Wicked Heir

WICKED HEIR A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE VICIOUS VENGEANCE DUET BOOK ONE MILA KANE Copyright © 2022 by Mila Kane All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Welcome to Mila’s world Author’s Note Prologue 1. Kirill 2. Molly 3. Kirill 4. Molly 5. Kirill 6. Molly 7. Molly 8. Kirill 9. Molly 10. Kirill 11. Molly 12. Kirill 13. Molly 14. Kirill 15. Molly 16. Molly 17. Molly 18. Kirill 19. Molly 20. Kirill 21. Molly 22. Kirill 23. Molly 24. Molly 25. Kirill 26. Molly 27. Kirill 28. Molly 29. Kirill 30. Molly 31. Kirill 32. Molly 33. Molly 34. Kirill 35. Molly 36. Kirill 37. Molly 38. Kirill 39. Molly 40. Molly Mila Kane Also by Mila Kane WELCOME TO MILA’S WORLD Join my newsletter for deleted scenes, polls, and character inspiration at Mila Kane. AUTHOR’S NOTE Welcome to Mila Kane’s New York. It’s not the city you know, and here the Kings and Queens of the Underworld reign supreme. Along with life or death love, darkness and mayhem rules this corner of the book world. If that’s your thing, read on. If you’re not sure, check out my website for a full list of TWs. PROLOGUE They say monsters are made, not born. I was both. Kirill Viktorovich Chernov In another life, I had a different name. In another life, I had a different future. At least, that was what I liked to think—it was cold comfort. Maybe I was destined to be my father’s son and follow in his footsteps. Maybe believing anything else was a lie. One thing that had always remained true whether I was Kirill Lewis, the poor kid at a rich school, or Kirill Chernov, the cold, brutal heir in my father’s bratva; Mallory Madison was mine. Run as she could, hide as she had; it didn’t change that simple fact. Mine, and no one in this world could have saved her from that dark fate. 1 KIRILL I walked the pier at Brighton Beach and watched people slipping on the wet, rain-slicked boardwalk. I lived in a penthouse money alone couldn’t buy, but I was always called back to the pier. The salty, squalid air was a fitting reminder that even if life was luxurious for a moment, the cost of that privilege was here, in the warehouses behind the seafront. In the quiet, terrible things we did in the dark. The brine never truly left my nose. It was ingrained. Cold, gray water rushed under my feet, and noisy gulls circled. Couples were walking, and children were playing, somewhat dangerously, in the syringe-littered sand of the beach. Tweakers and pimps wandered the boardwalk, passing shops pushing international calling cards and signs in Cyrillic. Brighton Beach was home to Russians in New York, and it was a shitty junk store hallmark card for all who came here seeking the American dream. I didn’t know if my father had ever imagined the lauded ideal when he washed up with his fake papers, ready to disappear from immigration and anyone he owed money to. To Viktor, the American dream was green. He didn’t care how he came to acquire that green, and he especially didn’t care if it was red-stained. A little bloodshed and mayhem had never stopped Viktor Chernov from doing what he did best—rising to the top of a dirty, lawless heap. I shifted my weight off my bad knee. In this kind of shitty, cold weather, it ached. Usually, I didn’t mind the pain so much. It reminded me of her. “Kirill.” A voice spoke behind me—my guard, Ivan. Ivan spoke English well, a necessity for the job. To my father’s contempt, his son and potential heir to his dark dynasty didn’t speak Russian well. It wasn’t my fault. I had barely spent more than two minutes with the man until I was nineteen. Before then, I’d had choices, a life to live, and hope, amongst other things. After that, everything but him and the bratva had gone, slipping through my fingers like sand. “What is it?” I asked Ivan, turning to shield my face against the wind on the pier and light a cigarette. One thing I liked about Brighton Beach was the cheap and fragrant fruit-flavored smokes. Russians were strangely whimsical about some things and utterly brutal about others. “The package is in the warehouse. Pyotr wants to know if he should get started.” No matter the millions I’d made the bratva, the exclusive penthouse apartment I lived in, the flashy cars I drove, or the secrets I amassed on the wealthy, powerful men who ran this city, my life’s work always came down to this—causing fear and wreaking havoc. Murder was all good and well and had its place in my daily business, but fear was a different beast. Every man could murder, but only some could inspire fear. There was a limit to pain but no limit to fear. I excelled in wielding it like a weapon, with surgical precision. Molly, I found my life’s calling after all. My one true talent. One day, I planned to show her in person. * * * The warehouse the bratva used for wet work was near the pier. It was an abandoned, condemned building that sagged and rotted, smelling of sea salt and molding popcorn. The sounds of the pier and the endless carnival games gave the air a twisted edge as I sat before the man who had tried to cash in on a deal and undercut me. No one crossed the Chernov bratva in New York. No one. I took a knife from my pocket. The man’s eyes fixed on it. His name was Ilya if I remembered correctly. “I like knives,” I told him conversationally, my tone pleasant.