes... he was a good-looking man, but Shane didn’t chase beauty. Pretty faces were work. Complications. He disliked the emotional residue of sex, the expectations it created. 

Shane forces the memory down. 

The Pakhan’s eyes. The blood at his ear. The weight of the elbow under Shane’s hand. Rozanov hadn’t flinched. He had followed Shane’s lead perfectly. 

But why? 

It didn’t match the reputation. It didn’t match the brutality and paranoia associated with Ilya Rozanov. Compliance without resistance didn’t belong in the Bratva playbook. 

Shane’s thoughts begin to spiral. 

Focus. Regain control. 

No one can know that his reaction wasn’t planned. He will find justification if needed. He needs normalcy. Out of habit, he runs tactical drills in his head. Counts exits. Rehearses contingencies. 

If I can still plan, I’m still in control. 

Then guilt hits... sharp and sudden. He left Hayden exposed. Politically. Emotionally. Hayden is probably still with the Don, managing the fallout, steadying the bride, holding the truce together. Hayden trusted Shane to manage chaos. Shane failed him—choosing speed over presence. 

But he couldn’t stay. Not with the Pakhan there. He needed to leave. 

The questions keep circling. 

Why did Rozanov let himself be moved? Why didn’t he resist? Why did Shane notice? 

Submission without negotiation is dangerous. 

___________ 

Shane moves through the corridor efficiently. By the time he reaches his father’s office within the dojo, he feels marginally more in control. He pauses, inhales deeply, then enters. 

The room is darkened by dusk filtering through the windows. Smoke hangs heavier in the air. His father has been waiting for hours. 

Shane bows and kneels on the smaller cushion at the center of the room, posture rigid, eyes lowered until acknowledged. The Oyabun’s gaze shifts from the window to Shane, the silence stretching deliberately. 

“Shane.” 

He sits straighter. 

“We arrived without incident. Perimeter checks found nothing abnormal. Security layout was as planned. The Irish cooperated. No blind spots that would suggest internal involvement. The ceremony concluded as expected. Minutes later... one shot, followed by two more. Chaos ensued. I moved the Don and prevented an execution.” 

A measured pause. 

“Some of the Irish believe the attack was our doing. I intervened immediately. Two men were killed. At the Don’s request, the third only lost a finger.” 

A faint smile crosses Shane’s face, just enough to please his father. 

“The immediate threat was neutralized. However, the truce—and Hayden’s position—may be compromised.” 

“You didn’t pursue the shooter.” 

“The first shot originated outside the perimeter. The angle suggested disruption, not assassination. Panic followed. I prioritized stabilizing the Don.” 

“Shane.” The tone shifts. The Oyabun speaks now. “You moved before confirming the shooter. You fired inside a sacred Irish space. You allowed chaos to breathe.” 

Shane remains silent. He knows better than to justify himself prematurely. 

“Still...” his father continues. “You prevented escalation. You turned a massacre into a warning.” 

Another pause. 

“Why didn’t you identify the shooter?” 

Emotion stirs, but Shane answers calmly. “Multiple priorities emerged simultaneously. The groom was exposed. Doyle mobilized. The Don was injured. I chose containment over pursuit.” 

“You chose people over outcome.” 

A flicker of something... suspicion, perhaps, passes over the Oyabun’s face. 

“I chose the future over the moment.” 

The words hang between them. 

The Pakhan. 

“Some men draw attention the way fire draws air...” the Oyabun says evenly. 

They both understand the implication. 

“You acted well.” his father concludes. “But too fast. We will redirect Irish attention elsewhere... perhaps toward the Italians.” 

The Oyabun rises and approaches Shane, adjusting his collar with precise fingers. After a long pause, he returns to the window without sitting. 

“Next time, I expect certainty.” 

Shane bows and withdraws, fighting the urge to bow too deeply. 

The Pakhan is now a secret he carries alone. 

___________ 

Hours later, Shane exhales as he steps into the elevator leading to his penthouse. 

On the way home, Hayden messages him... reassurance that the Irish situation is under control. The Italians are the primary suspects now. 

Efficient. Predictable. His father’s influence already reshaping reality. 

Shane doesn’t tell Hayden the truth: the Italians would never dare touch the Pakhan. Not while Rozanov is in Vancouver... and certainly not when no one understands his real intentions. 

If Shane doesn’t know, no one does. 

The elevator opens. He enters, confirming access via retinal scan. 

The apartment grounds him instantly. 

Minimalist. Brutalist. Neutral tones. No personal photographs. No clutter. Everything aligned with purpose. Multiple layers of security, cameras everywhere—except the bedroom and ensuite. 

Shane crosses the open living space and enters the master suite. He removes his jacket and places his weapons precisely into their built-in stands. He doesn’t turn on the lights. 

He reaches for a ginger ale from the minibar... 

And feels it. 

A presence. 

His body reacts before thought. His hand moves for the knife strapped near his ankle. As he closes the distance, recognition hits him like a strike. 

Impossible. 

The breadth of shoulders. The length of limbs. The stillness in the dark. The scent... leather, smoke, something sharp beneath. Poorly layered. Unbalanced. 

Anger surges. 

He attacks. 

The blade flashes close to the man’s throat. The body moves with him. Not aggressive, not retreating. Defensive. Fluid. Never initiating. 

As Shane pins him to the floor with practiced force, years of Aikido locking the man beneath him, realization strikes all at once. 

He has him. 

And the Pakhan let him. 

“You’re shaking...” Rozanov murmurs, smiling as he raises a hand toward Shane’s face. 

Shane bats it away sharply, pressing the blade closer. 

The smile only widens. 

“I hoped you would.” 

Chapter End Notes

Next we will have another Ilya's pov. Short chapters are also very on brand when it comes to Dark Mafia Romance, I hope this doesn't annoy any of you. I am trying to mimic the style. Feedbak is much needed. Thank you for all the comments.

Chapter 5: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Before 

He watched Shane leave the church without a single glance back and fought the urge to smile.  He moved like everything was already accounted for. 

And yet... The shooter hadn’t been precise. The chaos hadn’t been meant to kill. No one knew who or why. 

But Shane had still changed the variable. 

He had moved beautifully. Russian men didn’t kill like that... with such precision, such elegant restraint. Almost like art. But there was fire inside him. Ilya had felt it. That brief smile after he shot the Irishman cleanly through the pinky. 

Heat pooled low in his body just thinking about it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found an equal. 

He had to admit he’d been wrong. Later, back in New York, someone would die for that mistake. How could he ever have believed that Bratva expansion into Vancouver should go through the Irish? He’d lied to the Don to save face—to avoid suspicion falling on Shane—and to prepare his next move. One meeting with the famed Wakagashira had been enough to show him who truly held tactical control of the region. 

Even with fewer men. Even with less firepower. A mind like Shane’s was the most dangerous weapon in the city. And the fact that he looked like that... 

The obsession stirred, spreading through his veins. 

He needed a plan. And he needed to act fast. Against an opponent like Shane, time was the enemy. He couldn’t allow him space to think. He had to apply pressure without forcing submission. Shane wouldn’t be broken. He wouldn’t be owned. 

No. 

Shane needed to lead... without realizing he was being guided. 

Ilya would not repeat his family’s mistakes. Obsession had destroyed them. He would not let it cage him as it had his brother. He knew better. 

Control, not possession. 

If he wanted to keep pace with Shane, he needed data and time. He extended his stay in Vancouver. New York could wait. His men there were competent. His next trip to Russia wasn’t scheduled until next month. 

Nodding along to whatever the Don was saying, watching Hayden’s every movement, Ilya began to shape his next move. 

___________ 

Ilya knew he was overreacting. 

But the more he learned about Shane, the harder it became to resist the urge to see him again... to apply pressure, to test him. 

That was how, hours later, armed with more than a hundred pages of reports detailing Shane’s background, routines, and Yakuza history, he found himself standing in the alley behind Shane’s apartment building. 

Maybe if he weren’t a Rozanov, things could have been different. 

Every male in the Rozanov line suffered from the same instability... an obsessive focus that drove them to greatness and ruined them as lovers. Once they locked onto something, or someone, they never let go. 

His father’s obsession with his mother had ended in disaster. He had tried to control every aspect of her life. She’d come from money, and after years trapped inside the Pakhan’s possessive devotion—after giving him an heir and a spare—she used her father’s wealth and disappeared without a trace. 

Sergei Rozanov killed himself weeks later after searching all over the world after her. 

That was how Ilya rose to Pakhan. That was how Ilya lost his mother. 

His younger brother hadn’t fared any better. A problem-solver. Calm. Articulate. Almost gentle. He’d seen people as patterns, not tools... nothing like Ilya. His weakness had been a Russian ballerina. Their relationship had been volatile, poisoned by jealousy and violence. He could predict anyone except his wife. He was calm with anyone except his wife. He could persuade anyone except his wife. 

After a fight over her affair with the male lead in Black Swan, he set fire to the family house. Both of them burned.Their bodies had been so damaged that only DNA confirmed their identities. 

Ilya had been devastated. 

He’d changed course after that and focused on expansion. Vancouver had been a strategic move. His right hand had struggled with the Irish, and Ilya had believed his presence would smooth negotiations. 

He knew how dangerous this was. But knowing had never stopped him before. He only hoped he could do better than the men before him. 

Focus. 

He timed Shane’s return precisely. His security specialist had identified a fifteen-second gap between the retinal scan and door engagement. During that window, the exterior sensors could be disabled without triggering alarms. The cameras rotated on a two-to-three-second delay... just enough time to climb unseen to the penthouse bedroom window. 

Even a control obsessive like Shane had one blind spot. 

His private quarters. 

“I will not break him,” Ilya murmured to himself, the words steady, deliberate. 
“I will not frighten him. I will only be where he cannot detect me... until he allows it.” 

Deep down, he suspected the gap was intentional. Shane’s unconscious allowance for an equal. He doubted Shane believed anyone could exploit it. 

Ilya wanted to see his face when he did. 

He waited, supported by a state-of-the-art climbing system. The same one he’d once used to infiltrate an oligarch’s estate. A personal execution then. A message to the Bratva. 

A personal meter. The same as now. 

When the signal came through his comm, he smiled... and moved. 

___________ 

Later 

“I hoped you would.” Ilya said, enjoying the weight of Shane pinning him almost as much as the murderous glare. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” 

The profanity, the crack in control. It confirmed everything. The pull was mutual. Shane just didn’t know how to handle it. 

He feels the blade move closer to his throat and almost wishes it would draw blood. A small scar to remind him of this perfect moment. But he knows he needs to remain perfectly still and let Shane feel he’s still in control. 

“You saved my life.” he said calmly. “And kept it quiet. Recognition is owed.” 

The knife eased back half an inch. Shane searched him methodically. He could flip them at any moment. And they both knew it. Ilya let him set the pace. 

“And how the hell did you get in here?” Shane asked, breath steady again as his left hand checked for weapons. 

There were none. 

Shane removed the earpiece with surprising care, crushed it, and threw it aside. His hand traced the line of Ilya’s hip. 

“There’s a fifteen-second gap in your security check system. But you already know that...” Ilya says, before he can stop himself from adding one more suggestive comment... destroying the carefully planned progression he’s been building. “My theory is you placed it there in case this room was ever compromised with you inside.” 

“And how would you know that, Rozanov?” 

“Let’s say I had a busy afternoon.” He met Shane’s gaze. “And call me Ilya.” 

“You have no right to be here Rozanov.” 

Shane stepped back, blade lowered but body still coiled. 

“So cold.” Ilya ignored the stance and sat in the leather chair by the window. “But this is the safest place in Vancouver.” 

“It will be after I fix that gap and fire a few people...” Shane snapped. “Say your piece.” 

“You are a formidable mind...” Ilya said carefully. “The wedding showed me my mistake. I backed the wrong player. You’re the correct investment.” 

“I am not a weapon you can buy. I intervened because the alliance with the Irish is important for the Yakuza’s plans. You and the Don were on the same line of fire... that’s all.” Shane stands in front of him, arms crossed. “And I have no idea who the attacker was… if that’s the real reason you’re here.” 

“I would never insult you by pretending otherwise.” Ilya relaxed, legs spread, aware of Shane’s attention. “I want an alliance. You need my resources. I need your mind... until we find who’s behind this.” 

“So you don’t know.” Shane said. 

“Not yet.” 

If Ilya is honest with himself, the attack was the last thing on his mind since he laid eyes on Shane. He’ll get there. He has other priorities... for now. Shane doesn’t need to know that. 

“Then why stay in Vancouver?” Shane is on edge again.  “I heard about your… family troubles. You could go somewhere else. Russia, maybe.” 

“Run away? Me?” Ilya laughs out loud. “Never. Besides, my brother—the past—it taught me that change can’t wait. Life is short. Once you know what you want, you go after it. I thought you, of all people, would understand that, Shane.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

Shane glares at him. Part of it is definitely the way Ilya says his name. 

“For once you are being unreasonable.” Ilya said softly. “You’ll stop fighting it long before you name it.”  

He rose, leans forward... fast. 

“Let me test something.” 

The kiss is brief. Strategic. 

Shane freezes for three seconds. That’s all Ilya needs to know there’s something mutual... something exploitable. 

He pulls back just as quickly, blocking Shane’s hands before it turns violent. They move against each other in a tight, dangerous dance that ends with Shane on his knees after Ilya uses his previous wound—the bullet graze at his side—against him. 

“You fucking asshole.” Shane hissed. 

That was all the time he needed. 

Ilya vanished through the window, alarms screaming behind him. Leaving Shane frozen, furious, and beautifully shaken. 

___________ 

He doesn’t want to make Shane feel cornered, but if he wants this alliance—and whatever is starting between them—he needs the Oyabun on his side. It’s a dangerous game. He can’t be too obvious if he wants the upper hand in negotiations, yet he still needs to state his interest in an alliance and in Shane. 

From Shane’s early reaction, he’s fairly sure the Oyabun doesn’t know the Don wasn’t the real target, but an attack like that, so close to his arrival in Vancouver, isn’t something the Oyabun would dismiss. Ilya hopes he can imply disappointment in the Irish reaction while shadowing his real intentions. 

He sends a message through a reliable source, requesting a meeting. He isn’t surprised when a date and location arrive a few hours later. 

It’s a beautiful, sunny day in Vancouver. They meet at a restaurant owned by the Yakuza. The place is mostly empty, save for the staff and the Oyabun’s security team. Ilya enters, followed by only one guard. He’s dressed immaculately. A black suit, navy shirt, no accessories except for his beloved gold watch. He wants to make a good impression. 

He approaches the Oyabun’s table and waits. 

“Ilya Rozanov.” 

The Oyabun rises from his chair. Ilya thought he would be taller. Still, he can see the similarities with Shane... especially in the eyes. 

“The great Pakhan from New York.” 

“Oyabun.” Ilya tilts his head slightly. 

“Please, do be seated.” The older man gestures. 

“I was surprised by your request for a meeting.” 

“I felt I had to, after having the privilege of a front-row seat to yesterday’s show.” Ilya says, sitting across from him. 

“Ohhh…” The Oyabun laughs. “You did not like it. Perhaps it was your first Irish wedding?” 

“I wasn’t expecting fireworks.” Ilya replies, following the implication. 

“That’s my Wakagashira.” The Oyabun looks him straight in the eyes for the first time since sitting down. “He always shines. But not like fireworks. Better silent.” 

“Indeed.” Ilya smiles. “The Wakagashira kept order in a room designed for chaos. That kind of discipline is rare. And I want order.” 

“Order and the Yakuza are the same.” 

“I already have Irish weapons in motion. That alone is enough to destabilize the factions involved in the area... unless someone with discipline helps set the rhythm.” 

“The Yakuza could help, of course.” The Oyabun moves closer, visibly intrigued. 

“The Wakagashira reacts before violence decides what it wants to become. That is a quality I do not possess. One the Bratva could use…” He pauses, letting the words expand in the room. “Also, someone wanted this wedding to be unforgettable. Not for blood... but for fear. Until we know who benefits from that fear, Vancouver becomes a shared problem. And I would rather share that problem with the right partner.” 

The Oyabun remains silent. Ilya fears he may have crossed a line. 

Then the Oyabun smiles and raises his kiseru. 

“I suppose we have much to discuss, Ilya Rozanov.” 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya's chapters always go crazy. He just has a mind of his own. Tension is building....

Updates may be slow after monday. Back to work. Sorry. This chapter was written mostly on a plane back from Azores. Please keep the comments they help me so much.

Chapter 6: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

Shane tries to focus on his training with Hayden, but his mind keeps circling back to Ilya and his father. It has been doing that all morning... relentless, obsessive, refusing to settle. This session is scheduled, fixed, immovable. It always is. They’ve been doing this every week for years, long enough that the ritual itself feels structural, like a load-bearing wall in Shane’s life. 

The dojo is theirs alone. Chosen carefully. Private. Controlled. Shane made sure of that. No interruptions, no observers, no ears where they shouldn’t be. This is where they speak freely. Where they review the week, dissect mistakes, anticipate threats, decide what comes next. Strategy lives here as much as discipline does. 

Today, though, something is off. 

Hayden has been unusually silent since they stepped onto the mats. Normally, the quiet would feel companionable, earned. Today it presses. Shane knows—irritatingly, precisely—that the fault is his. His attention has been fragmented for days, split between too many variables that refuse to resolve cleanly. 

The proof is physical. He’s losing. Every exchange. Every strike. 

Hayden lands hits that Shane would normally predict seconds in advance. His blocks come half a beat too late. His counters lack conviction. Control, his greatest asset, keeps slipping through his fingers, and that unsettles him more than the bruises forming along his ribs. 

By the fourth clean takedown, Shane exhales sharply and stills his movement, palm raised. 

“Enough!” He says. 

Hayden straightens, studying him now, eyes sharp, assessing. He hasn’t said a word all session, but the look says plenty. Disapproval. Concern. Patience wearing thin. 

“You’ve been somewhere else all morning.” Hayden finally says. Not an accusation. A statement of fact. 

Shane wipes the sweat from his brow, jaw tight. He doesn’t answer immediately. That, too, is an answer. 

“Your meeting with your father this afternoon.” Hayden adds quietly. 

“Well... there’s something I haven’t told you...” Shane says, exhaling hard, eyes dropping to his hands. “You know that alarm that went off in my apartment yesterday? After the wedding?” 

Hayden’s brows knit. He nods once. 

“It wasn’t a malfunction.” Shane continues. “Ilya Rozanov got inside.” 

“What?” The word leaves Hayden before he can stop it. Shock, unfiltered. 

“Yes.” Shane says flatly. “He triggered a fifteen-second delay and used it. Long enough.” 

“You’re telling me one of the biggest mobsters in New York breached your apartment... and you’re saying it doesn’t matter?” 

“It doesn’t...” Shane replies, voice tight. “Because the point wasn’t the breach. The point was the message.” 

Hayden waits. He knows better than to interrupt. 

“He implied he’s interested in me, to keep peace between the Irish, the Yakuza, and his own new base...” Shane says. “He employed his interest in me. My support. My cooperation. Personally.” 

“Because he saw you at the wedding...” Hayden murmurs. 

Silence stretches between them. 

“And what did you tell him?” Hayden asks carefully. “Because this is not small, Shane. He doesn’t move without reason. He doesn’t fixate without intent. You know his reputation. You know his family history.” 

Shane nods sharply. “Yes. I know. That’s what makes it worse.” 

Hayden tilts his head. “Go on.” 

“I refused...” Shane says. “And after that, the motherfucker went behind my back. Pressured my father. Did something... I don’t know what yet. And now suddenly they’re aligned. Friendly. And now I’m the one being pressured to accept his proposal.” 

Hayden lets out a slow breath and sits, forearms resting on his knees. “You’ve been holding this in for twenty-four hours?” 

Shane huffs a humorless laugh. “You know how I am.” 

Hayden shakes his head. “I’m impressed you didn’t implode.” 

“He’s personally interested in you.” Hayden continues. “That’s dangerous. His family doesn’t do casual. His father killed himself after the divorce. His brother burned a house down when his wife tried to leave.” 

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes Shane. “Well. Good for him.” 

Hayden snorts despite himself. “You’re not funny.” 

“I’m not monogamous.” Shane snaps. 

Hayden looks at him steadily. “That’s not true. You never had a relationship to begin with.” 

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Doesn’t matter. We are not compatible. He’s controlling. He’s manipulating the board. He’s giving me a choice without actually giving me one.” 

Hayden studies him, eyes narrowing. “That’s fixation. And fixation turns ugly when it’s denied.” 

“And you know what? The worst is my father.” Shane scoffs. “He’s probably thrilled. He never believed I could lead. Always pointing out my lack of social skills. He thinks I’m brilliant, lethal, precise... but not a leader.” 

Hayden doesn’t argue. That tells Shane everything. 

“So now he has the perfect solution,” Shane continues, anger bleeding through the discipline. “Tie me to Rozanov. Merge interests. Merge power. And I’m left as what? A weapon? A fucking asset?” 

His fists clench, knuckles white. 

“I hate every part of this...” He says. “Every single piece.” 

“The implication...” Hayden says slowly. “How explicit was it? How much did he make it about you?” 

Shane hesitates. Just long enough. 

“He kissed me.” He says. 

Hayden freezes. “He... what?” 

“Before he left.” Shane adds, quieter. 

Hayden stares at him. “And?” 

“I hesitated.” Shane says immediately, then winces. “Instinct. Or reflex. I don’t know. I had about five seconds where I didn’t know what to do.” 

Five seconds. 

Hayden exhales sharply. “That’s never happened to you.” 

“No.” Shane admits. “And I didn’t reach for my weapons.” 

That lands harder than the kiss. 

Hayden’s eyes sharpen. “You’re telling me that a man you refused, who broke into your apartment, who is now manipulating your father... stood in your space, touched you... and you didn’t default to control.” 

Shane looks away. “I was… confused.” 

Hayden sits back, runs a hand over his face. “So he was right.” 

Shane snaps his gaze back. “Right about what?” 

“That you find him attractive.” Hayden says bluntly. 

Silence. Not denial. Not confirmation. Silence. 

Hayden lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Fuck, Shane. This isn’t just political anymore.” 

“I know.” Shane mutters. 

“This is a huge deal.” Hayden continues. “A massive one. Because the second attraction enters the equation, his leverage multiplies. And he knows it. He tested you, and you didn’t shut him down.” 

“I didn’t encourage him either.” 

“You didn’t stop him.” Hayden counters. “And worse... you hesitated.” 

Shane’s jaw tightens. “I don’t lose control.” 

“No.” Hayden says quietly. “But you just learned you can.” 

He leans forward again. “And men like him don’t walk away from that.” 

That’s the moment it fully sinks in. 

Not that Rozanov wants power. Not that his father is complicit. But that someone saw through Shane’s armor and touched something underneath it. 

“Well...” Hayden says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “Since we’re sharing our fucked-up love lives…” 

Shane sends him a murderous look. 

“I haven’t slept with my wife yet.” 

That gets Shane’s full attention. He turns, genuinely surprised. 

“What?” 

“It’s complicated.” Hayden says quickly. “It’s an arranged marriage. She was crying at the wedding. I’m not...” He exhales. “I’m not like that. I decided I’m not touching her unless she wants it. If she ever wants it.” 

Shane studies him for a long second. 

“You realize...” Shane says carefully, “it’s not going to look great if you sleep with someone else and the Irish find out.” 

Hayden grimaces. “Yeah. I know.” 

“You might actually fuck this up faster than I will.” Shane adds dryly. 

“I said I’m not doing anything.” Hayden replies. “Not yet. I’m just… waiting. Seeing how it goes.” 

Shane frowns, concern threading through his expression. “I don’t see how that ends well.” Then he adds, softer, “But I’m not judging you.” 

Hayden lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Yeah. It’s fucked up.” 

Shane gives a short, humorless huff. “Guess we’re both fucked up.” 

Hayden glances at him, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “At least we’re consistent.” 

For a moment, the weight lifts—just a fraction. 

Then it settles back in. 

___________ 

Later, Shane approaches his apartment. Even the familiar hum of the elevators feels sharp, unnatural. His instincts are on edge... always on edge lately, ever since Ilya managed to slip past his security. 

The warning is faint, a prickle at the back of his neck, but it is there. And as always, it is right. 

He opens the door. Everything looks normal. Minimalist. Sterile. But then, on the bedroom chair where he knows Ilya sat before, perfectly poised, relaxed, in control... there’s a box. 

Wrapped in gold and red, intricate patterning without a bow. Too deliberate. Too precise. Shane doesn’t need to touch it to know who sent it. 

A pulse of irritation flares... he should throw it away. Discard it. Deny it. But he can’t. Hayden’s voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind: “You’re attracted to him.” 

He grits his teeth. He’s already lost control once. He knows it. But there’s something else now, something he refuses to name. 

He steps closer. The box is heavy in his hands. He notices a small card underneath it, tucked perfectly between the folds. Fine script, delicate. Beautiful. Intentional. 

He opened the box before reading the card. 

Inside, a black mahogany music box rested, its surface flawless except for a subtle emblem engraved on top. Shane recognized it instantly: a closed fist encircled by flames. The Bratva symbol in New York. 

He lifted the lid. The box played a short, haunting instrumental, probably classical Russian, something he had never heard before. It was beautiful. He wondered how Ilya had managed to find it in less than twenty-four hours. He didn’t want to be impressed. And yet… he was. 

The note lay tucked beside it: 

Even when the melody calls, you decide when it plays. Let’s have lunch. You should choose the place. Ilya 

Shane stared at the words, a subtle shift stirring beneath the surface. Was Ilya aware of the implication here? That the power—at least in this sphere—rested with Shane? That he, Shane, was the one deciding? 

Nothing made sense anymore. 

He tried to control his breathing. He wanted to hate the gift, but didn’t. Wanted to hate the attention, but couldn’t. Wanted to refuse the lunch, but… probably wouldn’t. 

On the other side of the note, there was a phone number. Shane recognized it immediately. Rosanov’s personal line, almost certainly. He expected an answer when he called: a time, a place. Everything planned, precise. 

He knew he shouldn’t go. Every rational part of him screamed to ignore it. 

But Hayden’s words kept echoing in his mind. Fixation. Desire. Obsession. Sometimes the fastest way to kill it is to face it. 

Maybe… just maybe, all of this could be defused if Ilya understood Shane’s own boundaries. He wasn’t submissive. Never had been. Not in business, not in combat, and certainly not in any private relationship. He needed control. He needed it. 

If Ilya recognized this incompatibility. If he realized that Shane would never yield, that there was no space for domination... then perhaps the romantic aspect of his interest would die quietly. 

Shane found himself planning. Carefully. Strategically. 

What he would say. How he would say it. Where to start. Which moments to test the waters, and which to leave alone. 

The lunch wasn’t just a meeting. It was a battlefield. 

The music lingered in the air, delicate, insistent, almost challenging. And Shane knew, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was following Ilya’s lead. 

Chapter End Notes

I had a blast writting the scene between Shane and Hayden. Next chapter we get Ilya's pov.

150 people are following this like a telenovela. Thank you so much. Please take some time to give me your feedback. It keeps me motivated.

Chapter 7: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Ilya sits at the table in the restaurant Shane chose, a Japanese-style place under Yakuza control. Not the most famous location in their network, but exquisite. High above the city, a sweeping view, and nearly impossible for Bratva’s security to interfere. 

Shane asked for him to come alone. Ilya accepted without hesitation. 

Every detail—the location, the placement, the ambiance—speaks of Shane’s control. He wants to see how far he can bend Ilya. 

The gift was perfect. He sees it now. Shane will show that he can take the reins in this part of their relationship. But he isn’t certain yet, so he’s testing him. Definitely testing him. Especially by being thirty minutes late. 

Ilya can’t help it. His blood hums. He loves it. He loves how right Shane is about their dynamic. How everything—the subtle power shifts, the control, the restraint—lines up exactly the way it should. 

Shane is going to be perfect for him. He’ll keep him on track, shape him, bend him. He’ll make him kneel, in every way that matters. Ilya has been waiting his whole life for this. Waiting for someone to deserve everything he has to give. And now, finally, Shane is here. 

Still… a small flicker of doubt gnaws at him. What if Shane refuses entirely? What if all this patience, all this strategy, ends in a cold “no”? The thought sends a thrill through him, sharp and electric. He straightens his posture, forcing calm over the surge of anxiety. He cannot betray it. Not yet. 

He watches Shane enter the restaurant. Every detail is deliberate. Shane has dressed carefully for this lunch. Not a suit, but a crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored pants, and a leather belt that matches his shoes in both color and texture. His hair is styled just enough to look effortless. He changed his earing too... 

A small tattoo peeks from where he’s rolled up his sleeve, delicate and subtle, yet striking. A snake maybe? Ilya’s pulse quickens. God, he’s beautiful. The freckles. He wants to touch them, maybe even lick them... but he forces himself to look away. 

The subtle scent of the wooden interior, the soft hiss of the shoji doors, the faint aroma of miso soup and grilled fish... it all reminds Ilya who is in control here. Every sensory cue reinforces the boundaries Shane has set, the rhythm he maintains, the careful choreography of dominance and restraint. 

He struggles to regain composure as Shane approaches the table.  

“I doubted you would ever come.” He says, voice smooth, teasing. 

Shane doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just sits straight, eyes steady, directly across from him. 

“Maybe that’s because the last time we saw each other, you kicked me in the ribs, you asshole.” 

Ilya has to fight not to laugh out loud, feeling the delicious thrill of danger and desire collide in the same instant. 

“Did you like the gift?” he asks Shane, forcing his voice to stay calm. 

His hands remain carefully placed on the table, fingers lightly touching the polished surface. He’s consciously trying to appear non-threatening, to project ease, to keep the balance delicate. 

He knows he pushed Shane too far by going to Oyabun behind his back. But it had to be done. He needed to pressure him into this position, to ensure that Shane wouldn’t slip away, wouldn’t vanish between his fingers. 

Still, he miscalculated. He pushed too hard. 

Now, he needs to establish limits. Needs to set the rules. He can’t afford to scare Shane, can’t afford to push past the line that might lose him... lose the chance to hold the beautiful Wakagashira he’s been waiting his whole life for. 

Every movement, every word here is a test. And he must tread carefully. 

He lets his mind drift briefly, as he often does when observing Shane—considering the Bratva in Vancouver, the recent wedding attack, and the shadow of the atacker. A chill flares at the thought: one misstep from Shane, one leak of information, and his enemies could exploit it. 

Shane looks him straight in the eyes for the first time since he arrived. 

“I’m trying to read what you’re telling me.” he says evenly. “Trying to understand what you want from me.” 

Ilya doesn’t interrupt. He knows better. 

“You come into my house uninvited.” Shane continues. “Trip my security. Make me look like a fool. You say you want an alliance. Peace. You tell me you were impressed by my reaction at the wedding.” 

A pause. Measured. 

“I say no.” 

Shane’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“So you go behind my back. You speak to my father. You convince him this alliance is a good idea. You imply you might want something more—something I’ve given you no indication I’m willing to offer.” 

His jaw tightens, just slightly. 

“Then you send me this gift...” he gestures briefly, dismissively, “And push me into this lunch.” 

Silence stretches. 

“I know exactly what you’re trying to say.” Shane finishes. “You want to bend me to your will.” 

He leans back, posture immaculate, voice calm but final. 

“That’s not going to happen. That’s not who I am. And I think you’re confusing me with someone else.” 

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. 

They land like a boundary drawn in steel. 

Ilya exhales slowly and leans back in his chair, forcing his posture to soften even further. He knows this moment is fragile. One wrong word, one misstep, and Shane will shut the door completely. 

“I’m not used to hearing the word no...” he says at last. Honest. Measured. “I may have overreacted.” 

Shane doesn’t respond. That, too, is a test. 

“And it’s not every day...” Ilya continues, “that one meets his match.” His eyes don’t leave Shane’s face. “I was fascinated by what I saw. By everything I’ve seen so far about you. I won’t deny that.” 

He pauses, letting the admission stand without dressing it up. 

“I’m here to be honest.” He adds quietly. “You have no reason to fear me. I will not harm you.” A faint, almost self-aware smile touches his mouth. “I’m fairly certain I’m incapable of it.” 

That finally gets a reaction. Shane looks genuinely startled, his control flickering just enough to be visible. 

“I know you’re aware of my family history.” Ilya goes on. “The explosions. The failures. Bratva men are… dominant, yes. Controlling, intense. Every aspect of our lives. We don’t know how to do anything halfway.” 

His voice lowers. 

“But I learned from their mistakes.” 

He leans forward again, slowly now, not to threaten but to anchor the moment. 

“When it comes to matters of affection—of connection—I know control cannot be taken. It must be given.” He holds Shane’s gaze. “And that is what I’m here to say.” 

A beat. 

“If this alliance...” he says, choosing the word carefully. “If this connection has any future at all... it will be by your hand. By your desire. At your pace.” 

He stills, deliberately leaving space between them. 

“No more pressure.” he finishes. “No more force.” 

The words hang there... an offer, not a demand. 

And Ilya waits, knowing that for the first time since they met, the next move truly belongs to Shane. 

“That’s what we’ll see.” Shane says, crossing his arms and leaning back against the chair. 

It’s the most relaxed he’s looked since the lunch began. 

Ilya notices immediately. The tension hasn’t vanished, but it has shifted. He got something right. Finally. 

All the while, he senses the soft clatter of chopsticks, the low hum of Japanese strings from the live music, the aroma of sushi and sake... all subtle reminders of Shane’s domain. Everything he senses reinforces that he is the guest here, but the prize is within reach. 

“All right...” Shane continues. “First of all, you will never go behind my back and speak to my father on matters involving the Yakuza and the Bratva. Ever.” 

Ilya doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t justify. He listens. 

“This alliance...” Shane says evenly. “Is between you and me. Not you and my Oyabun. He stays out of it as much as possible.” 

A pause. 

Ilya nods once. “Agreed.” 

“Good.” Shane replies. 

He straightens slightly. Not tense, but deliberate. Focused. 

“Second of all.” Shane says, voice calm but unmistakably firm, “You don’t test me with gifts, gestures, or pressure meant to steer my reactions. Not personal ones. If you want something from me, you ask. Directly.” 

Ilya’s jaw tightens not in resistance, but in acknowledgment. This is the line. This is the price. 

“I don’t respond well to manipulation...” Shane adds. “Especially not dressed up as respect.” 

Under the table, Ilya’s hand curls once, then stills. 

“Understood.” He says quietly. 

Shane studies him for a long second, then exhales... slow, controlled. 

“If we’re going to explore anything beyond business.” He continues. “It happens on my terms. No shortcuts. No assumptions. No ownership.” 

He lets that settle before finishing: 

“And if you cross that line again... there won’t be another lunch.” 

Silence follows. Heavy. Defining. 

Ilya nods again, slower this time. “Then I’ll stay on this side of it.” 

For the first time, Shane doesn’t look guarded. 

Just watchful. 

“Last...” Shane says, voice steady. “From now on, we share information. All of it.” 

Ilya stills, listening. 

“If you want peace in Vancouver...” Shane continues, “If you actually want to understand what’s behind the attacks, then we don’t play selective honesty. We share intelligence. We share resources. Fully.” 

He leans forward just enough to underline the point. 

“But if I find out you’re holding something back...” Shane adds, “If you’re scheming, filtering what I get to see, or blocking my access to evidence—if you decide you know better and keep me out—this deal is over.” 

No raised voice. No threat in tone. Just fact. 

“I won’t chase the truth blind.” Shane says. “And I won’t be managed.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, deliberate. 

Ilya nods slowly. This isn’t posturing. This is how Shane operates—clean lines, absolute conditions. 

“Transparency...” Ilya says at last. “Total.” 

“Good,” Shane replies. “Because I don’t bluff.” 

For the first time since the lunch began, the negotiation feels real—not symbolic, not flirtatious, not theoretical. 

A line has been drawn. 

And both men know exactly what it costs to cross it. 

“Of course,” Ilya says smoothly. “My solnyshko...” 

“No,” Shane cuts in at once. “No pet names.” 

The interruption is clean. Precise. 

“You haven’t earned them. And not in public!” 

For a fraction of a second, Ilya studies him—then he smiles. Fully this time. All teeth. Not offended. Amused. Adjusting. 

“Fair...” he says lightly. “Whatever you want.” 

Then, just as calmly: “But you will call me Ilya.” 

Shane doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head slightly, considering. Measuring the request for what it is... not dominance, not submission, but insistence on being seen as himself. 

“We’ll see.” Shane says at last. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Ilya asks, voice casual, almost light. 

“Immensely.” Shane replies. 

He gestures to the waitress, calm and assured, and she moves immediately to serve the food Shane chose. Another quiet assertion of control. 

“Well...” Ilya says, watching him closely. “You asked for everything you want.” 

He pauses. He can feel it now... the pressure of restraint pulling tight. He has bent as far as he can bend today. Given ground. Yielded. And now he needs something back. Not ownership. Not dominance. 

Just a taste. 

“I’m asking for something in return.” 

Shane looks at him. “And what is it?” 

The plates are set down between them. Steam rises. The moment feels suspended. 

“I want a kiss.” 

Shane freezes. Just for a second. 

It’s enough. 

Ilya knows it immediately—he touched something real. 

“Not here.” Shane says at last. 

Ilya tilts his head. “Where, then?” 

A beat. 

“After...” Shane replies. “At my place.” 

Ilya’s smile spreads slowly, unguarded now. Not triumphant—anticipatory. 

He nods once. “Very well.” 

He sits back, content... for now. 

He can wait. 

Because whatever comes next won’t be taken. 

It will be given. 

___________ 

He stays on his best behavior for the rest of the lunch, savoring every moment Shane allows him. 

When Shane offers him a ride afterward, Ilya notices everything... the interior of the car, the way Shane drives, the small quirks in his posture, the precision in every gesture. He catalogs it silently, storing it all for later, when he can fold these details into the ever-growing map of Shane: a map of habits, of control, of subtle vulnerability. 

As they enter the elevator, Ilya leans slightly back, giving Shane space, letting him lead, reading the room. 

“You know that fifteen-second gap no longer works.” Shane says, not amused. “And you still haven’t told me how you got that little gift on my chair.” 

The elevator hums as it climbs. Ilya watches Shane, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers to the panel and back. 

“He said you wouldn’t be happy being excluded from the first negotiations,” Ilya begins, voice light, careful. “That I should come speak to you directly.” 

Shane shifts. “My father said that?” 

“He did.” Ilya pauses. “So I told him I wanted to send you a gift.” 

Shane frowns. 

“He didn’t say no.” Ilya continues, voice even, casual. “Though I know he would have, if he suspected it wasn’t… safe.” 

Shane’s jaw tightens. Ilya notices. Too easily, he thinks. Too easily the Oyabun is letting him do this. 

“He’s giving up control too fast.” Shane mutters. “Something’s missing.” 

Ilya folds his hands, keeping his posture relaxed. “He’s not giving me anything... no access, no influence, no territory. But he sees me as a worthy consort for his son. That much is clear.” 

Shane glances away briefly. “He’s curious, yes… but he isn’t letting you in. He’s more focused on why the Don was shot.” 

“So you didn’t tell him.” 

“No.” Shane confirms. “And you already know this.” 

“I wanted to hear you said it.” Ilya teases him. 

Shane exhales slowly. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet.” Ilya leans in slightly, attentive. “The shooter.” Shane says, “my man traced the weapons. The method. It matches Bratva work.” 

Ilya doesn’t react outwardly. He already knows. 

“You’ll be notified.” Shane adds. 

“I suspected this.” Ilya says, calm, controlled. 

Shane fixes him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “So you know who it is—and you didn’t tell me?” 

“No.” Ilya answers. “It’s Bratva. But it isn’t my man.” His voice drops lower, almost a warning.  

The elevator slows. 

“This complicates things.” Shane says. 

“Yes.” Ilya agrees softly. 

Yet Shane doesn’t step back. Doesn’t end it. Doesn’t close the gap. 

Ilya watches, calculating. He senses the Oyabun’s quiet hand in all of this—not controlling, not ordering—but observing, allowing, waiting. Every move Shane makes is measured under the shadow of a man neither of them fully owns. 

It isn’t just the Bratva that complicates matters. It’s that the Oyabun is watching. And he always knows. 

The doors open. 

“I guess you know the place?” Shane asks. 

“Well...” Ilya says, tilting his head, “I could have a tour.” 

Shane doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch, letting the air between them thrum. 

The hallway stretches ahead. Shane turns toward him, the elevator door sliding closed behind them, the space suddenly too quiet. 

“Are you going to make me wait?” Shane asks. 

Ilya stills. Every instinct strains forward, but he doesn’t move... not yet. He knows better now. 

“Is this permission?” He murmurs softly. “I think I want to hear the words.” 

Shane holds his gaze for a long second—measuring, deciding, reclaiming the reins. 

“Yes.” he says at last. “You can kiss me.” 

Only then does Ilya step closer. 

Chapter End Notes

Next update will probably be next sunday. I am back to work on Monday. Thank you so much for all your nice comments. We will have a little kiss next chapter.

Chapter 8: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

Shane’s breath hitches the moment Ilya closes the distance. He’s been the one in control all day, the one setting the rules, dictating the pace, measuring every word, every gesture. But now… now it’s different.  

Ilya tilts his head, softening, and Shane feels it before Ilya even touches him. His hands, which have spent years commanding, drift hesitantly to Ilya’s shoulders. Just light contact. Just enough to anchor himself.  

Then Ilya leans in, slow, deliberate, eyes locked onto his. Shane’s chest tightens. The world narrows to the heat of that gaze, the press of Ilya’s presence, the subtle scent of him.  

Shane tries to think, tries to measure, to calculate... how far, how fast, what to give. But it doesn’t matter. He feels it, a pull too strong to resist. He feels the tension coiling, the control slipping, and for the first time, he lets it.  

His lips meet Ilya’s. Soft at first. Testing. But the second the contact deepens, Shane feels the iron grip of his restraint melt. He wants it. Needs it. He leans forward, giving over, letting Ilya set the rhythm, the intensity, the rules.  

Ilya’s hands find the back of his neck, guiding, gentle but insistent, and Shane arches slightly, surrendering fully. Every muscle that’s spent a lifetime commanding, every instinct to lead, all of it falls away.  

It’s not weakness. Not exactly. It’s choice. And Shane chooses to yield, to taste what he’s denied himself, to follow someone else for once.  

The kiss deepens, hot and consuming, and Shane lets a low, unexpected sound escape... a shiver, a confession of submission. He’s aware of the world outside this hallway, aware of his own instincts, but none of that matters.  

All that exists is Ilya, and for the first time, Shane doesn’t pull back.  

He’s lost in it. And he doesn’t care.  

Shane pulls back just enough to breathe, his chest heaving, every muscle still taut from the surrender. His lips tingle, his mind races, but beneath it all is something new: the shock of letting go, of trusting someone else to take the lead, if only for this moment.    

He meets Ilya’s eyes and sees it... the quiet satisfaction, the heat, the unspoken claim. Shane’s body still hums with the memory, and part of him bristles at the awareness that Ilya knows exactly how much he’s given over.  

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at Ilya’s lips, and Shane feels the pull of something deeper: the dynamic they’ve always danced around, now made tangible. He’s still Shane. Still the Wakagashira, the strategist, the man who commands... but he’s also aware, more than ever, of the space Ilya occupies in this moment, in this corner of control he’s allowed to slip into.  

Shane clears his throat, attempting his usual composure, but it’s fractured, uneven. He feels heat rising to his neck, his chest, a pulse he can’t quite control. The world outside the hallway, the car, the building, the city... exists, but only faintly.   

“Don’t think this changes anything.” He mutters, though the edge of uncertainty in his voice betrays him.  

Ilya tilts his head, amused but patient. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” he says softly.  

Shane exhales, trying to reclaim his authority, but it’s different now. The kiss has shifted something fundamental. He knows he can resist, he knows he can lead... but for the first time, he also knows he can choose to follow.  

And the thought excites him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.  

He feels vulnerable, reacts on instinct, and pushes Ilya closer. This time, he takes the lead: guides him against the wall, lets his hands roam the muscular chest he’s been eyeing since the wedding, pushes his thigh forward. Ilya reacts instantly, pressing closer, their hardening cocks pressing against each other.  

Shane realizes it isn’t so black and white. Ilya has layers too. He doesn’t know if he wants to make Ilya kneel or demand more, or if he wants to surrender entirely.   

And the uncertainty, the danger, makes him realize this has gone further than he intended.  

“We must stop.” Shane says, though his lips are still brushing against Ilya’s, their noses rubbing lightly together.  

“Of course.” Ilya replies, but he doesn’t move an inch. He stays still, letting Shane take the lead, letting him have this small measure of control.  

Shane exhales, stepping back slightly. “I have things planned for this afternoon. The Irish invited me to a meeting. Probably to share more information about the Don’s attack.”  

“Is it safe for you to go?” Ilya asks, concern threading his voice.  

“Of course. I saved the Don. I am the Wakagashira. And Hayden will be there to back me up.”  

“Ah...” Ilya says, faintly amused. “So you’re not alone.”  

“I’ll be fine.” Shane says, more to himself than to Ilya, replaying the last kiss, the press of Ilya’s hands, the way he yielded just enough. He’s still trying to reconcile control with desire, measuring what he can give and what he must hold.  

Ilya watches him, serene, steady, the kind of calm that makes Shane want to bite down and obey at the same time. Infuriating. Intoxicating. Dangerous.  

“The Irish meeting...” Shane says, forcing the words out evenly. “I have to be careful what I say, what I reveal.”  

Ilya tilts his head, expression neutral but not without curiosity. Shane doesn’t need words; he knows Ilya is watching, calculating, cataloging. He can feel it. That’s part of why he’s here. This isn’t just a lunch or a kiss. It’s a test, and Shane can’t let his guard down entirely.  

Ilya steps closer, just enough that Shane feels the faint warmth radiating off him. It’s not an intrusion; it’s a reminder. Shane doesn’t step back. He shouldn’t. He can’t. Not yet.   

“You and Hayden are very close.” Ilya says softly, almost conversational. Shane hears the edge beneath the calm, the slight challenge in the tone.  

“Yes.” Shane says. “We’ve been working together a long time. We are practically brothers.”  

Shane takes another step back, and only then does Ilya move. Not to follow, not to touch, just enough to ensure Shane feels him still there. 

“You’ll think about this.” Ilya says calmly. Not a question. A certainty. 

Shane’s jaw tightens. He hates that Ilya is right. 

“I always do.” He replies. 

Their eyes lock one last time... two men measuring cost and consequence. Ilya breaks it first, turning away sharply, refusing to give more than he already has. As Ilya leaves, Shane knows this moment will follow him into the meeting, into every calculated word, every guarded glance. 

That, he realizes, might be the most dangerous part. 

___________ 

The place for the meeting is an Irish-owned waterfront warehouse, dressed as a traditional dining space. A long wooden table runs the length of the room, scarred and polished with care.  Live musicians play softly in the corner. The strings, slow and familiar, just loud enough to blur private conversations. Whiskey flows freely, already poured, as if the evening itself is impatient. 

The warehouse smells of old wood, salt, and whiskey. But something is different. Shane notices it the moment he steps inside. Something is wrong. The low light. The deliberate warmth. The way nostalgia is used as camouflage. 

Security lines the walls. Shane notices they are all Irish. He feels the shift immediately. This isn’t a trap yet. But it may be a test. 

His eyes search around the room for Hayden on instinct but he isn’t there. The absence lands wrong. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just enough to unsettle the careful equilibrium Shane built on the drive over. Hayden should have been early. Hayden is always early. 

“Where is Mr. Pike?” Shane asks one of the Don’s men. 

“Indisposed…” The word is delivered casually, almost kindly, as if it isn’t meant to mean anything at all. 

It means everything. Shane nods once and lets it go. For now. Leaving would escalate suspicion. Confirm weakness. Or worse... confirm guilt they’re already circling. Staying gives him time. Patterns. Glances. The truth... if he’s patient enough to let it surface. These men are still suspicious of him. 

Moving around the room he takes his seat, the only empty seat, at the far end of the table. Too far. The arrangement isolates him neatly with no space on either side and no immediate allies. All exits that should be open are blocked “for privacy.” Too few neutral observers. Too many men watching him instead of the speaker. 

The speaker being the insufferable Doyle. Shane catalogs it all without letting it touch his face. Doyle speaks of peace. Of conciliation. Of smoothing tensions after the wedding incident. Words chosen carefully, smoothed down until they’re almost soft. 

Shane listens more than he speaks. He is trying to read into the room. Whispers ripple down the table, subtle but persistent. They think the Yakuza were behind the attack on the Don. They’re obviously wrong. 

“We are here to mourn our beloved brothers,” Doyle says. “Dead defending our Don.” 

Shane replays the wedding in his mind with mechanical clarity: the angle of the shooter, the timing, the hesitation that came a fraction of a second too late. The bullet hadn’t been meant for the Don. It had been meant for Ilya.  

The Irish are being played. And they don’t know it. Someone is influencing this men, perhaps Doyle. The shot to the pinky was a little too much. Shane wonders if he was unconsciously showing off in front of Ilya. 

Doyle’s gaze lingers on Shane now, measuring. 

“House rule.” He says lightly. “Weapons stay outside. It’s an insult you would come here carrying the gun that killed our brothers.” 

A chorus of agreement follows. 

“For a Yakuza man...” Shane says evenly. “A weapon is his religion. We are never truly separated.” 

A pause. 

A test. 

Doyle pulls his gun and aims at Shane. 

“You fooled the Don...” Doyle snaps. “But not me. You had something to do with that shooter.” 

“You are wrong.” Shane says calmly. 

“Remove it.” 

“Does the Don know what you are doing here?” 

“I said remove it!” 

Shane stands without hesitation. He knows it's a dangerous move, but he still thinks Doyle is bluffing. He removes his gun. Sets it on the table. Slides it forward. 

Palms open. 

“If you kill me...” He says voice steady. “You’ll have the Don and the Oyabun hunting you and your men until there’s nothing left of this dock but ghosts.” 

The room stills. 

Doyle smiles, slow and knowing. “Always so precise... so cold.” He says. His eyes sharpen. “I wonder how you can stand your wild Russian pet.” 

Not a statement. A probe. Doyle knows something... but not enough. And he’s too afraid to say it here, in front of half the Irish mob. 

Shane doesn’t answer.  

Silence is safer than denial. 

Unhappy with the lack of response, Doyle grabs Shane’s weapon and fires. Pain flares white-hot through Shane’s shoulder... sharp, immediate, controlled. A scratch. Deliberate. A message, not an execution. 

Shane staggers back in his chair, already assessing damage. Blood loss. Mobility. 

The music cuts off mid-note. Before anyone can speak, the far door opens. The Don enters without hurry, without spectacle.  

The room bends around him instinctively. 

Doyle turns... 

...and dies. 

One shot. Clean. Final. Right between the eyes. Silence crashes down where tension had been. Hands move to Shane. Don’s men. Voices blur. The Don shouts and kills another two men. But his attention has already shifted beyond the room. Beyond the Irish. Beyond Doyle’s corpse cooling on the floor. 

The truth is clear now. 

Someone inside the Bratva aimed at Ilya. And whoever it is... is willing to start a war between families, between empires to do it. 

Shane closes his eyes briefly, the pain sharpening his thoughts instead of dulling them. 

___________ 

Shane is surprised to see Ilya standing in front of the elevators when he reaches his building. 

He stops short. 

Ilya looks wrong. Too still. Too exposed. Tall and dark as always, but his eyes are wide, unguarded. Scared... Shane has never seen him like this before. 

“What are you doing here?” Shane asks sharply. 

“I was informed by my contacts that you were attacked at the meeting with the Irish.” Ilya says. His voice is tight, controlled only by force. “I needed to see you.” 

Shane registers the lobby before anything else... the security desk, the cameras, the passing glances. Too many eyes. 

“Not here.” He says, already moving. 

He uses his retinal scan. The elevator doors slide open. Ilya follows him in immediately, close enough that Shane can feel the heat of him at his back. 

The doors close. 

The space shrinks. 

Before Shane can turn, he’s pressed lightly but firmly against the glass. Not violent. Urgent. 

“What happened?” Ilya demands, eyes searching his face, his hands already moving... over Shane’s shoulders, his arms, his side. Looking. Checking. Counting damage. 

“Things escalated.” Shane says evenly. “I didn’t react as I should have. It was a trap.” 

“The Irish trapped you?” Ilya’s gaze goes lethal in an instant. 

“Calm down.” Shane snaps. “That’s not necessary.” 

“I know exactly what’s necessary...” Ilya growls. “I was under the impression you had things under control. That’s why I didn’t intervene. But this... this is not acceptable, Shane.” 

Shane finally shoves lightly at his chest, creating space. “You are not my owner.” He says coldly. “And I do not need your protection.” 

Ilya freezes. 

“This was a mistake.” Shane continues, measured, precise. “The Don didn’t realize he was compromised. Someone fed Doyle lies. He was convinced I was behind the attack. So he set me up.” 

The elevator climbs. The hum feels too loud. 

“He made an excuse for the meeting without the Don knowledge.” Shane goes on. “I don’t know what happened with Hayden. I’m fairly certain they found a way to keep him from showing up. When I arrived, I was alone.” 

A pause. 

“There was no exit.” Shane says. “So I bluffed. I de-escalated where I could. But in the confusion...” He exhales. “I got shot.” 

Ilya stiffens. “Shot.” 

“It’s nothing...” Shane says. “A graze. Shoulder.” 

The doors open. 

Shane moves immediately, escaping the enclosed space, crossing into his apartment. Ilya follows him in without hesitation, fury barely contained now. 

“This is not nothing!” Ilya snaps. “Do you have any idea how afraid I was? Do you have any idea what it costs me to stay away when something like this happens?” 

Shane turns. 

“You have no idea what I’m trying to do here...” Ilya continues, voice rough now, stripped of its polish. “How hard it is for me not to control every single aspect of your life. I’m trying. I am trying.” 

That stops Shane cold. 

He studies Ilya, really looks at him, and for the first time, he doesn’t see calculation or strategy. He sees strain. Fear. Restraint pulled too tight. 

“Well...” Shane says quietly, unflinching. “You need to try harder.” 

Ilya stares at him. 

Ilya’s jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides, flexing once, twice, like he’s physically forcing himself not to reach for Shane again... not to grab, not to cage, not to take control the only way he knows how. 

“I could have stopped it.” Ilya snaps. “If I had known...” 

“You didn’t.” Shane cuts in. “We both didn’t. Someone was feeding Doyle lies.” 

Silence stretches. 

For the first time since Shane has known him, Ilya looks… unsteady. Like the ground beneath his feet has shifted and he hasn’t recalculated yet. 

“You almost died...” Ilya says quietly. 

“I didn’t.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“It is exactly the point.” Shane says, stepping closer now. Not aggressive. Grounded. Unyielding. “You don’t get to unravel because something didn’t go your way." 

Ilya exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The gesture is abrupt, unpolished... nothing like his usual control. 

“I don’t know how to do this!” he admits, the words forced out like a confession. “Not with you. Every instinct I have tells me to close my hands around you and never let go.” 

Shane’s expression doesn’t soften. 

“Then learn.” He says. “Or this isn’t going to work.” 

That’s the real threat. 

Ilya goes still. 

For a long moment, Shane thinks he might explode—anger, orders, something sharp and final. Instead, Ilya does the unthinkable. 

He bows his head. Just slightly. Barely perceptible. But it’s there. 

“I won’t step away.” he says hoarsely. “But I will not cage you. Even if it costs me.” 

Shane studies him, weighing the truth of it. 

“I am not just Shane. I am the Wakagashira too...” Shane says. “I thought you understood me at lunch.” 

Ilya looks up slowly. 

“I did.” He whispers. 

They look at each other, both trying to speak without words. 

Shane turns away first, finally feeling the ache in his shoulder now that the adrenaline is fading. It pulses dully, insistent. He moves toward the bedroom, intent on removing the blood soaked shirt before the pain fully catches up with him. 

Ilya follows. For once, silent. 

Shane reaches for his suit jacket, but Ilya’s hands close over his wrists, stopping him. 

“Let me…” The words are barely more than a whisper. 

Ilya’s hands engulf his, steady and warm, and he takes over, easing the jacket from Shane’s shoulders with deliberate care. Shane almost pulls away. He knows he probably should. But he is just too tired. He allows himself to have this. This moment. 

The jacket comes off. Then the shirt. 

Red, creamy blood stains the fabric around his shoulder. Moving hurts now, a deep, insistent throb. He’ll need stitches. Part of him is certain this only happened because his focus had been split. His thoughts had been on Ilya half the time and he’d relied on Hayden too much. That part is screaming at him to end whatever this is. 

But his body keeps betraying him. 

The pull toward Ilya. The insane physical attraction. Even though they don’t seem to fit in any other way. He also wishes Ilya wouldn’t bend to his will so easily, that they could just end this... but every time Ilya yields, it sends a thrill down Shane’s spine. 

God. He wants to push him down on the bed and ride him for hours... 

Instead, he finds himself half-naked, seated in the leather chair, while Ilya kneels in front of him and traces the wound with careful fingers. 

“I am going to kill them…” Ilya murmurs, his voice low as he follows the path of the blood. 

“You are not.” Shane says with a tired sigh. “Whoever tried to kill you was behind this. We need to be very careful.” 

“You’re saying someone from the Bratva?” Ilya asks, shifting closer, settling between Shane’s legs. 

“Probably someone close... Doyle mentioned you to me before the Don killed him. It was odd.” 

Ilya exhales softly. “I am incapable of being subtle. Especially about you.” 

His hand moves, cupping Shane through his boxers, and Shane feels his body give in immediately. The surrender is instant, traitorous. 

“You drive me crazy...” Ilya whispers, easing him free and taking him into his mouth. 

Shane exhales, letting the sensation wash over him. Ilya’s hands pin his thighs down, firm but careful. He should feel trapped. 

Instead, he feels… cherished. 

He leans his head back against the chair and gives in to Ilya’s ministrations. The grip on his thighs softens, turning almost gentle, and then Ilya shifts, placing Shane’s knees over his shoulders. When Shane looks at Ilya, he is smiling triumphantly... probably just to annoy him. 

Shane is already planning to wipe that smirk away... but then Ilya takes him deeper, and all coherent thought disappears.  

It doesn’t last long. 

Shane tries to guide Ilya’s head with his uninjured arm, only to have his hand batted away with practiced ease. He can’t help it. He laughs softly and lets his fingers slide instead through Ilya’s silky blond hair. 

God. Ilya is going to be the death of him. 

And he is devastatingly good at this. 

The edge comes fast. 

“I’m close…” 

Whatever Shane thinks that warning will do, it isn’t this. Ilya takes him impossibly deeper, swallowing everything. 

Shane sags back against the chair, breathless, trying to catch his breath as the sensation fades, his shoulder throbbing faintly in the background. Almost forgotten. 

Chapter End Notes

EARLY UPDATE! I hope the smut and the long chapter make up for the week of waiting. The work week was brutal and I wish I had more time to write, but I have the next chapter almost done, and this week I have a 3 day weekend! Hope I can update sooner or more often.

I struggle writing sex scenes in English. In my mind it’s all so vivid... I guess there is no way to put it into words perfectly. But the idea is having fun and sharing this with people who love these kinds of AUs, so don’t take this too seriously, please. There will be more smut Ilya's pov... he demanded it!

Thanks for all the nice comments. They make smile and keep me motivated. So many of you following my telenovela - love you!

Chapter 9: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Ilya looks at Shane. Naked. Head thrown back against the headrest of the chair. Finally relaxed and spent. His work of art. Made by his hands. Satisfaction settles in his chest, heavy and warm. His frantic heart finally eases. Whatever storm comes next he can face it. Shane is safe and within reach, sated and beautiful in a way Ilya will never get tired of seeing. 

He moves to stand, planning to grab towels, maybe find something to clean Shane’s wound, but a strong hand clamps down on his shoulder. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shane’s voice is rough, breathless. Before Ilya can answer, Shane is already on his feet, grabbing him by the hips. 

The next second he’s being pushed back toward the bed. His legs hit the mattress and he lets himself fall onto it, sinking into the impossibly soft pillows. He should have known Shane wouldn’t let him have the upper hand for long. His precious control freak. Ilya feels a spark of anticipation. He wants to see where Shane will take this. Wants to see how far he’ll go now that the first barrier between them has shattered. 

He stretches out on the bed, relaxed, letting Shane maneuver him however he wants. Wonders how far he can let his own control go. It feels strange, new, reckless. Ilya mostly sleeps with women, sometimes men, but it’s always the same. He fucks them and leaves. He’s in control because he has to be. Because he’s the Pakhan and no one gets to see him like this. 

But this is Shane. His Shane. 

He watches the determination flicker through Shane’s eyes as he climbs over him. Watches the tension in his shoulders, the hunger in him, the way the adrenaline still thrums beneath his skin. Ilya knows the reports. Knows Shane ties up his partners. Knows his encounters are fast, calculated, impersonal. Knows those men never set foot in this bedroom. 

What they’re doing now… none of it fits that. None of it is something either of them has ever done with anyone else. 

Shane’s fingers dig into his thighs, parting them. Ilya lets him. Lets him take. Lets him decide. He feels the weight of Shane’s body settle over him and a slow, hungry smile curves Ilya’s lips. 

Let’s see how much control he can surrender. How much of himself he can give. How much Shane will take when finally allowed to choose. 

Because for once, Ilya isn’t the Pakhan. He’s Shane’s partner. 

Shane strips him between kisses, pulls his boxers off last, then leans back to take him in fully. Ilya knows he’s vain and has been told so all his life. His father used to spit the word like an insult. His brother mocked him for it. The Pakhan shouldn’t care how he looks, shouldn’t care who he sleeps with, shouldn’t deviate from the path carved for him. But Ilya always has. He likes being different from them. He is proud of being a handsome bisexual Bratva mobster who bends the world to his own rules. 

Yet nothing in his life compares to this moment—lying naked on Shane’s bed with the Wakagashira going down on him like he’s starving for it, like the world might end if he stops. Ilya forces himself to stay still, to keep his hands fisted in the sheets instead of Shane’s hair. Every instinct pushes him to assert himself, to take over, to guide Shane’s head the way he wants. But he won’t. He can’t. Not for this. 

He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving at the absurdity of surrendering like this, and Shane immediately smacks his thigh. He lets Ilya’s cock slip free with a loud, deliberate pop, and looks up at him. Pupils blown. Mouth red and swollen. His shoulder still bleeding slowly. Hair in wild disarray. Ilya’s breath catches because he’s never seen anything more devastating. 

Shane curls a hand around the head of his cock and squeezes just enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain. 

“I’m going to ride you.” he murmurs, seductive and absolute as he reaches for the lube and condoms. 

The words hit Ilya so hard he moves on instinct, snapping out of his haze to grab the lube first. There is no universe in which he lets Shane prepare himself. Some boundaries matter. Some lines he refuses to cross. And watching Shane sink onto his fingers is something Ilya always imagined he’d have to beg for. 

He coats his fingers with lube and pulls Shane close, kissing him once, slow and deep. Then he slides his fingers inside. Shane exhales shakily, head falling back, hips rolling down in a way that steals the air from Ilya’s lungs. 

“Moё solnyshko…” Ilya whispers, unable to stop himself. Shane moans for him, soft and broken, and it almost shatters Ilya’s control entirely. 

But Shane snaps back fast, grabs Ilya by the hair, and forces their eyes to meet. 

“I’m ready.” 

Ilya withdraws his fingers slowly, savoring the tight pull around them as they leave. He leans back against the headboard, body open, legs spread wide. The picture of permission and command all at once. 

This is his throne. 

And Shane: his queen, his equal, the one person he can never outmaneuver... is about to sit on it for the first time. 

Shane braces one hand on the headboard, knees framing Ilya’s hips, and guides him in with the other. Ilya lifts his chin, eyes locked on Shane’s face. He wants to see every flicker of expression, every shiver, every shift Shane tries to hide. Shane settles letting out a breathy moan and uses his free hands to pin Ilya’s to the headboard. 

As he starts to ride him Shane’s look is pure determination, almost defiant, like he’s proving something to Ilya and to himself. The feeling of being joined like this hits Ilya hard. It’s too intimate, too real, too final. If he ever doubted Shane would end his playboy era, there’s no doubt now. The way Shane rides him... focused, deliberate, using him, it leaves no room for anyone else. This side of Shane, this intensity, this fire… no one else will ever get it. 

It’s his. To keep. To guard. To conquer. 

The realization snaps something inside him, the last thin wall of restraint. In one smooth motion he flips them, taking control. He watches Shane closely for any sign of resistance, but all he gets is a sharp moan and Shane throwing his head back into the pillow, finally surrendering completely. 

Ilya pins Shane’s wrists to the mattress, sets a steady rhythm that drags helpless sounds out of him. Shane comes first, hard... spilling between them, writhing under him as if every breath is being pulled from his chest. 

Only then does Ilya let himself go. 

When the high fades he finds Shane lying there, staring at the ceiling, gaze unfocused, body trembling from aftershocks. 

“Moё solnyshko…” Ilya murmurs, kissing the line of Shane’s throat, his cheek, his freckles, his jaw. 

Shane’s head turns, hits him with a look so sharp it steals the breath from Ilya’s lungs. His hand snaps into Ilya’s hair, grip firm, a clear warning. 

“You don’t get to call me that and fuck around.” Shane says, tone low and dangerous. 

Ilya laughs quiet, real, helpless... because there’s only one truth he can offer him in return. 

He has no intention of fucking around. 

“You are mine.” Ilya says it plainly, sincerely, eyes locked on Shane. There’s no flowery language for what he feels. No metaphor big enough for what this moment has cracked open in him. He hopes Shane understands how deep that truth runs. He grabs the other hand and kisses Shane’s knuckles. 

Shane releases his hair. His eyes soften as the adrenaline drains out. Ilya can tell the wound is catching up to him again. Blood marks the sheets where Shane’s shoulder rubbed. 

“Stay.” Ilya says, sliding off the bed. “I’m going to take care of that.” 

He heads into the bathroom. The cabinet is a small universe of order. Pills, gauze, surgical tools. All sorted with neat little labels, each one written in Shane’s round precise handwriting. Ilya stands still for a moment, taking it in. Wonders if this is what his life will look like now. Ordered. Steady. Handled with care for the first time in years. 

When he returns Shane is half asleep against the pillows. 

“Did I wear you out?” Ilya teases. 

“Fuck you.” Shane mutters, more exhausted than annoyed. 

“I would love to but you’re dead on your feet. Sit up a bit. I want to see that shoulder.” Ilya sets a glass of water and pills on the nightstand. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Shane asks, but he’s already pushing himself upright. 

“I’ve stitched most of my wounds. Basic bratva training. You’re in good hands.” Ilya starts disinfecting the area, spreading numbing cream across the torn skin. 

“This feels surreal.” Shane murmurs. 

Ilya knows the mood. Vulnerable. Raw. Hating it. Too bad. This isn’t negotiable. He threads the needle and gets to work. Shane tries to hide his discomfort, but Ilya catches the small flinches, the tight breath. 

“After this I’ll help clean up the bed and you rest.” Ilya says. “Then I go meet the Don.” 

“What?” Shane snaps, sharp even through the pain. 

“You asked for transparency. Here it is. I requested a meeting the moment I heard you were shot on his territory by his men. He knows about our alliance. The Oyabun made sure of it. As the Pakhan I’m not happy.” 

“This is unnecessary. Doyle’s dead. Killed by the Don himself.” Shane sucks in a breath as the needle pierces again. “You know what your visit implies. The exposure you’re creating.” 

“You worry too much about what others do and say. That’s the Yakuza way, not Bratva.” Ilya ties the thread cleanly. “The Don allowed his men to shoot you. Doyle thought he could survive the fallout. That’s unacceptable.” 

“Yes his men are compromised. Someone tried to kill you and got me shot. That’s where our focus should be.” 

“Your security is my first priority.” Ilya lays a bandage over the stitches. “I’m not asking permission. It’s happening.” 

“You’re out of your fucking mind.” Shane’s shocked expression makes Ilya smile. 

“Get used to it Moё solnyshko…” he murmurs, kissing him. 

“This kind of statement… there’s no turning back,” Shane says afterwards, taking the glass and pills from his hand. “And whoever is behind this will take it as confirmation.” 

“It already knows. That’s why it went after you. I was supposed to be in New York after the wedding. My change of plans about the Irish isn’t typical... It was obvious.” Ilya helps Shane shift from the bed to the chair. “I have to take control of the narrative.” 

“Just promise you’ll be careful.” Shane’s voice is softer than he meant it to be. It surprises them both. “And whatever happens don’t kill the Don!” 

“You’re no fun Moё solnyshko…” Ilya leans down and kisses him on the forehead. 

Ilya helps Shane settle into the bed after changing the sheets. Watches pride fight exhaustion and lose.  He pulls the blanket higher over Shane’s chest. His fingers linger for a moment. Long enough to memorize the heat of him.  

“Sleep.” Ilya says.  

Shane’s eyes track him with that sharp stubborn focus he always carries. “If this goes bad we lose more than territory.” 

“It won’t go bad. I am bigger than Vancouver.” Ilya steps back just enough to keep himself from touching him again. “And I won’t let anyone take what is mine.” 

He grabs his clothes from the foot of the bed. The room still holds the weight of what they did. The air thick with sweat and iron and something new that thrums under his skin. Something that feels like a promise that cannot be undone. 

At the door he pauses. Looks at Shane one last time. Bruised. Stubborn. Alive. His. 

“I’ll be back before sunrise.” Ilya says. 

“You better.” Shane’s voice is rough. Truthful. Not a threat. 

Ilya leaves before he can give in to the instinct to go back to him. The door clicks shut behind him. Too soft. Too final. 

He presses the call button. The reflection staring back at him in the steel of the elevator doors is not the Pakhan the bratva knows. It is something harder. Something more dangerous. A man who has already decided what he is willing to do. Who he is willing to break. What he is willing to burn down. 

All for Shane. 

___________ 

Ilya arrives at the meeting point a high-end Irish pub controlled by the Don surrounded by his men. The place looks polished on the surface but tension stains the air thicker than cigarette smoke. His arrival freezes half the room. Since he set his eyes on Shane and shifted every long-term plan without explanation his men have been watching him with a mix of fear and loyalty sharpened to a blade’s edge.  

They all know what it means. The controlled strategic ruthless Pakhan has met his obsession. Every time this happened in Rozanov history the Bratva tore itself apart from the inside and left a trail of bodies even among those closest to the family. No one wants to be next so every man stands alert. 

Ilya knows the traitor might be standing among them but he intends to use his beloved Moё solnyshko’s attack as distraction while he studies every flinch and every breath. He planned to be cold and calculating yet the moment he faces the Don and the Irish his anger rises like a tide ready to drown them all. 

“Pakhan.” The older man greets as he approaches the small rounded table. His voice cracks despite his attempt at composure. 

“Mr. Kelleher.” Ilya nods and sits with slow deliberate ease. 

The Don’s eyes widen. Ilya knows he has not been addressed like that in years. It is a direct intentional insult. It lands with the weight of a bullet. 

“I know you are worried about the tension between the families” the Don says glancing nervously at the Bratva presence thick around them. “I assure you this has nothing to do with your new alliance with the Oyabun.” 

“Have you ever heard the history of the Rozanov family?” Ilya asks as if the Don’s words were a distant hum. “The Y chromosome comes with anomalies. Mental ones. We are not psychopaths but we see the world differently. We get obsessive. There are no limits to what we will do to secure what we claim.” 

He rises hands behind his back posture loose like a man at home in enemy territory. The pub feels cavernous with its dim lights and polished wood yet every shadow seems ready to snap. Ilya’s gaze drifts to a painting of a lake in an Irish landscape and his voice drops even lower. 

“This has helped us lead the Bratva for decades. Most Pakhans are Rozanov.” He smiles but it is a smile with no warmth. “Killing and manipulation are child’s play. Our feelings do not run deep like a common man’s. With one exception.” 

He steps closer. The Irish reach for their guns but the Bratva responds faster armored well armed unshaken. 

“Our partners.” Ilya says with a predator’s certainty. A red laser dot slides across the Don’s forehead. Every Irishman freezes. 

“Unfortunately for you mine operates in this region.” 

“The Wakagashira...” the Don whispers as another red dot lands near his chest. His throat bobs with a swallow he cannot hide. 

“We Rozanov men lack subtlety.” Ilya moves with brutal speed and slams the Don’s face against the table. The wood cracks with the impact. “And your men believed they could fire a gun at what is mine and survive it.” 

“I killed Doyle...” the Don gasps blood spilling from his nose hand raised to halt his men. 

“That is the only reason you are still breathing and this city is not burning.” Ilya presses his head down harder. “Who influenced Doyle? Who arranged the meeting behind your back?” 

“We don’t know. He had a burner phone on him but we couldn’t break it. He worked alone...” The Don’s voice is muffled against the table wet with his own blood. 

“What about Hayden Pike?” Ilya asks letting him up just enough to breathe. “What happened to your alliance with the Yakuza?” 

“We don’t know. He vanished. Told his wife he was running errands before the meeting and disappeared.” 

“You are doing a miserable job.” Ilya snaps every syllable as sharp as a knife. “I want evidence camera records receipts bodies. Every piece in my men’s hands before I walk out.” 

He leans in gun drawn pointed at the Don’s face so fast no one sees the motion. 

“All Yakuza businesses are under my protection now.” His tone turns cold enough to freeze bone. “If anyone breathes near the Wakagashira I will burn Vancouver to the ground.” 

He fires. Kills the closest two Irish men and the chandelier explodes raining glass like shrapnel. Some Irishmen shoot back but the Bratva cuts them down with swift lethal efficiency. No hesitation. No casualties on their side. 

“Stop!” the Don orders when the red dots on him multiply to four. 

“Consider this a warning.” Ilya says and leaves without a backward glance. 

Chapter End Notes

EARLY UPDATE! Another one on sunday 🤭

Ilya's pov is always insane to write. He always manages to act outside of my plans... I feel like we are reaching the climax. I know you are intrigued as you should be. It's not just romance there is a mafia plot too. I hope to tie all the loose ends. Maybe 5 more chapters?

Please feed me with your comments. If you read so far and are shy just leave me a emogi hug. It will mean the world to me.

Chapter 10: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

Shane wakes in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in his shoulder. His body jerks before he can control it and the ache blooms hot and deep. His mind floods instantly with everything that has happened in the last few days. He tries to string the events together like beads on a wire yet nothing fits. He searches for patterns and cracks in the narrative like he always does but his thoughts slip away from him. Who inside the Bratva would attack the Pakhan then go after his... whatever he is now.  

God he is so fucked! 

He tries to make sense of why Ilya can break through every defense he built over decades. Why he keeps bending to his will even if only partly. Why he likes it. Vancouver feels like a pressure pot since the moment they locked eyes at that wedding and the lid is about to blow. 

And Hayden. 

He has not been able to reach him for the last eighteen hours. This has never happened before. The last geolocation showed him in a deserted part of Vancouver west of the Irish territories. No signs of an attack. No forced movement. He simply shut down all his devices and left them neatly inside his jacket for the Yakuza to find. Like a breadcrumb trail that ends on a cliff. 

But why? Or is this the shadow of the Bratva stretching over him and Ilya? 

Shane rises from the bed moving carefully his muscles stiff his shoulder throbbing with every shift. He goes to the bathroom searching for another painkiller. He should rest. He knows his brain needs a full reset before he can trust his own analysis. At the moment his mind feels like an empty warehouse cold dark echoing nothing. 

He is heading back to the bed when his phone rings. Only a few numbers can bypass screening. He recognizes this one instantly. He refused to save it because he has no idea what label wouldn’t feel like crossing a line. 

“Yes?” 

“I am at reception can you unlock the elevator?” The Russian accent digs under his skin and his heartbeat betrays him. “Please...” 

“I am disappointed you’re not climbing the side of the building to reach my window.” Shane smirks into the phone unable to filter his words. “I guess romance is dead.” 

“I left the tactical gear in the other suit.” The faint curl of a smile can be heard even through static. 

It feels familiar in a way that is dangerous. Why is he flirting with one of the most dangerous men in North America? They had sex once and no matter how much Ilya likes to talk about his insane once in a lifetime monogamous Rozanov gene Shane does not do repeats. Does not do relationships. Does not let himself get fucked into a mattress like some pillow princess. Yet here he is flirting back with the dangerous Pakhan who is clearly increasingly obsessed with him. 

He always liked control but maybe the parallel between control and domination was never as solid as he believed. That constant shift between them had been devastating in ways he cannot process. His thoughts scatter yet the inside of his head is oddly quiet for the first time in years. 

“I am buzzing you up before you find another technical loophole.” 

He ends the call and heads for the elevator security system. He does not want to think about their dynamic or how much it is starting to get under his skin. He needs sleep. But before he can rest he needs to know whether his... lover? boyfriend? threat? obsession? whatever Ilya is... killed the Don. 

The elevator doors slide open and Ilya steps out looking immaculate like he walked out of a magazine shoot and not a battlefield. He wears a black turtleneck black jeans and a ridiculous oversized dark grey overcoat that sways around him like a cloak. His hair is pulled into a half updo only a handful of men on the planet could pull off. He carries a large glossy black leather overnight bag that practically gleams under the hallway lights. 

“What is that?” Shane asks suspicious. 

“Stopped by my hotel got some things and showered.” Ilya moves past him with silent confidence placing the bag on the shoe cabinet. He bends removes his shoes with precise movements opens a side pocket and pulls out the most lavish pair of home slippers Shane has ever seen... and he is half Japanese. 

“How was it?” Shane asks looking at Ilya’s dump hair and slippers suspiciously. 

“I may have lost my temper...” Ilya stands up. “Broke his nose and killed a few men but got the message across. Yakuza is under my protection.” 

Shane sighs. Considering Ilya’s temper and everything that happened in the last 24 hours, he is willing to just accept it. They’ll fight about this later. 

“Anything about Hayden?” Shane asks carefully. 

“No, I am sorry my moё solnyshko...” Ilya moves closer and his hand comes to rest at Shane’s face, thumb tracing his cheek. “I tried, but he knew nothing. But he did gave me Doyle’s belonging to work with.” 

 Shane looks the other away and Ilya’s hand fall.  

“What are you doing?” Shane’s tone rises as Ilya hangs his coat by the door then picks the black leather bag back up like he owns the place and always has. 

“Until then we’re staying here for the foreseeable future. It’s secure not under Bratva surveillance a bit small and simple but under the circumstances...” Ilya says placing his hand on Shane’s lower back guiding him toward the bedroom with a quiet certainty that makes the walls feel smaller. “My men will come in the morning. You’ll use them as extra security as needed. They’ll also bring this equipment...” 

“You’re not moving in!” Shane snaps cutting him off before he can finish. 

“Of course not Moё solnyshko...” Ilya says leaning in to place a quick kiss on Shane’s mouth a light touch meant to soothe yet it pulls at Shane’s nerves. “It’s temporary. For security reasons.” 

“All right...” Shane mutters though the words feel unsteady in his throat. 

“Besides I am inquiring about a more appropriate estate in the area.” Ilya sets the bag on the bedroom chair with a soft thud. “You’ll have final say of course.” 

“I’ll have no say...” Shane murmurs exhausted by the thought of arguing. 

“You should rest.” Ilya says steering him gently to the bed his voice slipping into a tone that feels almost domestic. “We’ll talk more in the morning. I’ll give you the detailed report.” 

“Who said you could sleep over?” Shane grumbles lowering himself under the sheets. 

“You want me to beg?” Ilya asks sliding his turtleneck off in one slow fluid motion the shadows of the room catching on the lines of his body as he undresses. Shane watches from under the covers unwilling to admit how his pulse jumps. 

“Careful what you wish for...” Shane warns, meeting Ilya’s eyes. The air between them heats as if the room shrinks to a single point. 

“Moё solnyshko...” Ilya says settling on the other side of the bed. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.” 

The words hit too deep too real too soon. Shane looks away pretending to shift into a comfortable position though he can feel his heartbeat hammer against his ribs. 

Later when he feels the mattress dip with Ilya’s weight he debates whether he should draw a harder line about physical boundaries. Yet his body moves before his mind can interfere. He leans his injured shoulder gently against Ilya’s chest. Ilya responds immediately pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s forehead tender in a way that disarms him completely. Shane melts into the warmth letting the moment swallow every fear he refuses to speak out loud. 

He sleeps. 

___________ 

Shane takes a deep breath and tries to hold his temper for what feels like the hundredth time this morning. Ilya sits next to him in the car looking perfectly calm as if nothing in the world could rattle him. How he managed to convince Shane that his presence was needed at today’s meeting with the Oyabun is still a mystery. Not really. It was pure stubbornness on Ilya’s part and exhaustion on Shane’s. 

After Doyle’s attack it became clear that whatever restraint Ilya once used to keep himself balanced was slipping. He had shifted into a possessive state that left every Bratva man tense. Shane tried to understand the logic behind it since the situation was abnormal but Ilya pushed into his life with a force that made Shane feel ready to push back. 

They fought over breakfast about the sheer amount of security Ilya wanted around Shane’s building. The fight ended with Shane pinned on the kitchen counter and Ilya’s victory sealed with his mouth around Shane’s dick and his fingers inside Shane’s ass. Later they fought about arriving together to the meeting. Ilya wanted Shane in his car surrounded by a Bratva escort. Shane threatened to throw him out of his apartment. Shane had won that one. 

Or so he thought. Because in his rearview mirror he could spot at least two suspicious black cars trying to follow at a discreet distance. 

“You think you’re so smart don’t you?” Shane mutters not bothering to look at Ilya. “But your men have nothing on my knowledge of Vancouver and they’re slow as fuck.” 

He shifts to a lower gear. The car jerks forward in a sharp burst of acceleration that shoves Ilya back into his seat. Shane takes a quick right into a narrow street then snakes through a series of tight turns at high speed. Ilya braces himself with a quiet grunt hands gripping the chair for dear life. Five minutes later the tail is gone. 

“I guess they can go report back at the base...” Shane says with smug satisfaction. 

“God you’re so hot.” Ilya breathes out hand reaching in the direction of Shane’s thigh with enough hunger to make Shane grind his teeth. 

“Didn’t you get enough already?” Shane bats his hand away. 

“You’re so cold moё solnyshko...” Ilya murmurs. 

“Am I?” Shane fires back. “Because from where I stand I’ve been pretty damn nice considering you barged into my house my routine and even my family.” 

“Moё solnyshko I can’t physically stay away. If I listened to the voices in my head I’d lock you somewhere safe.” Ilya says with theatrical despair that still feels a little too real. 

“Good luck with that pretty boy.” Shane snaps. 

“You should call me that...” Ilya’s hand drifts back to Shane’s thigh warm and dangerous. “All the time.” 

“Well behave if you want to earn pet names.” Shane cuts left sharply and Ilya grabs the handle beside him to stay upright. 

“And stay away from Yakuza business. It annoys me so much that my father lets you meddle in everything...” Shane grits out frustration rising. “He’s thrilled to have a second option for leadership. So frustrating.” 

“Moё solnyshko...” Ilya takes Shane’s free hand with a grip that is gentle and secure. “I have no real interest in the Yakuza. I protect it because it belongs to you. But I must tell you I understand the Oyabun.” 

He pauses. Shane forces himself to stay quiet. 

“You are the precious Wakagashira. Anyone can lead men. Some with strength some with example others with fear. But a mind and a body like yours are rare jewels. A knife to hold against every enemy. A perfect weapon when directed with the right hand. Making you Oyabun would waste your potential.” 

Shane stares ahead feeling his chest tighten. He has no immediate argument. Why had he never considered that angle before. His father had never told him anything close to that. He always believed he fell short of what his father expected. 

“Did he tell you something like that?” 

“Not directly but I am the Pakhan. I can read between the lines.” Ilya says softly. 

“So I guess you think you are that right hand then?” Shane asks slowing the car as they approach their destination weighing each word as if they carried explosive charges. 

“I would do anything for the honor.” Ilya says turning fully toward him as he unbuckles his seatbelt. 

“You have a long way to go.” Shane says. 

But the words feel thin even to him. 

___________  

Oddly enough Ilya does behave once they arrive at the Yakuza base. He stays close to Shane towering over him like a silent guard dog but keeps his hands to himself. Still he watches every man who steps within reach of Shane with a sharp predatory focus that makes several Yakuza soldiers glance away. He is heavily armed and not bothering to hide any of it. The message is clear. Touch Shane and bleed. 

By the time Shane reaches the Oyabun’s dojo office some of the tension in his shoulders has finally eased. Confidence settles in his chest steadier than before and Ilya’s words from the car still echo in his thoughts. He steps inside the office and bows to his father. Ilya only dips his head in a minimal nod a gesture that is respectful enough but never submissive. 

“Shan... you brought the Pakhan?” The Oyabun remarks around the thin plume of smoke curling from his kiseru. “How generous of him to help us in this hard time.” 

Shane keeps his face calm. He knows the men downstairs already reported exactly where the Pakhan has been living. Every line the Oyabun speaks is performance sharpened by intent. 

“I am committed to this alliance.” Ilya says in a tone so serious and dramatic that Shane fights the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Of all the possible ways to phrase it he picked that one. 

“I worry that this alliance has only made the Wakagashira a target and disturbed the peace in the region.” The Oyabun’s gaze shifts to Ilya pinning him with a stare that has cowed generations. 

“With the increase of manpower I am adding now and the injection of money with our new joint laundry scheme things will be back to normal soon.” Ilya answers without flinching. 

The Oyabun chuckles low under his breath smoke drifting past his eyes. 

“The Don is furious and refuses to collaborate in the investigations. Hayden is mysteriously gone. My Wakagashira is distracted...” Shane feels his jaw tense. He knows exactly where this is leading and hates every step of it. “I need more reassurance. You can leave at any moment and let this entire mess fall on us.” 

His father does not know that the man behind all this chaos sits inside the Bratva itself but he uses every piece of information he has as leverage against Ilya. 

“I am not going anywhere.” Ilya replies steady and cold conviction layered under every word.  

“Then I suppose you would be comfortable if I asked for a more serious oath between us.” The Oyabun says his expression shifting from measured concern to something sharper more calculating. 

Shane feels a cold knot form in his stomach. He should intervene. He should stop this. 

“Father the Pakhan has already placed his men and weapons at our disposal...” He starts but the Oyabun raises a hand cutting him off with a single controlled gesture. 

“I am open to suggestions...” Ilya says smoothly his voice cutting through the tension like a blade sliding free. 

“I propose something discreet.” The Oyabun smiles in Ilya’s direction and Shane feels the temperature in the room drop. “Something that will not further destabilize the region. A blood oath.” 

“A blood oath?” Ilya asks intrigued rather than alarmed. “We do not practice such rituals in the Bratva. I am afraid you will have to explain.” 

Shane already knows. The realization hits him with crushing force. A blood oath between the Pakhan and the Oyabun would mean a full convergence of power between the Yakuza and the Bratva. A permanent alignment of interests. Then the truth settles in with sickening clarity. 

The oath would not be between Ilya and his father. 

It would be between Ilya and him. 

“It is a traditional ceremony.” The Oyabun explains calmly as if discussing business contracts. “Two witnesses only. A blade cuts the palms of those involved. Blood mixes. Lives intertwine permanently. You are accountable to each other. If one bleeds the other must bleed.” 

The words echo too loudly in Shane’s head. 

“As a Bratva leader I could only swear such an oath to one person.” Ilya says without hesitation. His gaze shifts to Shane steady intense unwavering. “I would do it with the Wakagashira.” 

“Of course.” The Oyabun replies pleasantly as if this had never been in doubt. He turns his attention fully to Shane. “Would you do it Shan?” 

Shane feels every pair of eyes in the room lock onto him. He feels Ilya’s presence at his side heavy solid dangerous. He thinks of control of loyalty of blood of bonds that cannot be undone. 

“If that is what my Oyabun asks.” Shane answers his voice defensive carefully measured. 

But deep down he knows the truth. It would not be a sacrifice. It would be a choice. 

“Now if you would excuse us…” The Oyabun gestures to the Pakhan. “I suggest you choose your most trustworthy man as witness.” 

“Of course.” Ilya rises and lets his arm brush Shane’s discreetly a soft passing touch meant to anchor. It warms Shane’s insides. A message that nothing has changed for him. 

But for Shane everything shifts. 

When Ilya leaves his father speaks immediately. 

“You have been distracted.” The words land like a cut. “I am disappointed you allowed yourself to be shot. Worse you let someone else set vengeance for us.” 

“Father…” 

“The Pakhan is useful but dangerous.” The Oyabun says. “You must learn to use this new katana.” 

“Am I not the one being used?” Shane snaps. 

His voice rises for the first time in his life. Pressure inside him finally cracks. His father wants him to use Ilya. Ilya wants him to bend. He is tired of being wielded like a weapon. At least Ilya sees him as precious... irreplaceable. He is shifting sides and his father knows. He waits for a reaction. 

“I see.” The Oyabun says simply. 

He exhales smoke slow controlled. He looks Shane in the eyes then turns and leaves the room in perfect silence. 

Chapter End Notes

Updates next week will probably be on wednesday and sunday again, since I already have next chapter ready and another on the going.

Ilya's pov will be FIRE!!!! Excited to see your reactions! We are reaching the climax and even I am surprised by how the plot is going. Please tell me your theories on the comments. What happened to Hayden? Who is the shooter?

350 people are following the Mafia novela! Thanks a lot!! I hope I don't disapoint. Kisses from Portugal <3

Chapter 11: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Ilya is informed that the ceremony is to take place in a sealed ceremonial room. The moment he hears it he knows his avtoritet, his most trusted right hand, thinks he has lost his mind for agreeing to such a ridiculous display. Yet both he and the rest of the Bratva men know what this confirms. Shane is to be his rightful partner. The only thing they cannot understand is why he does not simply take Shane and return to New York where things are predictable and under his control. 

But Ilya refuses to replicate his father and brother mistakes. He wants Shane to keep his connection with the Yakuza and he wants their bond acknowledged by the Oyabun. Because he knows those things matter to Shane. He wants to give Shane everything he has ever been denied. He wants to give him the world. And he will, once this mess is cleaned up and the ghost dogging his steps is finally caught. 

“Pakhan this ceremony...” 

“You are not to tell anyone what you’ll see.” Ilya cuts him off with a tone that leaves no space for questions. “As far as the Bratva is concerned this is a wedding ceremony.” 

“Yes Pakhan.” 

He knows this decision will make some men question his priorities, but he will deal with them when necessary. First, he needs to find the rat hiding in his institution. Every weapon used in the attack, every movement and tactic screamed Bratva training. Yet no matter how deeply he studies his closest men he finds no shift in behavior that raises suspicion. The few who possess the skills to pull off such an attack all have ironclad alibis. 

It feels like a ghost from the past has returned to destroy the most important thing in his life. 

His mind shifts back to Shane. The way things were left between them after the Oyabun cornered them into this oath gnaws at him. Shane is struggling with how intense Ilya can be and how hard he pushes into every part of Shane’s life. If circumstances were different, Ilya would give him space and court him slowly, quietly stalk him through the city, memorize every habit every ritual every grumpy stare. But they do not have that luxury. They have danger and urgency. Shane’s security must come first. 

He needs to talk to him. 

Ilya opens the tracking app he installed on Shane’s personal phone. The dot glows on the map. He knows that using it now will reveal the truth sooner than planned and likely get him in deeper trouble, but he needs to be sure Shane wants this. Not as much as he does. Never as much. But wants him anyway. 

Shane is behind a door on the ground level. By the decoration he can predict these are the family quarters. Ilya enters without knocking, hoping he is alone. The door shuts behind him and for a moment he just stares. 

Shane stands in front of a tall mirror wearing a formal black kimono, the silk matte and heavy, swallowing the light. Five white family crests mark his chest, back and shoulders. The sleeves are short and over it he wears a very dark indigo hakama tied firm at the waist. He is barefoot. The sharp lines of the clothing make his pale skin glow. The sight hits Ilya so hard he feels suddenly inadequate in his modern black tailored suit. 

“You look stunning.” Ilya says and his voice startles Shane who snaps his head around. 

“What are you doing here?” Shane asks suspiciously. “And how did you find me?” 

“Moё solnyshko I might have forgotten to mention that I placed a tracker on your phone...” He does not finish the sentence because Shane grabs the phone from the table and smashes it against the floor so violently the sound echoes like gunfire. Ilya is stunned. “For security reasons only!” 

“You son of a bitch...” Shane pins him to the wall faster than Ilya can defend. His head slams against the wood and pain flashes white. The room tilts. He cannot remember the last time someone knocked him out of position like this. Through the haze he notes absurdly that the expensive silk of Shane’s kimono makes no sound. 

“Can you please pretend to be scared?” Shane murmurs against his ear while his knife rests cold against Ilya’s throat. 

He might have underestimated Shane’s reaction. Yet he remains calm and relaxed in Shane’s hold. 

“Of what moё solnyshko? My life is yours to do as you please...” Ilya breathes. Even dazed he feels the pull of Shane’s body heat pressed to him. 

Shane does something unexpected. He throws the knife aside and crushes Ilya’s mouth with his in a brutal kiss. Ilya’s head is still ringing, his vision blurred, but he still tries to kiss him back with every emotion he cannot name yet wants to give him. He eventually spins them around, pushing away from the wall. 

“You drive me up the walls you son of a bitch!” Shane growls as he jumps and locks his legs around Ilya’s waist, trusting Ilya to catch him. Ilya lifts him higher on his body and moves them to the nearest table. 

With one sweep of his arm Ilya clears the table and steps between Shane’s spread legs. 

“You can do the same to my phone.” Ilya says as he drops to his knees, already searching through the layers of Shane’s garments. 

“I’m not sick in the head...” Shane snaps but his breath stutters when Ilya’s head disappears under the fabric. 

Ilya finally reaches his target. Shane is already hard, eager, betraying every cold word he ever said. Ilya licks his lips then captures the head of Shane’s cock and starts sucking. The taste feels like relief. He cannot believe he did this only hours ago. He missed it already. 

Shane rides his mouth with sharp desperate strength hands buried deep in Ilya’s hair tugging. Punishing him for the transgression. Ilya loves every moment of it and lets him take what he wants while he unzips his own pants and strokes himself. They are both too wound... too high on adrenaline to last long. When it’s over, Ilya rests his head against Shane’s thigh trying to understand how he got there. 

“You need to stop blowing me every time we fight.” Shane says between ragged breaths, head resting on the table while Ilya wipes away any trace of their mess. “My brain is getting all confused.” 

“You are too pretty when you mad.” Ilya murmurs fixing Shane’s undergarments and helping him sit upright. 

“I’m upgrading my cellphone security. You don’t need to know where I am at all times.” Shane says with forced seriousness even though his hair is a wreck. 

“I don’t need... no...” Ilya says kissing him softly. “But it helps the voices in my head to know.” 

“Tell the voices I am in charge now.” Shane growls and grabs him by the hair. Ilya whines at the sharp pain. “They need to shut up.” 

“It’s for your protection...” he says through the sting. 

“Is it? Or is it possession?” Shane asks. 

The air shifts. This is no longer about the tracker. It is about the oath. 

“It’s everything...” Ilya murmurs honestly. “But mostly it is desperation. I need you safe. I need to know you make it out of this alive. It is control over the circumstances I want... not dominance.” 

“And the oath?” Shane asks, the grip on Ilya’s hair softer now. 

“You say the word and I call it off.” Ilya says, relieved to finally say it. “Oyabun can end the alliance today. You will still have my protection and...” 

“Don’t.” Shane presses a thumb to his lips, silencing him. 

They stay facing each other breathing the same air. Ilya wonders how Shane managed to reduce him to this in a matter of days. He can always blame his family history of mental instability, but he knows it is more than that. 

Shane still does not speak, but he does not pull away. And Ilya knows. 

He wants this too. 

___________  

The ceremonial room is buried deep inside the Yakuza compound far below ground level. The air feels old and heavy. The scent of incense clings to the walls mixing with aged wood and iron. 

After Ilya, Shane, his avtoritet, and the Oyabun step inside, the reinforced wooden doors slide shut behind them with a dull final sound. Steel locks engage. Two guards from each side of the alliance take position outside the room. 

The light is low and warm provided by traditional paper lanterns suspended from the ceiling. Their glow flickers softly casting long distorted shadows across the tatami floor. At the center of the room rests a very low ceremonial table carved from black wood. Upon it sit a bowl of dark stone, a folded white cloth and a single blade. 

The knife is unmistakably ceremonial. Old. Revered. Japanese symbols are engraved into the handle darkened with age and use. Ilya understands immediately that this is not symbolic. For the Yakuza this is binding law. 

“Please kneel in front of each other on each side of the table.” The Oyabun instructs. 

Ilya lowers himself smoothly. The Oyabun moves to stand behind Shane while his avtoritet steps into place behind Ilya alert and protective. In this position Ilya and Shane are forced to face one another directly. There is no space to hide. No need for words. 

“We mix blood today.” The Oyabun says calmly. “Once mixed it cannot be separated. This oath is not an alliance. It is not merely protection. It is shared fate. If one betrays the other bleeds. If one falls the other is obligated to answer.” 

The lantern light trembles slightly. 

“From now on one blood in two bodies.” 

Ilya feels the weight of the words settle deep in his chest. It surpasses even Bratva loyalty. It feels closer to marriage than blood brotherhood. And he has already decided that for him and the Bratva this is exactly what it will mean. 

Shane does not need to know that. 

The Oyabun lifts the blade and passes it to Ilya first. A test. 

“This is the only blade that binds rather than kills.” 

Ilya accepts the knife with reverence aware that the Oyabun is studying his every movement. He turns it once in his hand acknowledging its history. The ancient knife is heavier than it looks and perfectly balanced. He then returns it without hesitation when the Oyabun silently requests it. 

The blade is passed to Shane. 

Shane’s hands are steady, but his face is not. It is the first time Ilya can read him so clearly. The tension in his jaw and the tight line of his mouth. He is nervous. 

Still his grip does not falter. 

Shane draws the blade across his palm. The cut is deep but precise. Blood wells immediately flowing into the dark stone bowl. It blooms like smoke in water forming a red cloud that refuses to fully disperse. 

The blade returns to Ilya. 

Without pause, he mirrors the motion matching the depth without flinching. His blood joins Shane’s in the bowl thicker, darker, heavier. 

The Oyabun brings their hands together above the stone. Their palms press against one another blood sliding between skin and skin mixing fully now warm and undeniable. 

Ilya swears the lanterns flicker. The room feels breathless... suspended.  

“My blood vows to yours.” Shane says quietly his voice steady despite everything. 

“My blood vows to yours.” Ilya answers without hesitation. 

The Oyabun wraps the white cloth around their joined hands, pulling it tight, knotting it with practiced precision. Blood soaks through immediately staining the fabric. Ilya draws in a sharp breath something feral stirring awake beneath his skin. He holds Shane’s gaze unblinking feeling the finality of it settle into his bones. 

Behind them the Oyabun and the avtoritet bow. 

“It is done.” The Oyabun declares as he and the avtoritet leave the room. 

Done. 

Now they are united forever. 

___________  

After the ceremony is over Shane separates their hands without removing the knot. Ilya’s hand slips free of the cloth. Shane looks paler than Ilya has ever seen him. His eyes look lost and overwhelmed. 

“We should go clean up.” Ilya offers the words as an excuse to remove them from the room and put distance between them and everyone else. 

Shane nods and guides him toward his private quarters. He stays silent the entire walk and Ilya wonders if he is also feeling the weight of what just happened. His own hand throbs with every movement, and the bleeding has not stopped. 

The room is quiet and warm. Soft light filters through the windows. Shane does not turn on the lamps and Ilya is grateful. His head aches. The floor still has items scattered from their earlier fight before the vow. Shane slides a dojo door aside revealing another area with a king-size Japanese style bed and what looks like a bathroom. 

Ilya removes his suit jacket and tie. 

“You should shower.” Shane says, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

For the first time since they met, he looks defeated. He notices Shane’s finger trembling when pressing the cloth against the cut. The determination and strength are gone from his voice and posture. Ilya hates it with a force that startles him. He cannot stand being the reason Shane looks like this. 

“Moi dom… what’s happening?” Ilya says as he kneels in front of him. 

“What does that mean?” Shane finally looks him in the eyes for the first time since the vow. 

“My home…” Ilya murmurs touching Shane’s right hand still tied with the cloth. 

“Do you have any idea what just happened?” Shane lifts his cut hand in front of Ilya’s face. “For a Yakuza man this is a lifetime vow. From now on, I must give my life to protect you. You must do the same. Not honoring this vow is punished with something worse than death. Dishonor.” 

“Shane…” Ilya tries to interrupt. 

“Yakuza men are bound by honor, not fear. Honor is everything…” 

“Shane.” Ilya grabs his chin, gently forcing their eyes to meet. Blood smears across Shane’s cheek. “You’ll never have to do that. Because I would rather die than put you in danger. I would never allow you to put your life in danger for me. I will honor this vow and be what you need. You are safe with me.” 

“This is all so sudden. It’s been days. This is something that should have been built on trust…” 

“I promised no pressure and I didn’t deliver but the circumstances…” Ilya says quietly. “Saying no to your father would mean losing his approval in the long run. The Yakuza’s interests and mine need to align.” 

“I know that.” Shane says frustrated. “I know…” 

“I’ll never allow anyone to touch your territory or your activities in Vancouver. You are under my protection. As far as the Bratva is concerned we merged business today.” 

“Your men must think you’re insane.” 

“They always knew.” Ilya says with a small smile. “They’re impressed that my chosen partner is such a valuable asset and not a liability. You also come with a very impressive dowry.” 

“Fuck you.” Shane pushes his shoulder. 

“What do you need?” Ilya asks softly. “I’ll do it.” 

“Stop being so… soft.” Shane says, annoyed but pleased. 

“Only for you…” Ilya murmurs and kisses him softly. “You are the only one who gets to have this side of me.” 

“Ilya…” Shane looks at Ilya’s face and something soft there flickers before turning sharp. 

Hearing his name on Shane’s lips for the first time hits like thunder. Electric and empowering. Shane’s face and posture shift after saying it and Ilya knows what is coming. The wakagashira is back. A different edge. The same man. 

“I want you to sit on that chair.” Shane’s tone makes it clear this is an order. 

Ilya’s brain stumbles. One part rebels against the command, but the other part thinks it’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to him. The second part wins. His body moves before he finishes the thought and he sits on the office chair near the table where he had Shane pinned hours earlier. 

“Good.” Shane says removing the cloth from his hand showing dried blood across his palm. 

Shane approaches the chair, lowers the armrests with a quick motion and settles on Ilya’s lap. 

“You’re going to behave?” The question holds layers and Ilya struggles to follow Shane’s lead.  

He nods. 

“Good.” Shane smiles and kisses him. 

Ilya is lost in the feel of Shane’s tongue in his mouth lightheaded from the impact against the wall earlier and the blood loss. He realizes too late that Shane has bound his hands behind the chair with the cloth from their vow. Shane watches him closely gauging his reaction. Ilya knows he could break free at any moment. This is Shane giving him an escape route just like Ilya had offered before. 

Shane’s eyes check on him as if waiting for his rejection. Ilya relaxes fully letting Shane take what he wants. He knows he will enjoy whatever comes next. 

“My Ilya…” Shane whispers and Ilya melts under the sound. 

Shane’s hands move over his shirt, opening buttons smearing faint streaks of blood across the fabric. Ilya wants to touch him but knows he cannot. He should not. Because he wants to make Shane happy. The fight between obedience and desire heightens everything. Shane unzips his suit pants and Ilya knows he is about to have the best sex of his life. 

The chair tilts slightly as Shane moves. He reaches for something on the table then returns to Ilya’s lap. The cold slick feel of lube coats his cock. Shane pumps him a few times biting his lip. Ilya has to shut his eyes to fight the instinct to rip the cloth binding him. 

Just as he is close to losing control, Shane’s hand disappears. His body retreats. Ilya opens his eyes frantic until he finds him. The tension on the knot of the cloth is at a limit. Shane has not gone far. He slips out of his hakama and kimono slowly with deliberate sensuality. He sits naked on the edge of the bed his cock hard untouched. He slicks his fingers and eases one inside himself. 

The moan that escapes him is half performative half wanton. 

Ilya’s breath comes sharp and heavy. His control hangs by threads. He wants to obey, but Shane has never looked this tempting. He cannot touch him. His wrists tense against the cloth, but he stays put. It becomes almost impossible when Shane adds a second finger and rolls his hips. 

He shuts his eyes and hopes Shane has mercy. 

“Please…” The word slips from his lips soft and breathless almost unrecognizable. 

Shane freezes for a second as if surprised then his pupils darken. He moves toward Ilya. 

“My perfect Ilya…” Shane murmurs cupping his face, as he settles onto his lap. 

Ilya notices that Shane’s fingers are trembling as they touched him. This is affecting Shane as much as it is affecting him. He kisses him softly then guides Ilya’s cock inside him. The sensation mixed with the strain in Ilya’s arms feels almost painful. Once Shane sinks fully, Ilya can breathe again. Shane’s mouth finds his. Hands thread in his hair. 

Shane starts to move and Ilya can do nothing but try to lift his hips a little and kiss him harder while fighting not to come first. Shane rides him like he was made for it.  

Made for him.  

It is a close call, but he manages to hold until Shane spills across both their chests. When he let’s go everything goes dark and he swears he loses consciousness for a few seconds. 

“You can move…” Shane murmurs breathless. 

Something snaps. Ilya tears the cloth apart grabs Shane’s hips and carries him from the chair to the bed with startling speed. He kisses Shane everywhere. Head, neck, chest, belly... He cannot stop. He does not want to. He feels an overwhelming urge to touch and worship every part of him. 

“Moi dom…” he whispers again and again. 

He cannot say I love you yet in any language, but it is what fills his chest. What his blood sings. 

Chapter End Notes

What a crazy couple of days. Since the last update, Hudson went to Milan and this fic absolutely exploded. I can barely keep up with the comments!

More than 1,200 people are following our Hollanov Mafia novela. 1,100 kudos!!! That’s insane.

Welcome, everyone! I hope you enjoyed Shane’s BDSM tendencies. I know canon Shane would never — but this is the Wakagashira 😌

I’ve spent some time planning the ending, and I’m now sure there will be 4–5 more chapters plus a nice epilogue. I’m really excited about what I have planned. Expect a couple of crazy twists… I hope to keep you entertained.

Kisses from Portugal 💋

Chapter 12: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

Shane wakes up feeling exhausted and thirsty. His shoulder feels stiff and he knows he has taken his body to its limits in the last few days. He needs another painkiller and his anxiety meds. 

He sits up in the bed and notices the soft sound of snoring to his left. 

Ilya. 

He is sleeping with his mouth slightly open. Serene in what can only be a deep-seated sleep. Completely unguarded in a bed next to Shane. He looks younger with his face fully relaxed and his hair cascading around his face on the pillow like a golden halo. He is no saint. More like a vengeful angel. 

He had submitted to Shane beautifully even if only partially. Shane loved it. It had felt better than any intense scene he ever planned with an unknown partner. With such a strong independent opponent it had been a sublime feeling. Ilya seemed to like it too. 

This had been one of Shane's doubts about their compatibility. He realizes he had been wrong all along. He wonders if this relationship is something he can grow used to. If he will fit into the role of the Pakhan’s partner. They will probably need to spend a lot of time in New York... 

He does not let his thoughts wander in that direction. They have a killer on the loose inside the Bratva and the Irish fuming at the mouth near their borders. He needs to find Hayden and protect Ilya. Probably from himself first. Then from everyone else. 

All the data points to the shooter at the wedding being someone close to Ilya. Maybe someone who rivaled him for the Pakhan position. Someone Ilya considered harmless now... 

Shane gets up and moves to the bathroom silently. He needs to go for a run. He knows in the back of his mind that he is close to connecting all the loose threads. Physical exercise helps his brain work through data. Usually he did that with Hayden but until he returns he has to settle for a morning jog. 

He takes his pills, showers under hot water that loosens the tightness in his back and dresses in an old sweatshirt and sweatpants. The wound on his shoulder looks fine, well stitched, pink but without any sign of inflammation. The wound in his hand hurts but does not need stitches. The location is the problem. It throbs every time he opens or closes his right hand. He figures he needs a few days to recover. 

When he leaves the room Ilya is still dead to the world. 

Just as he is about to exit the dojo followed by one of his bodyguards he catches sight of his father. 

“Shan...” The Oyabun is impeccably dressed in a deep red kimono. “Come with me my son.” 

Shane signals silently to his guard and follows his father to a more isolated area. The Oyabun looks serious and stiff. Shane wonders what he is about to learn. 

“Hayden's wife is here.” He says simply. 

“His wife?” Shane asks confused. “The Irish girl?” 

“Yes.” Shane's father looks him directly in the eyes. “She found something.” 

Shane knows better than to interrupt. 

“Apparently Hayden left something. A message to be found after he left. He was careful. He knew this might pass through other hands before it reached yours.” 

“He would never endanger his wife...” Shane murmurs remembering their talks from before. “What did he write?” 

The Oyabun gives him a piece of paper folded in four, a ripped corner from a bigger page. In Hayden's impeccable handwriting Shane reads: 

The man buried is still breathing. 
The gun was inherited. 
Blood recognizes blood. 
If I go quiet look inside. 

“I am sure you will find the meaning in his words.” The Oyabun says. 

“I will father.” Shane murmurs. 

“I am allowing the wife to stay with us until Hayden returns.” The Oyabun pauses and Shane knows something else is coming. “About yesterday...” 

Shane feels tension rise through his shoulders. His body braces for judgment. 

“You know that a blood oath like the one you did binds more than bodies. It binds fates.” 

Shane’s heartbeat thuds in his ears. He knows. God he knows. Maybe better than anyone else. 

“I am aware.” He answers defensively. 

“Then decide if this is strategy or surrender.” The Oyabun murmurs. 

“It is not that simple.” That is more than he is ready to share with his father. 

“The Pakhan’s shadow lies over you like a net. If you are not careful you will drown in it.” 

“I am still standing here.” Shane says steady. “Still serving. Still loyal.” 

“As you should.” The Oyabun looks almost irritated. 

“At least he sees me.” Shane mutters. “At least he values my strengths.” 

The Oyabun’s gaze hardens. “Do not mistake obsession for devotion.” 

“Do not underestimate me.” Shane snaps. 

He turns around and leaves the room without looking back. Irritation and anger churn under his skin. His father has forced him into a position he despises. He does not want to use Ilya for his father’s schemes. He also feels their relationship will always be stained by his father’s shadow. 

He moves quickly through the doors until he is outside the dojo. He takes a deep breath of cold morning air that stings his lungs and then starts running. 

___________  

Shane leaves the dojo alone, still fuming at his father’s words. 

This is a circuit around their territory that he has done countless times before, so he allows his body to fall into the rhythm. He settles into a nice comfortable pace, steadies his breathing and sharpens his thoughts. Muscle memory takes over. The world narrows to motion, and breath and pavement. 

He forces himself to focus on Hayden’s message. Whatever happened, Hayden did not have time to call him directly. Whatever clue he discovered had likely exposed him to the shooter. Was he on the run? Hidden?  How dangerous did this figure have to be? 

The man buried is still breathing. 

The shooter was presumed dead. Shane exhales sharply. He should talk to Ilya about high ranking Bratva members who had been presumed dead in the last few years. That list might help them narrow it down. 

The gun was inherited. 

Not surprising. He was probably from a lineage of Bratva men which tied directly into the next line. 

Blood recognizes blood. 

How close was he to Ilya? Shane had studied the Rozanov family lineage before the wedding. Ilya did not have many relatives. But if this man was presumed dead… 

If I go quiet look inside. 

Everything circles back to one conclusion. One that makes his chest tighten. 

It does not make sense. 

How could the threat come from Ilya’s own bloodline? 

The city grows quieter as he cuts through an industrial stretch near the docks. Shane notices the ambient sounds thinning out. No traffic. No voices. Just the slap of his shoes against concrete and the low distant hum of machinery. 

His anxiety flares. His instincts misfire and overlap. He clocks a parked delivery van he does not recognize. White. Unmarked. Too clean. 

Maybe it belongs to Ilya’s team. No one would dare step into Yakuza territory. Ilya Rozanov just supplied them with top-of-the-line weapons and technology. 

No way. 

He keeps running, but at the last moment, decides to circle back toward the dojo. He should not have come out alone considering the circumstances. His mind supplies him with Ilya’s judging expression unbidden and irritatingly accurate. 

He is distracted when an intense noise erupts behind him. He pivots instinctively, but a second attacker cuts off his forward momentum. 

He is outnumbered. 

He goes straight for the knife strapped at his ankle and slashes upward, cutting the arm that tries to lock around his chest. These men are not Irish. Also not Bratva muscle. Probably hired. Faces fully covered. Movements too disciplined. Too surgical. 

They keep targeting his injured shoulder. 

He fights back hard. Efficient. He breaks one man’s nose with a brutal elbow and manages to drive his knife through another man’s hand pinning it briefly against his own body. But his shoulder throbs violently and his right hand lacks finesse. The wound tears open again. Blood runs down to his elbow staining his sweatshirt dark. 

They are not trying to kill him. 

They need him alive. 

He is breathing hard when one of them comes up behind him and drives a needle into his neck. 

Of course. 

They are drugging him. 

As his vision blurs and the ground tilts he understands all at once. 

They knew his route. They knew his injury. They waited until he was alone. 

They are using him to get to Ilya. 

Darkness folds in fast and deliberate.  

___________  

Shane returns to consciousness inside a black world. Something rough covers his eyes and his wrists and ankles are bound. He tries to move his hands, but his body does not respond. His eyelids feel weighted, his thoughts slow and slippery. 

What happened? 

Fragments drift back. Running. Impact. Hands. A needle. 

He focuses on sound. The low vibration beneath him tells him he is inside a moving vehicle. The muffled rumble of tires. Voices. Male voices. Speaking Russian. 

Then one voice moves closer. 

Strangely familiar. 

“He really did choose you.” 

The words are spoken softly in English with a thick Russian accent. Close enough that Shane can feel breath near his ear. 

He cannot place the voice. His mind reaches and fails. Consciousness slips away again. 

___________  

When he wakes again the blindfold is gone. Light burns into his eyes sharp and sudden and his head detonates with pain. He inhales slowly through his nose, forcing the ache down. He has been trained for moments like this. The drugs still cloud his thoughts, but the fog is thinning. 

He opens his eyes fully. 

The room is clean. Controlled lighting. Cement walls. Cement floor. No windows. Below ground. A vent hums softly near the far corner of the ceiling. A steel door faces him directly. The light source is a single lamp positioned close to the chair he is restrained to. 

The restraints are firm but not brutal. He tests them carefully. He could stand. He would likely fall. That would put him in a worse position. 

He assesses his body. He was unconscious for a long time. Anything could have happened. But he feels intact. His shoulder wound has been rebandaged professionally. His hand is wrapped carefully. Whoever did this wants him alive. Functional. 

For now. 

He is absolutely being used as leverage against Ilya. 

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door. That must be why he woke. Someone is coming. Shane straightens as much as the restraints allow and steadies his breathing. Whoever thinks they are going to break him is going to regret it. 

He vowed to protect Ilya. He will not give them what they want. 

The door opens. 

A tall blond man steps inside alone. Shane’s body locks instantly. Every instinct screams. He has seen this man before. Younger. Stronger. Without the burned scar that now cuts across his face. 

Photographs. Old intelligence files. 

Ilya’s older brother. 

Alexei Rozanov. 

Fuck! 

It makes sense. Too much sense. Presumed dead. Buried. Alive. 

Alexei moves with easy confidence. His expression is calm. A faint smile plays at his mouth. The similarity to Ilya is deeply unsettling. Same eyes. Same bone structure. A distorted mirror. 

Shane’s defenses snap fully into place. This is not good. He is bait. 

But why? 

Alexei takes a moment to look at him. Eyes focusing on his bound limbs.  

“Wakagashira.” Alexei says stopping in front of him. “I am glad we finally get to meet. Thank you for coming.” 

“I guess the timing was right.” Shane replies evenly refusing to give him anything. 

“Believe me.” Alexei smiles. The scar twists the expression into something ugly. “The timing is perfect.” 

Shane stays silent. He knows better. 

“He was always so predictable.” Alexei raises his burnt hand in front of his face. “Father preferred him... right until the very end. The next Pakhan.” 

Shane tries to piece everything together, but his mind is still slow. 

“I had a feeling he would choose you. Being predictable can be a liability.” Alexei steps closer, circling him slowly. “Still, I am surprised you chose him back.” 

The pieces snap together. The shooting was a test. For Ilya. For Shane. For both of them. 

He should have dug deeper into Alexei. The man knows Ilya better than Ilya knows himself. He knows how he thinks. How he behaves. 

And that means only one thing. 

Ilya is already on the move. 

Chapter End Notes

1600 people following the Mafia Hollanov novela!!!! 1700 kudos!!!

I know… You were all loving the smut and I had to go and kill the mood. SORRY 😭

Yes, Shane was kidnapped! Such a classic Mafia trope. I couldn’t resist.

Don’t worry, we’ll know more about Alexei’s reasons and Hayden in the next chapters. I’m planning 4 more chapters with many twists to end this with a bang!

There was one reader who knew it was Alexei a couple of chapters ago. Did any of you know? Any theories about why he went crazy crazy?? There are many hints in this chapter. Please leave me a comment.

Next update Wednesday.

Chapter 13: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Ilya wakes slowly, consciousness returning to his body in heavy layers. His right hand hurts and he flexes it out of instinct. The skin pulls tight. Tender. Split. 

Their blood vow. The aftermath.  Shane playing Dom and “tying” him to the chair. 

The memory pulls a smile to his mouth. God, he was so crazy about him. Would he let him do it the other way? He imagines Shane’s wrists tied to the bedrest of the bedroom on his New York mansion, while he does all kinds of filthy things, slow things, things that leave marks. His hand drifts across the mattress, searching for Shane’s glorious body on the other side of the bed. 

There is nothing there. Only cold, empty sheets. The chill seeps into his palm. Into the cut. 

Realization snaps him out of the fantasy. He sits upright, breath suddenly sharp, eyes sweeping the room. Alert. Shane’s clothes from last night are gone. Shoes aligned. Jacket folded. The room is perfectly organized. Too perfectly. Shane has been up for some time. 

The other side of the bed looks untouched. As if Shane never slept here at all. The quiet feels wrong. 

For a brief moment Ilya tries to suppress his obsessive nature. He tells himself this is fine. That Shane was probably felling overwhelmed by yesterday’s events. That he always needs space when his head is too full. That nothing has gone wrong yet. 

He swings his legs off the bed. The floor is cold. It grounds him. He almost believes his own lies. 

He moves fast, dressing without care, fingers clumsy with urgency. His pulse beats too hard in his throat. He opens the door and finds one of his men posted just outside. 

He is informed that Shane went for a run a few hours ago. 

Guilt settles heavy in Ilya’s chest. He should have been there. He should have kept Shane close. He no longer has the tracking app. He needs him within his line of sight at all times. 

The thought is sharp and ugly. Possessive. He hates it for a fraction of a second and then hates himself for hesitating. Shane does not need a chaperone. Shane does not need permission. He is probably already micro-planning their next steps, already protecting everyone else before himself. 

The pressure around his heart does not ease. It tightens. A slow vice. 

“Who went with him?” Ilya asks. 

The bodyguard hesitates. He has been watching Ilya expectantly this whole time, like a man standing too close to an open grave. 

“We don’t know…” He murmurs, fear creeping into his voice. 

“You don’t know?” Ilya moves on instinct, slamming the man against the wall. The impact rattles the corridor. “Who knows?” 

“He went with the Yakuza team.” The man gasps as Ilya applies pressure to his ribs, fingers digging in until he feels bone. “He was with the Oyabun this moorning.” 

“I don’t care if he was with the president of Canada. You follow him everywhere.” Ilya releases him. The man crumples to the floor like a ragdoll, coughing, scrambling to breathe. 

Ilya does not look back. 

Instinct overrides logic. Training overrides restraint. Ilya moves fast, strides cutting through the dojo as he locates the Oyabun’s office. 

He enters without knocking. 

The moment he meets the Oyabun’s eyes, he knows his instincts were right. 

“I can’t locate him.” the Oyabun says. 

The words land wrong. Too calm. Too final. 

He feels control fracturing. There is an urge to punch the wall. Or the Oyabun’s face. Or tear the building apart piece by piece until Shane falls out of it. 

This cannot be happening. He closed his eyes for a few hours. That is all.  

A Pakhan does not lose his world in his sleep. 

“Did he take any security with him?” Ilya asks, already pulling out his phone, already issuing commands, his voice clipped and precise. Intelligence. Cameras. Routes. Drones. Burn everything until something answers. 

“No.” the Oyabun answers. Worry crosses his face. A flicker of guilt. “We had a disagreement.” 

That word slices deeper than the rest. 

Ilya mobilizes Bratva response without consulting anyone. Protocol shatters under the weight of his focus. His world narrows to a single point: information. Speed. Recovery.  

Shane was injured. Shane, who plans everything, chose to go alone. Something does not fit. 

“What happened?” Ilya demands. 

“We received a message from Hayden. He wrote it before he was intercepted.” The Oyabun hands him a crushed piece of paper. Creased. Sweaty. Handled too many times by men who didn’t knew what it meant. 

The man buried is still breathing. 
The gun was inherited. 
Blood recognizes blood. 
If I go quiet look inside. 

The words burn. They are not a warning. They are a confession. 

They took Shane after he got this message. They made Hayden disappear after he wrote it. Bratva blood. Family blood. Whoever did this did not want money. Did not want leverage. 

They wanted pain. Ilya’s pain. 

Turning away without another word, Ilya moves to find his avtoritet and act fast. Orders are given. Doors are locked. Somewhere a man screams because Ilya needs answers now and mercy is a luxury he no longer possesses. 

His heart is in danger. 

___________  

He considers entering Irish territory with his men for a major search when, to Ilya’s surprise, he receives solid information on where Hayden may be kept detained by Yakuza intelligence. He gets there in record time, taking only his avtoritet and a couple of his most trustworthy men. 

The location turns out to be an abandoned warehouse on the border of Irish and Yakuza territory. It does not look destroyed or heavily secured. No guards. No lights. No visible perimeter. He may have arrived on time. Hayden may still be alive. Hayden may help him understand who took Shane and why. 

That is his only thought. One single, relentless focus. 

Making sure Shane is returned alive. No matter the cost. Even his Pakhanhood. 

A brief conversation with his avtoritet has already put the necessary precautions in place in case something happens to him. In case his blood must be given for Shane to survive. The Bratva will endure without him. The next Pakhan must honor his vow to protect Yakuza territory in Vancouver as long as Shane still breathes. 

He enters only after his men complete a full reconnaissance of the area. No signs of outside security. Tire marks show a van was parked outside and left at high speed. No signs of forced entry on the door. No cameras. No broken windows. No way to see inside. 

Too clean. 

They draw their weapons and move toward the main door. It is unlocked. His avtoritet stops Ilya with a hand to his chest, stepping in first. 

Inside, the air is thick with iron and dust. Signs of a fight everywhere. Blood smeared across the concrete floor and spattered high on the walls. Three men lie dead. 

Ilya recognizes them immediately. Bratva men. At least one he has seen before. At his brother’s casino many years ago. 

Rats. 

He kicks one in the head. The body rolls limply. No use. They are already dead. Shotguns discarded nearby. One of the men looks like he was hit hard in the head with a metal pipe. Ilya’s eyes track upward. 

The pipe is missing from the water system near the ceiling. 

Impressive. 

Someone desperate. Someone injured. Someone who refused to die quietly. 

“He was here.” His avtoritet says, voice low and controlled. “Probably captive. He escaped.” 

Too late again. 

Hayden, probably wouderd, ran.  

Ilya kicks a chair against the wall. The sound cracks through the empty warehouse, sharp and violent. It echoes back at him like an accusation. When it falls, he catches a glimpse of something painted on the rusted metal beneath it. 

The New York Bratva symbol. 

Fresh. 

The scream that tears out of him, animal and uncontrollable. It scrapes his throat raw, swallowed by concrete and steel but not diminished. 

___________  

Ilya replays Hayden’s message in his mind again and again. Every path leads to one name only.  

He knows the answer but refuses to accept it. Refusal is the last thing keeping him upright. 

With a trembling hand he reaches for his personal laptop. The metal is cold beneath his fingers. He types his code and enters a Bratva internal secure channel that has been dead since his brother’s sudden “death.” One he personally shut down months ago, watched go dark, buried like a body. 

Alexei Rozanov. 

Burned beyond recognition after a fight with his wife. A closed casket. Ashes scattered. Ilya remembers standing there thinking it was over. Only him felt with the cursed Rozanov gene. 

He should have been more careful. He let something slip that day. 

There it is. A voice message. Time stamped a few hours ago. 

“I want to see your face when you understand.” 

A pause. 

“I want to see what’s left of you after. Come. Alone. Or I’ll send him back to you in pieces.” 

The voice is calm. Familiar. Too familiar. It carries the same cadence their father used when teaching them how to break a man without killing him. 

Ilya’s temper flares hot and violent. His breathing quickens. His brother is alive and he kidnapped Shane. He must have lost his mind after surviving the fire because none of this makes sense. 

Or it makes perfect sense and Ilya has never really known his brother. 

They were never close growing up. Their mother had always preferred Ilya to Alexei whose temper mirrored their father’s. Even though Ilya was younger it became clear to everyone that he was far more skilled to be Pakhan. Alexei had never complained. Never fought it. He smiled. He adapted. He waited. 

He preferred controlling the casinos and brothels of their empire. He was a people person. He made business flow. Their father had always been proud of him for that. 

Has he been wrong all along? Had his brother seen him as an illegitimate Pakhan?  

He remembers his brother's cruel jokes about Ilya’s sexuality and how the burden of heirs was to be placed on Alexei’s shoulders. Since Ilya seemed to have no interest in relationships...  

No... there is something missing. Something Ilya can’t grasp yet.   

A minute later another message blinks onto the screen. He opens it instantly. 

A photograph. 

Shane’s right hand freshly rebandaged. The skin pale beneath the gauze. The edge of a chair visible against a concrete floor.  

Beneath it Shane’s silver expensive watch lies on the ground catching the light. Placed carefully. Deliberately. 

Attached is a single line of text. 

“Still breathing.” 

Ilya’s hands shake once before going completely still. Something inside him shuts down. Cold settles under his skin, deep and lethal. He issues rapid orders to his men to trace the source of the message and the image, his voice flat, empty of mercy. 

It is clear now. His brother wants him to come alone. His life for Shane’s life. His crown for his heart.  

This is not a negotiation. It is a reckoning. 

He cannot endanger Shane’s life. Shane is in this position because of him. He had been blind to the threat forming behind his back. 

Hayden knew somehow. Shane had been piecing it together. 

All his power had failed to protect the one person who mattered. 

He looks at the cut palm in his hand. Blood flowing sluggish and dark, after crushing his fist for too long. He presses his fingers together, reopening the wound, welcoming the pain. 

Shane’s voice fills his mind. 

“My blood vows to yours.” 

Ilya exhales, slow and broken. 

Now the polluted Rozanov blood had conspired against their future. 

And Ilya would drown in it before he let Shane die. 

Chapter End Notes

1800 people are following the last episodes of the Mafia novela <3 This chapter was hard to write. Ilya my baby is in pain.

Next chapter there is a suprise pov. Write me about your predicitons!

Finally got a beta reader so this and previous chapters might suffer some changes.

We have 3/4 chapters left :(

Chapter 14: Hayden's pov

Chapter Notes

Hayden 

Hayden’s hands shake as he tries to steer the wheel of the massive van he just stole. He’s bleeding from a gunshot that grazed him on the thigh and another near his ribs. That had been really close. He almost didn’t make it. He had to wait for the perfect moment to use the pipe on the closest guy and hope to get his gun faster than the other two could shoot. 

Had it not been for his years of intense Yakuza training, he’d probably would be dead. 

He tries to focus on the road. Every bump sends pain flaring through his thigh and chest. He keeps the van just under the speed limit to avoid attention. The stolen walkie-talkie is still crackling. Still live. 

He knows he needs to get to Shane as fast as possible if he wants a chance to change the outcome of this Bratva blood war and save Shane’s life. 

___________  

Before 

Hayden leaves Shane’s place after their usual weekly training session with the realization that for the first time since they met Shane’s brilliant mind may be compromised. The reason? 

Ilya Rozanov. 

He suspected they had a serious problem the moment Shane left his wedding after the shooting. He could read people really well and the Pakhan was not being very subtle about his interest in Shane. Had it only been physical, there would have been less to worry about. But no: Shane had to catch Ilya Rozanov’s special attention. 

He knew enough about the Rozanov family history enough to understand that this might cause a major problem for the Yakuza and especially for Shane. But what he had not expected was for Shane to reciprocate the Pakhan’s feelings. 

He knew Shane like the back of his hand. The moment he heard him describe hesitation when the Pakhan had imposed his attention on him. He knew it: Ilya Rozanov was here to stay. 

He knows he needs to take over the search for the shooter. Shane is compromised and for the first time in years, he’s not being completely honest with him. Normally, Hayden’s feelings would have been hurt. But he knows Shane too well not to understand his reasoning. Shane’s priorities are changing. 

He knows the shooter was not aiming for the Irish Don. The Pakhan had a smear of blood in his ear afterwards. Hayden had seen it, but he decided to keep that information for their Yakuza debrief sure that Shane knew it too - but he never mentioned it. 

In their debrief, they’d concluded that the shooter’s stance was wrong for Irish or Italian muscle. The weapon was an old Eastern European model, a very odd choice, which means it was probably a clue meant to be recognized. The escape route was too clean for a hired hit. But there was absolutely no mention of the target being the Pakhan. 

Which leads Haydeb to the conclusion that Shane is deeply compromised. Since he can’t trust Shane’s impeccable analyzing skills, he needs to take matters into his own hands. When he gets home after their practice, Hayden gets himself a secure line and works alone. 

After a few hours he concludes that the financial movements haven’t benefited Italian factions. The Oyabun is lying. Someone scrubbed footage from nearby buildings too well to be the Irish. They lack this type of technology. And to top it off, one shell casing recovered by his wife had a custom etching only used by New York Bratva circles. 

This last part is a risk. He isn’t completely sure he can trust her yet, but he trusts his skills and her body language tells him she was nervous about hiding the bullet casing. She had trusted him to keep it a secret. She hid it from her father for days before deciding to give it to him. Even if it was a test, how would the Irish get a casing like this anyway? 

They wouldn’t. 

This has Bratva insider written all over it. And it has to be someone really high up. 

A few days later he starts working on a list of all New York power players. One “dead” man still had active financial shadows. Shadows that had stirred recently in the Vancouver area. He quickly concludes... 

Alexei Rozanov wasn’t dead. 

He was erased. 

Later, Hayden’s research concludes that the lab that did the DNA test on Alexei’s corpse was known to be corrupt. He can’t even confirm if the wife is alive too. 

He wants to tell Shane immediately, but that’s when he notices that someone let him through instead of blocking him on that last old Bratva node. Alexei wanted to know who was looking. It was a trap. He is compromised. 

He knows indirect communication is no longer safe. His access was logged a couple of hours ago. If Alexei suspects Shane knows, he will be the next target. He needs to let Shane know without risking compromising him. 

Can he leave the house? When he looks outside his window, he sees them. A suspicious delivery van parked outside for too long. He is already being watched. His wife is in danger and Shane is even more vulnerable now. 

He has to move fast and quietly. He must act as if he doesn’t know he isn’t being watched and let himself be captured. He will probably be dead in a couple of hours. 

But before that happens, he needs to leave a message. Something cryptic enough not to be immediately recognized but with enough clues to prompt Shane’s brain. He can do this. He knows how Shane’s mind works. 

He writes a note, dresses as if going to work and goes to find his wife elsewhere in the house. He finds her in the kitchen, preparing dinner. 

The circumstances of their marriage might have been insane for most people, but he is glad he was chosen to be her husband. She is humble and kind. She’s obviously been protected from most of the dangers of their world. She’s still smart enough to understand what surrounds them, but inexperienced enough not to be tarnished by its violence. It triggered in him a need to protect her, even from himself. 

The distant thought crosses his mind that he hopes the Yakuza will protect her after he is gone. He owes his life to Shane and will give it up in a blink. But he owes something to her now, too. 

If Shane survives, Hayden knows he will protect her. 

“Jackie?” 

“Dinner isn’t ready yet” she says with a small smile. 

“I have to leave now.” He keeps tight control of his movements and tone so as not to scare her. 

Her smile drops. “So soon?” 

“I may be out for a couple of days” he says casually leaning against the kitchen island, aiming for casualness. “I need you to do me a favor.” 

“Sure” she agrees, looking worried. 

“On Friday there’s a lunch with the Oyabun. I don’t think I’ll be back by then. Please give him this and go on my behalf.” He places a piece of paper in her hand. He’s aware that it looks like trash, like a torn piece of newspaper, but he trusts that she will understand the words not spoken. 

She looks at it, her brow furrowing. Her eyes begin to shine with unshared tears, but then she blinks twice and they’re gone. 

God. He’s going to miss her. These few shared days sharing this house had been special.  

“Thank you” she says hiding it in her pocket as if he had given her a precious diamond. 

“Don’t forget you have that lunch with your mother tomorrow.” Although he says this aloud, their eyes communicate in a different language. She knows something is very wrong, but that it’s not safe to speak here and now. 

Jackie’s hand moves to touch his on the counter, but before it does Hayden shakes his head slightly. They can be watched through the windows. Ife they suspect she know Alexei is alive she becomes a target too. He needs her safe. Jackie immediately goes stiff, but doesn’t move. 

“I won’t” she whispers. 

“I’ll go now” Hayden says, not risking a look back at her. 

He leaves quickly, but not before turning on every extra security system he has in the house. 

He is ready to face his responsibilities head-on. 

__________  

Now

Hayden’s vision blurs again. One of his hands is going numb and he fights to stay awake. 

He needs to get to Shane. Ilya is heading into a trap where they’ll get both killed or Alexei burns the whole thing down with Shane in the middle once the truth gets out. Shane is too compromised, and likely, injured to fix this mess on his own. 

The Wakagashira needs him. 

If only he had gotten away faster. 

His mind goes back over the last few days. 

They’d him tied to that chair for hours, with no food or water. Their methods were sloppy, but violent; Bratva style. He’d been interrogated for hours but not tortured. They starved him and beat him just enough to keep his defenses down. He fed them pieces of information he was willing to surrender every few hours: Yakuza routes and hidden territory spots. They used that to plant his belongings and make it seem like he’d gone off-grid on a solo mission. He knows they were buying time, and probably waiting for the best moment to try to kill Ilya Rozanov again. 

They spoke Russian around him, sure he couldn’t understand them, but he managed to pick up bits and pieces. He analyzed the surrounding environment. He knew he couldn’t overpower them with strength, so he waited for boredom and arrogance to become his weapons. He knew at this point that his only choice was to grab the pipe and hope for luck. 

When given the chance, he acted fast, he struck one, toke his gun, and shot the other two. He ran without checking to see if they were dead. He took the van, the gun, and the walkie-talkie. 

As he reached the driver’s seat, he heard static, followed by voices. It was Alexei’s men, talking carelessly in both English and Russian. Hayden understands enough to put together that they are holding Shane in a new location. They’re waiting for someone to arrive. 

He immediately knows it’s Ilya Rozanov. 

Hayden’s thoughts snap back to the present. He parks at a distance from the location where he’s fairly sure that Shane is being held. He kills the engine, and sits in silence for a few seconds. He lets his forehead rest against the steering wheel for just a moment. 

A thought crosses his mind. If he gets out of this shit show alive, he’s going to take Jackie on a real date. 

He smiles. Then he takes the safety off the gun and gets out of the car.  

Chapter End Notes

If you notice that this chapter has way fewer mistakes and grammar errors, it’s because of the lovely Violet, my beta reader. We’ll work on the previous chapters after the fic is complete.

2k people are following the latest chapters—thank you all for the kind comments. I’m sad that we’re getting close to the end. Please follow me on X if you’d like to chat more: @VanessaMCG.

Next update on Wednesday!

Chapter 15: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

Shane raises his head at the sound coming from outside the door. He has been alone for what feels like hours. His arms ache from the restraints. He has been seated and bound with no chance to move. His heart thumps hard against his chest now. A pressure builds at the junction of his skull and neck, a familiar warning. He is on the edge of a panic attack, but the meds are still working. 

He needs to stay focused. Calm. If he wants to be any help to Ilya when he arrives. 

Because that is certain. Ilya is coming. And God only knows in what mental state. 

Alexei enters, followed by two guards. Shane has seen them before. Bratva men, for sure. But not Ilya’s. Too cocky. Too sloppy. The way they hold positions and scan the room around Alexei, would get them scrubbing toilets for weeks in Yakuza training. If these are the men protecting Alexei, Shane can only assume he fears no attacks or repercussions. 

One look at Alexei’s face tells Shane this is not going his way. 

Good. 

“Yakuza men seem to be a problem.” Alexei says, displeased. 

Hayden? 

Shane’s gut twists. It has to be him. Hope stirs painfully in his chest. Hayden tried to warn him. He knew. He risked everything to left him a message. Shane hopes he is still alive. 

“Such a small organization making such a mess.” Alexei stops in front of Shane, slightly off center, gun in hand. 

The way Alexei handles the weapon irritates Shane. Like a prop. Careless. Pointing it at objects, gesturing with it. The safety is on, but it is still amateur behavior. Shane would know immediately that this man is not an assassin even if he hadn’t study New York Bratva organization before. The motivation behind his actions keeps escaping Shane. 

To think he let himself be caught like this. Anger flares. He let his feelings for Ilya cloud his judgment. If he dies here, he will never forgive himself. 

Shane does not respond to the provocation in Alexei’s words. Instead, he studies the room. There’s two other men. One guarding by the door, the other near the opposite wall. No windows.  Cement walls and floor with no visible pipes or electric cables. A vent in the ceiling near the second guard. Both men are armed.  

No clear escape. 

“I knew you would be the one.” Alexei says, clearly trying to keep Shane’s attention on him. “He always had a thing for competence. And pretty boys.” 

A sound from the other side of the door cuts him off. Shane feels the restraints bite into his wrists, the weight pressing on his chest. Anticipation building in his body. 

Ilya. 

The room changes when he enters. It has been less than twenty-four hours since Shane last saw him. Ilya’s eyes look hollow. His shoulders sagg. His entire posture is altered. Defeated. 

Shane knows instantly. Ilya has already decided to trade his life for his. 

Rage floods him. He wants to hit him. 

My blood vows to yours. 

The words echo. 

Ilya’s gaze locks onto Shane. His entire body freezes. Something returns to his eyes. A spark. He steps toward Shane, then stops when he registers Alexei and the gun in his hand. 

Shane wants to scream at him to run. To leave. To not do this. 

But the guard by the vent moves fast, shoving a cloth into Shane’s mouth and tying it tight behind his head. Ilya steps forward, hand lifting instinctively, but Alexei cuts in front of Shane, blocking the view. 

“Don’t hurt him.” Ilya shouts. “I came unarmed. As you asked.” 

“He’s perfectly fine...” Alexei replies smoothly. “We just need a private conversation. No interruptions.” 

The guard secures the cloth, tying it behind Shane’s head, then retreats. Shane hears Ilya inhale deeply, stepping back toward the door. 

“Alexei…” His voice is exhausted. “What do you want? What is this about?” 

“My brother...” Alexei says smugly. “Aren’t you happy to see me? Back from the dead?” 

“What the fuck happened?” Ilya snaps. 

“Everything happened.” Alexei snarls. “You happened.” 

“You want the Bratva leadership?” Ilya spreads his arms. “Then kill me and be done. No need for all of this.” 

“You think I did all this for that?” Alexei laughs and glances at Shane. “No. I want restitution. For me. For our father.” 

“Our father?” Confusion breaks across Ilya’s face. 

“Yes. Our father.” Alexei circles Shane, agitation growing. “He adored you. The perfect son. The one who could control his temper. The brilliant negotiator. The one with a heart of stone. So handsome.” 

Alexei’s hand brushes Shane’s face. Shane recoils, helpless. 

“Don’t touch him.” Ilya growls, voice shaking. 

“You still don’t understand?” Alexei pushes Shane’s face aside. “You were never a Rozanov.” 

“What?” Ilya’s shocked expression tells Shane everything. 

“You heard me.” Alexei continues. “You were the result of mother’s infidelity. A secret she carried until she escaped. She left a note after she left, confessing everything. Father couldn’t survive it. He couldn’t accept Bratva in the hands of a bastard. So he killed himself. And buried the truth.” 

“You’re lying!” Ilya shouts. 

“Am I?” Alexei sneers. “I think deep down you know.... Father killing himself instead of tearing the world apart to find her? He couldn’t face her. Or you.” 

“No…” Ilya whispers, collapsing to his knees. 

“I could have exposed you...” Alexei says calmly. “But loyalty follows power. That’s the Bratva way. They would have followed you anyway. No. I needed leverage. I needed you weak. I waited. In the dark.” 

He steps closer to Ilya. 

“Faking my death was easy. My wife was a problem anyway. I solved two issues at once. I knew vanity was your flaw. You would like a grand marriage, even better if it was a profitable alliance. In North America, pretty boy here, was the perfect choice...” 

Alexei turns away, had gesturing to Shane, no longer obstructing Shane’s view. Ilya looks devastated. 

“I nudged your people. Pulled strings. Forced you to Vancouver. Made the wedding the perfect first meeting. I hoped Shane would carry you to the hospital after the shooting. Instead, he saved you. Even I was impressed. And that he actually liked you was perfect.” 

“No.” Ilya whispers. 

“Now you’ll do exactly what I say.” Alexei says, clicking off the safety and pressing the gun to Shane’s forehead. “I heard you promised to bleed for him. Don’t make him bleed for you.” 

Ilya looks feral. 

Then... 

Metal crashes. 

The vent cover slams onto the floor. The guard reacts too late. A shot fires from above, striking him in the chest. He drops, gun skidding away. Alexei turns. Ilya lunges, grabbing his leg and yanking him down. The second guard moves, but a body drops from the vent, firing. The guard is forced to retract behind the door with a bleeding arm. 

Standing in the middle of the room, gun in hand, stands Hayden.  He looks thinner. Bleeding from his tight and below his ribs. Shane wonders what happened to him. 

Hayden takes in the room instantly. 

“Free Shane...” Ilya gasps, fighting Alexei for the gun. 

Hayden moves. Removes the gag and moves to free his hands. 

“Help him.” Shane says once the gag is gone. 

The remaining guard moves to help Alexei and raises his weapon. Hayden fires first. The guard fires back. Hayden goes down, clutching his leg. The guard falls dead on the floor. 

Shane sees Hayden’s gun on the floor. His legs are still bound. With his one free hand, he leans, careful not to tip the chair, reaches... 

A gunshot. 

Shane looks up. Alexei is on top of Ilya now, gun pressed to his stomach. Blood blooms dark and thick across Ilya’s white shirt. 

Shane does not think. He raises the gun and fires. 

Alexei’s body slumps forward, heavy and final. The gun clatters from his hand. For a moment, nothing moves. Shane does not lower the weapon. His arm remains extended, steady now. Locked. The recoil still hums through his bones. He stares at the space where Alexei’s face had been and understands, with a clarity that cuts clean and cold, what he has done. 

He chose. 

Not the Pakhan. Not the Blood vow. Not even his father’s expectations. 

He chose Ilya. 

It was never about bloodlines or criminal organizations. His vow was not to a title. It was to the man bleeding out on the floor beside him. To the man who walked into a trap unarmed because love demanded it. 

Shane lets the gun lower at last. 

There is no relief. No triumph. Only resolve, hard and settled in his chest. 

Hayden crawls, undoing the remain of Shane’s bindings. Tears slide silently down Shane’s face. He can’t stop them.  

“Ilya…” 

He moves to him as fast as possible. He shoves Alexei’s body aside. Blood pours freely from Ilya’s wound. Shane cups Ilya’s face. He has never been more scared in his life. 

“It’s going to be okay...” he whispers. 

“Moi dom…” Ilya breathes, eyes fluttering shut. 

Shane’s heart stops. 

Chapter End Notes

I know you want to kill me. Did you suspect about Ilya's mother? Sorry! You can curse at me in the comments. Also this chapter will be edited later, my beta reader was late and I knew everyone was waiting for an update! See you on Saturday!

Chapter 16: Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Ilya 

Ilya is in a dark empty space. There are no walls and the floor is wet. No sky and no stars. Everything is black. No matter what direction he takes, his walking leads him nowhere. There are distant sounds, almost as if coming from behind a curtain of water, distant mechanical beeps. He tries to search for the source of these sounds but can’t find it. Everything feels and looks the same. 

Maybe this is hell. 

He stops and looks at himself. He is wearing black trousers and a black shirt. The shirt feels tight around his stomach. Almost like it shrank in the dryer. His hands look empty. He isn’t wearing any of his gold rings or bracelets. His right hand looks odd. Too clean and perfect. Something else was supposed to be there. A cut made with a vow. 

Shane. 

Shane is alive. 

Memory returns slowly. Alexei’s voice telling him the harsh truth of his origins. The world tilting on its axis. Him no longer a Rozanov. Shane killing for him, sill choosing him, still honoring their vow. Shane holding him surrounded by blood. Ilya’s blood. 

Alexei is dead. 

Alexei had always wanted to be worshipped, but Ilya had only ever wanted to be chosen. In the end, he was. Against all odds, he was chosen by Shane. Obsession had been the land he learned to survive in. Control the only weapon he was ever given. He had mistaken intensity for intimacy, possession for devotion. Shane changed that in a heartbeat. Maybe because Ilya was never a real Rozanov after all. But mostly because loving Shane gave him no other choice. 

The pressure in his abdomen increases. He falls to his knees on the dark wet floor, struggling to breathe. 

Maybe this is the end. The darkness will swallow him, and nothing will be left. He takes his last conscious moments thinking about Shane. The dark almond-shaped eyes. The beautiful pink mouth. The freckles. 

As he struggles to take one last painful breath, light floods the darkness and he wakes. 

__________  

Returning to his physical body isn’t easy. The pain is intense and sharp. He can’t move and breathing is difficult and painful. He is connected to various machines and as he opens his eyes, he sees tubes feeding into him and soft pale light reflected on white walls. He wants to speak but his mouth won’t move. 

He is in a hospital. 

His abdomen burns with a deep dragging ache that pulses with every heartbeat. He welcomes it. Pain means he is alive. He is here even if he should not be. 

“You’re awake,” a woman’s voice says. “Don’t move.” 

She must be a nurse or a doctor, but he can’t keep his eyes open long enough to confirm it. Time passes strangely after that. He drifts in and out, listening to the low murmur of voices he can’t recognize, and the steady beeping of machines around him. 

His men are kept outside because of Hospital rules. His avtoritet is the first person he recognizes. He assures him that the Bratva is under control and that a serious cleanup operation is underway with the help of Hayden Pike. This comes as a surprise even after everything they’ve been through. The image of Hayden falling from the ceiling and shooting at Alexei’s men crosses his mind. 

He is informed that he has been in the hospital for three days, underwent major surgery after the shooting but is recovering well. After a brief pause, his avtoritet murmurs thar Alexei has been declared a traitor and that his death was framed as internal Bratva justice. There is no mention of Ilya’s illegitimacy. Clearly, that evidence has been erased. 

This has Shane’s fingerprints all over it. 

He thanks his avtoritet for the update and waits for Shane to come and see him. But hours go by and Shane doesn’t come. He talks with Bratva men, doctors and nurses but his mind keeps going back to Shane. 

His absence hurts like a thorn lodged next to his heart, sharp and deliberate. His first instinct is to pull, command, and demand answers. He wants reassurance. But he does not ask about him to his avtoritet or any of his men. If Shane does come, it cannot be because Ilya demanded it. It cannot be because of obligation or blood vows. 

He isn’t even sure if the vow is legitimate anymore, since he isn’t the Pakhan by blood. Hurst him to know that their blood vow is tainted now. If the vow was spoken to a crown and not a man, then Shane owed him nothing. If he returns, it must be because Shane chooses him again. He has no right to stop him from walking away after everything they had been through. 

His thoughts spiral around this worry until he falls into darkness again. 

__________  

When he returns to consciousness, Shane is still not there. Instead, he is informed that the Oyabun wishes to see him. His body fills with tension. Maybe this is how he finds out that their alliance is over. Shane, bound by Yakuza honor, won’t ever see him again. He isn’t sure he can survive that decision, but he will respect it. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the presence of the Oyabun. Alone, with no bodyguards and in the most informal wear Ilya has ever seen him in. He looks smaller and more approachable. His hands come to caress his beard while analyzing the room, the machinery, and Ilya’s physical state. 

“Pakhan,” the Oyabun says, formal but not hostile. “Happy to see you alive and awake.” 

Ilya nods, unable to form the right words. The silence stretches between them. 

“I came as soon as I heard, although we have been very occupied with cleaning up Vancouver…” The Oyabun looks around as if to make sure they can’t be heard. “I came to assure you that you are protected by Yakuza no matter what happens.” 

Ilya’s brain tries to make sense of the words. 

“Blood vows to blood,” the Oyabun looks him right in the eyes. “Not to crowns.” 

He realizes the Oyabun is implying that the alliance and the vow stand even if he is no longer recognized as Pakhan or steps down. He knows this decision must have been discussed and negotiated inside the Yakuza. Shane risked everything, when he shot Alexei, without knowing if Ilya would still be Pakhan. 

“I would have given my blood…” He struggles to form the words, the most he has spoken in hours. 

“You did,” the Oyabun says simply. “Now you must rest. Regain your strength. You are safe.” 

The words fill him with hope. He watches the Oyabun leave, wondering if Shane will come soon too. For the first time since he woke up, Ilya feels that the knowledge of being chosen may be enough to survive the waiting. He leans against the pillow and sleeps. 

__________  

He senses Shane before he sees him. The light changes when his shadow enters through the door and Ilya opens his eyes. 

Shane stands just inside the room, as if hesitant to take a step further. He looks untouched by the hospital, like he doesn’t belong inside the white walls. He is dressed in a three-piece suit, and his hair is styled in a way that begs for Ilya’s touch. His hand is still bandaged, and there are bags under his eyes. There is something feral under his calm demeanor, as if he has unfinished business to attend. 

Their eyes meet and Ilya feels like the world stopped. The hospital sounds feel secondary and his body’s pain is lessened. He has been waiting for him since he woke up. He tries to move. His fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets, caught by wires and weakness. He wants to be the first to speak. 

“Shane…” 

“I am not here because you are still the Pakhan,” Shane says, the words landing clean and precise. 

Ilya swallows. His throat burns. “I know,” he answers. 

Shane takes a single step forward. Just one. Ilya wants to reach him, but his body is just too weak. 

“What happened was not your fault,” Shane continues. “We both made our decisions.” 

Guilt coils tight and familiar in Ilya’s chest. He lets it. He deserves it. 

“I never wanted...” 

“I know,” Shane cuts in. Not cruel but final. “And I killed him... for you.” 

“You honored the vow,” Ilya says quietly. “Even after...” 

“Don’t,” Shane interrupts. “Don’t make it about anything else but this.” 

Shane leans in then. Just enough. The space between them shrinks to something dangerous. 

“Are you not mine?” Shane asks. 

The words hit him hard. He said it back to Shane days ago. 

“Always,” Ilya murmurs, trying to fight tears he has not shed since childhood. 

“Then your right hand killed the Pakhan and nothing changed,” Shane explains. 

“Shane…” Ilya says, unable to find words. 

“I chose you,” Shane says. “Not the name. Not the chair. You. Because you choose me back when you faced him alone and unarmed.” 

Something in Ilya breaks. Not loudly. Not completely. Just enough that it shows. 

“Even now?” he asks, gesturing weakly toward his body. 

Shane looks at him like the answer was never in doubt. 

“Yes.” 

Shane’s hand comes to his face, careful and grounding. His thumb rests under Ilya’s eye and for a moment the world narrows to that single point of contact. 

“But hear this,” Shane says. “I stay because I want to. The moment that changes, I am gone.” 

Ilya nods once. No commands, no bargains or vows spoken out of fear. He accepts being chosen every day from now on. 

“Then stay,” he says. 

Not an order but an offering, for now and for always. 

Shane exhales and sits on the edge of the bed. He does not reach for the chair. He stays where he is, solid and present. Ilya closes his eyes. 

Outside, the hospital keeps breathing. Inside, the vow holds. 

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to all the comments we are more than 2200 following this fic. Sending love to all of you.
We are getting closer and closer to the end. Two more chapters. But I am working on some new ideas for other fics, maybe even another Mafia AU so subscribe to my user name to be updated. Or follow me on X VanessaMCG

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Chapter 17: Shane's pov

Chapter Notes

Shane 

The sun has barely risen when they get to the private dojo. 

Shane parks his car in his usual spot and notices Hayden already walking toward the main entrance. Hayden doesn’t know he’s being watched, so he doesn’t bother hiding the slight limp he still carries from his gunshot wound. A close-range shot to the thigh, barely missing a major artery. A sacrifice made to save Shane and Ilya’s lives. 

A debt Shane will never be able to repay. 

A debt Hayden refuses to acknowledge no matter how many times Shane tries to bring it up. A debt Hayden considers paid forward from the moment Shane dragged him off the streets all those years ago. 

“Hey… we’re brothers,” Hayden had murmured to him in the hospital, lying in his own hospital bed while Ilya was still in surgery. “What’s a bullet between brothers?” 

Shane exhales slowly as he steps out of the car, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He’s been looking forward to this session all week. Between Ilya’s recovery, his father’s expectations and managing Bratva and Yakuza business, he’s stretched thin. He needs this. Needs to sweat the frustration out of his body with Hayden. 

His brother. 

A few minutes later, equipment in place and warm-up done, Shane focuses on not overcorrecting Hayden’s form. Hayden is working through pain whether he admits it or not, leg still healing, but their old rhythm returns easily. Muscle memory never forgets. 

“So…” Hayden says, circling him, eyes sharp. “How’s your boy?” 

The question is deliberate. A provocation. An invitation to vent. 

“You’re the only one who dares call him that,” Shane mutters, breath steady. “But if you really want to know, he’s driving me up the walls. Third physiotherapist already. I flew this one in from Russia. Had to bribe him and everything.” 

Hayden laughs, then cuts off sharply when Shane lands a solid strike on his good thigh. Hayden stumbles and goes down hard on the tatami. 

“Hey!” Hayden protests from the floor. “Not my fault you’re not enjoying your mob wife duties.” 

“Shut up,” Shane snaps, pinning him while carefully avoiding his injured side. “I wish I was treated like a mob wife. Bratva men keep acting like I’m second in command when I don’t have enough authority to make half the decisions. It’s disrespectful to the avtoritet.” 

“You really are the perfect mob wife,” Hayden says as he taps out, rolling away to sit beside Shane. Both of them are breathing hard now. “Already restructuring the Bratva hierarchy.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You’re the one actually working for him.” 

“I was shocked when Rozanov asked me,” Hayden admits. “But he needs someone handling intelligence, liaison work, strategy. And someone to clean up every breadcrumb that might lead back to the family problem from the inside. It made perfect sense.” 

Family problem. 

Their shared code. If overheard, it would sound like nothing more than a reference to Alexei’s betrayal. Only the three of them knew what it truly meant. The Oyabun, the only other man aware of the truth, never spoke of it. Not even to Shane. 

Shane sometimes wondered if his father was disturbed by the alliance. By the fact that the man leading the Bratva wasn’t Pakhan by blood. Worse still, that Shane didn’t care and refused to let it collapse. Bratva wasn’t rule by blood rules but Yakuza was. Feelings were often treated as weakness too. 

A weakness Shane would carry willingly from now on. 

“I never wanted this kind of position,” Hayden says, breaking his thoughts. “But I’ve always trusted you. And you trust him.” 

“I do,” Shane says quietly. “He’s frustrated. Hates being dependent on anyone. Recovery has been slow. He has all these insane plans already. But…” He exhales. “At least he’s following my rules.” 

“Just how you like it,” Hayden says with a grin, dodging a right hook by jumping back to his feet. 

“Jesus, would you let it go?” Shane snaps, resetting his stance. 

“No,” Hayden says, opening his arms mockingly. “You teased me about my girlfriends for years.” 

“That’s because they were all boring vanilla types,” Shane says, face twisting in exaggerated disgust. “Jackie at least has some balls.” 

“You would know,” Hayden says as they lock up again. “Your big Russian brat has them too.” 

“So wrong! Don’t use words like that,” Shane mutters, deliberately losing position as he drops his shoulders. “He is not a brat. He enjoys when I boss him around, but he can be vanilla too. And surprise or not, I seem to like it. So just let it go.” 

“As vanilla as a Pakhan can be. Vodka-flavored vanilla,” Hayden teases him further. 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” 

“You know…” Hayden says, still smiling. “You’re not the only one making major progress in your love life. After a very serious conversation last night, I’m moving Jackie to New York for a while. We both want distance from Vancouver. My work will mostly be there anyway. It makes sense.” 

“So, you’re serious about her,” Shane says, irritation fading. 

“We are giving it a try.” Hayden’s soft smile warms Shane’s chest. 

“I feel the same,” Shane replies, tone turning serious. “And Ilya will need me there once he’s cleared to travel, so we’ll be together.” 

“How’s the Oyabun taking that news?” Hayden asks, training forgotten. 

“Not happy,” Shane says. “But he got approval for a major Vancouver expansion funded by Bratva money, so he’s staying quiet. The Irish situation is stabilized. His only real issue now is the Italians. I can take a few months off and leave him to deal with it.” 

“I’m guessing you didn’t ask for approval.” 

“No,” Shane says smugly. “I’m not just the Wakagashira anymore. And he needs my approval for anything Bratva related.” 

“Talking like a true Pakhan’s wife,” Hayden says, grinning. 

“That’s it,” Shane growls. “I’m about to give you the beating of a lifetime. Get ready.” 

Laughter fills the dojo, sharp and familiar, echoing off the walls. 

__________  

Shane is sitting on his expensive leather sofa, reading a financial report from the first trimester of Bratva counterfeit vodka distribution, wondering how the hell he ended up here. He keeps saying yes to Ilya’s avtoritet requests and work is piling up. The sound of the elevator doors opening catches his attention. Less than a minute later, he looks up as Ilya enters the room. 

Ilya cut his hair after leaving the hospital, struggling to keep it presentable while only able to use one arm. The side that had been shot had undergone major surgery and his mobility was still limited before physiotherapy even began. The shorter hair makes him look younger and softer. Ilya clearly hated that and compensated by letting his facial hair grow in to balance the effect. 

Shane secretly loves the change and keeps absolutely silent, fully aware this information could be used against him in the future. 

Ilya moves slowly toward the sofa, still recovering, one arm in a sling, posture rigid from the pain in his side where a jagged pink scar is still fresh from surgery. Shane knows every detail of it personally after serving as Ilya’s private nurse since they left the hospital. He’s wearing the full black Pakhan look, minus the overcoat, for the first time in weeks and it snaps Shane to attention immediately, financial reports forgotten in his lap. 

“You’re wearing the sexy glasses,” Ilya says as he approaches. 

“You say that about all my glasses,” Shane replies, removing them to get a better look at him as Ilya sinks down beside him with a quiet exhale of tension. “You were supposed to be back an hour ago. What happened?” 

“Keeping tabs on me, moi dom?” Ilya asks, frowning at the Bratva financial reports. 

“I’m not...” Shane stops mid-sentence, noticing the fresh bandage on Ilya’s hand. “What have you done?” 

He reaches for it, already noticing the grin on Ilya’s face. Shane carefully removes the bandage, revealing their vow scar tattooed in dark ink, the lines still protected by plastic film. His index finger traces it slowly, his own scarred hand resting against its twin. His eyes sting at the sight. 

“You do know that’s one of the places where tattoos fade the fastest,” Shane murmurs, lifting Ilya’s palm to his face and kissing it lightly. 

“Say the word and I’ll tattoo your name anywhere on my body,” Ilya says, raizing his chin to hold Shane’s gaze. “I volunteer my ass.” 

“No class whatsoever,” Shane mutters, dropping the hand before moving smoothly to straddle him. 

“I have you to keep me classy,” Ilya says, his good hand settling firmly on Shane’s ass. “Teach me some manners.” 

“A hopeless case,” Shane says, leaning in to kiss him. 

“You just have to keep being a strict teacher,” Ilya murmurs between kisses. 

“Why the tattoo now?” Shane asks, pulling back slightly. 

“I wanted it to be more noticeable,” Ilya admits softly. “A renewal of sorts.” 

“You wanted to drive me insane,” Shane replies, already shrugging Ilya’s jacket and tie off his shoulders. “We can’t even...” 

“I can’t wait for the doctor to give me the green light,” Ilya mutters, struggling to pull at Shane’s sweater with one hand. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be getting tired of blowjobs.” 

“Oh,” Shane says with exaggerated disbelief, shifting as if to climb off his lap. “The romance is dead. I’ll just go back to this financial report then...” 

Ilya’s good hand snaps up, gripping Shane’s chin and pulling him effortlessly back into place. 

“Not dead,” he says, lips brushing Shane’s. “Just crippled.” 

“My poor Ilya,” Shane murmurs, opening the zip of Ilya’s trousers and slipping his hand inside. “Crippled and loathing blowjobs.” 

“Loathe is a very strong word,” Ilya breathes, biting his lip as Shane’s hand closes around him. 

“Soon,” Shane murmurs, lowering both their trousers and underwear just enough to press them together and find leverage. 

He pauses, lifting his palm in front of Ilya’s face, waiting. There’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes, daring him to refuse. Ilya doesn’t hesitate. 

“Good boy,” Shane says, his voice already rough, returning his hand to them both. 

He works them together, increasing the pace, resting his forehead against Ilya’s, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry. 

“Are you going to come for me?” Shane challenges, breath hot against his mouth. 

“Fucking make me,” Ilya snaps back. 

The thrill shoots straight through Shane. His hand moves faster, desperate not to lose this quiet, brutal competition between them. He feels the telltale signs of release building and fears he’ll go first, but Ilya moans loudly, hips lifting off the sofa, and they come almost together. 

The orgasm hits Shane hard and he slumps against Ilya, careful even now not to put pressure on his injured side. He wipes his hand on Ilya’s expensive black shirt, earning a surprised bark of laughter. 

“You’re so mean,” Ilya says softly, eyes warm, his good hand framing Shane’s head. 

“I love you,” Shane says before he can stop himself. 

“I love you so much,” Ilya answers, eyes shining. 

Shane closes his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him. Something he never believed he could have. A partner who sees him entirely and loves even the darkest parts. Someone who accepts his authority and challenges it in equal measure. An equal to share the weight of the world with. 

Ilya’s hand slips from his face and finds Shane’s right hand. Their palms press together, vow scars aligning perfectly. An unspoken promise passes between them as their fingers intertwine. Shane leans in and kisses him slowly, deeply. 

They survived each other, and that was the most dangerous vow of all. 

Chapter End Notes

Almost at the end. 2,350 people following our little telenovela!
The final update might come a bit later than planned because I’m wrestling with the prologue. Funny how the hardest part to write is the goodbye. On Christmas, when I started this, I had no idea if I would finish it. Or if anyone would even read it. Thank you for every comment, every reaction, every bit of love you’ve given to this story. If there’s a special scene you’d like to see in the final chapter, tell me. I can’t promise everything, but I’ll see what I can fit into the prologue.

Chapter 18: Shane and Ilya's pov

Chapter Notes

Epilogue 

Shane 

NEW York – one year later 

No matter how many times Shane attends these events, he never gets used to them. 

In Vancouver, elegant dinners and rendezvous with real businessmen and high-profile celebrities would have been unthinkable. But here in New York, soft power is just as important as weapons. Especially to Ilya, who had been smart enough to blend his illegal business with highly profitable legal investments in high-tech enterprises and media. Both sides were so closely intertwined that Ilya managed to wash most of his illegal money clean. 

Some of these people don’t even know he is a mobster. They suspect there’s a shady source behind many of his investments, but as long as they can’t prove it, his money remains welcome. 

Ilya has the charisma to use these events to network and place his capital where the market is headed, sometimes even persuading celebrities to endorse parts of it. He stays in the background while others make him richer. When the police get too close, his political connections and strategic bribery usually reduce it to a fine and a slap on the wrist. 

Shane understands these dinners are important for Ilya’s empire, but he doesn’t enjoy them. Forcing a smile for hours drains him. The endless small talk exhausts him more than a fight ever could. Ilya knows this and always tries to make it more tolerable by whispering jokes or provoking a reaction out of him. Sometimes they even sneak away for brief, reckless breaks in empty corridors. 

But tonight is different. Hayden and Jackie are here. 

“I still find myself wondering how the hell I ended up here,” Hayden says, sipping champagne, his eyes fixed on Jackie as she talks animatedly with a group of Bratva wives. 

“I saved the Pakhan’s life and looked far too sexy while doing it,” Shane replies with a smirk. “Or, as Ilya tells it at these parties, we met at a friend’s wedding.” 

“Does he?” Hayden laughs. 

“Yes. Sometimes he adds ridiculously detailed lies just to annoy me.” Shane takes a slow sip of champagne. “He loves the reaction.” 

“Your boy’s grown on me,” Hayden says quietly, aware of the people around them. “He’s been great to Jackie. Made sure the other wives accepted her as your sister-in-law. She doesn’t want to move back to Vancouver anymore.” 

“Really?” Shane asks, surprised. “That’s why you didn’t come with us last month? I thought it was because of the baby.” 

“It was an excuse for her father,” Hayden says discreetly. “The pregnancy is going great, but we have no plans to return.” 

“Not sure the Irish will like that,” Shane mutters. “Or the Oyabun.” 

“I married her. I made no promises about staying in Vancouver. They didn’t even want me there. Treated me like a spy.” Hayden shrugs. “The Irish want good relations with the Pakhan, and he wants me here.” 

“Oh, I see,” Shane says dryly. “Ilya takes the blame.” 

“Speak of the devil.” Hayden raises his glass toward the tall, imposing figure across the room. 

Ilya stands at the center of a small circle, speaking animatedly while holding a heavy glass that is almost certainly vodka. He’s dressed in a dark cashmere turtleneck and sharply tailored trousers. His blond hair is pulled into a low man bun, facial hair trimmed exactly the way Shane prefers: a faint mustache and light stubble defining his jaw. 

He’s talking to an A-list actor from that gay hockey show Ilya forced Shane to watch last month. Beside them, a striking blonde woman observes the exchange with a warm smile, her hand resting lightly on Ilya’s arm. 

Shane will deny it later. But something sharp and unpleasant twists in his stomach and he leaves Hayden without another word. 

His body moves smoothly, automatically, until he steps directly between the woman and Ilya. Her hand is mid-motion when Shane slides his arm around Ilya’s waist and smiles up at him. 

“Hey,” he says warmly. 

Ilya stops mid-sentence, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. 

“Was just talking about you,” he says, placing his hand on Shane’s back before turning to the actor. “This is Shane. My husband.” 

The word sends a small thrill through Shane. 

They’ve never legally married, but since their first visit to New York, whenever they’re in Bratva territory, Ilya introduces him that way. Shane knows it’s partly protection and partly Ilya’s possessive streak. He tolerates it. He doesn’t like rings, much to Ilya’s frustration, but he did agree to the matching vow tattoo. A tattoo that now includes not only his palm but also the wrist of his right hand. 

The same tattoo the blonde woman is now staring at. 

After shaking the actor’s hand, Shane places his inked palm against Ilya’s chest and leans into him, gaze fixed coolly on the woman. Ilya almost certainly understands what he’s doing, but Shane doesn’t care. A polite smile stays on his lips until the woman finally steps away. 

“Moi dom…” Ilya whispers into Shane’s ear. “So possessive.” 

His tone is content, and the hand around Shane’s waist squeezes him before his attention returns to the actor. Shane allows the conversation to continue, not wanting to cause a scene. But his hands itch to pin Ilya against the nearest surface. When he finally gets the opening, he’s been waiting for, he interrupts. 

“If you would excuse us, I have something I need to show my husband,” Shane says, guiding them to the other side of the room to set their glasses on a table. He feels Ilya chuckle beside him as he leads them through a door, and they are finally alone. 

“So you find it funny?” he asks, pushing Ilya against the closed door.  

“Moi dom. I did nothing.” Ilya looks far too pleased for someone pinned against a door. 

“You know I don't like anyone touching you.” Shane murmured darkly. 

“I didn't even notice her.” Ilya smiles, placing his hands on Shane's waist. 

Shane uses his right hand to grab Ilya's bow tie and forces their faces closer.  

“You're mine,” he says before crashing their lips together. 

Ilya accepts his intrusion easily, allowing Shane's tongue to slide inside and Shane's left had to move into his hair. He coaxes Shane into a slower pace, and once most of the tension has drained from Shane's body, Ilya turns them around so that Shane's the one resting against the door. 

“And you are mine...” Ilya murmurs between soft kisses. “No need to be jealous.” 

“I was not jealous,” Shane replies a little too forcefully.  

“Of course not,” Ilya says in a mocking tone. “You were ready to piss on me to mark your territory for everybody else.” 

Shane lets his head rest against the door, eyes narrowing. “You would probably let me.” 

“Moi dom...” Ilya grabs Shane by his chin to guide his head to a better angle. “Don't give me ideas. I barely looked at her...” 

“If you had, she would be dead by now,” Shane says darkly. “Shot right between the eyes. Fuck who gets to see it.” 

“Now you are just saying shit to make me hard,” Ilya says rubbing his clothed cock against Shane's thigh. 

“I should just put you on a leash,” Shane says, gripping Ilya's ass and grinding against him. 

“You don't even give me a ring,” Ilya says, frowning slightly, but moving to open Shane's trousers. 

“Just get on your knees.” Shane demands once Ilya has him in his grip and his trousers are pulling at his feet.  

“And where is the magic word?” Ilya teases, kissing him softly. 

“Come on,” Shane says, frustrated.  

“No.” Ilya says, teasing him with a slow up and down movement of his hand.  

“Just...” Shane stops mid-sentence when he feels the familiar feeling of lube around his cock. Ilya always carries small tubes with him. Shane never worried about that part because Ilya has it covered.  

“Not so eloquent anymore,” Ilya says teasingly, kissing Shane's neck. “What do you really want moi dom?” 

“Your...” Shane tries to speak but stops when Ilya uses his left hand to nudge his finger behind his balls, promising other kinds of pleasure.  

“Didn't quite catch that.” Ilya's tongue flicks against Shane's earlobe while his fingers slowly teased Shane's entrance. 

Shane fights to remain standing against the door, their power game taking a back seat in his mind, when Ilya's fingers get inside. 

“No words?” Ilya nudges his nose along Shane's jaw line. 

“Just fuck me,” Shane whispers, his head hitting the door with the intensity of having Ilya's fingers nudging his prostate.  

“See? I had a feeling that's what you wanted.” Ilya says with a smile, removing his fingers and placing his hands behind Shane's tight to get him up from the floor.  

“Don't test me,” Shane says, though his arms wrap around Ilya's neck and he kisses him. 

“And what's the fun in that?” Ilya asks, smiling as he places Shane carefully on top of a table, freeing them both of most of their clothes. 

Ilya positions him at the edge of the table and pours another generous amount of lube on his entrance, letting some of it fall on the floor. The rest he uses to coat his cock. Shane's gaze drags over. It looks painfully hard, red and swollen. Shane wants it on his ass, mouth, against his own... Everywhere... as long as it's soon. But Ilya only nudges at his entrance and moves slowly between his ass cheeks. Shane's eyes water with frustration, but he refuses to beg. 

“You're breathtaking.” Ilya breathes. “So strong... so perfectly controlled.” 

Ilya drags it out again, deliberate, and merciless. Refusing to give them both what they want.  

“I would rather give up everything than do this with someone else.” Ilya murmurs, their eyes locking. Shane shudders, not from the touch but from the certainty in Ilya's voice. 

“Please, Ilya...” The words slip out before he can stop them. 

“No need, moi dom.” Ilya kisses him softly. “It's all yours.” 

Shane doesn't have to say anything else, because Ilya finally gets inside and the sensation of their union leaves no space for words. They both moan, bodies moving in practiced rhythm. They won’t last long; they’re both too wound tight. Shane grips Ilya’s hair, giving back as much as he takes. The table rocks beneath him, and he wonders if they even locked the door.  

When Ilya’s hand wraps around him, the signs of his release build fast. It spills over Ilya’s hand and across his own chest, pulling a loud moan from his throat.  

Shane leans back against the table, letting Ilya use him as he pleases while he catches his breath. When Ilya reaches his peak, he pulls back and finishes over Shane’s chest and thighs. 

“Now who’s marking territory?” Shane says, smiling. 

“Mine.” Ilya whispers, leaning down to lick the come of Shane's belly button.   

Shane laughs softly, still flushed. But Ilya doesn’t. 

He just looks at him. 

__________  

Ilya 

“Mine.”  

The word leaving his mouth tastes different now. No longer possession or conquest, it feels like a choice. This was more than love. It was surrender, trust, and defiance all at once. 

Ilya presses his forehead briefly against Shane’s abdomen before straightening, his eyes tracing every mark he’s left behind. He has painted a beautiful canvas across Shane’s body. 

There was a time when he believed obsession and love were the same thing. When he thought wanting someone this badly meant owning them. Before Vancouver. Back when he was still a Rozanov. But Shane was never something to conquer. He was someone to risk everything for. The only man who could stand beside him. His true partner. His only weakness. And yet, also his shield. Together they were unstoppable, both shield and sword. 

Ilya brushes his thumb over the tattoo on Shane’s wrist. He will never tire of it. It was the vow they chose instead of rings, a mark of their shared promise. He bends and presses a softer kiss to the ink. 

“Lyublyu tebya… moy dom,” he murmurs. 

Shane lifts his head, surprised by the words and by the quiet vulnerability in Ilya’s voice. 

“I am yours too, my love.” 

The words settle deep in his chest, and the tears threaten to spill. He tries to hide them, but Shane shifts upright, forcing Ilya to look at him. The tenderness in Shane’s gaze is the final fracture. A tear slips down his cheek. 

Shane cups his face carefully and kisses him softly before pulling him into a tight embrace. 

The Rozanov he had been would never have allowed this softness or this trust. No longer that Rozanov, he had become something far more dangerous: a Pakhan who had chosen.  

And Shane? Shane is the Wakagashira who chose him back. 

Even the city light outside seemed to bow to them... 

…and for the first time, the world felt small enough to hold them both.  

A vow beyond time, carved deeper than blood, inked into flesh and soul.  

THE END

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for all the comments and support. If you liked this story please bookmark it and subscribe to my user name for future fics. I have plans for another Hollanov AU but I need time to develop the plot. This story will be edited in the future with the help of my beta reader. For updates on that and more please follow me on X. You will be all forever in my heart.

Kisses from Portugal

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