Page 17 of A Bride for the Mafia King

I sit at the island, sipping on my glass of red wine as he makes pasta and then a butter sauce, stirring in various herbs and vegetables. His company is oddly soothing, easy. I get the impression he’s the kind of man who has seen too much, lost too much, and managed to find a way through it all.

The pasta ends up being perfect, simple yet delicious. It makes the kitchen smell of basil and lemon zest, adding to my sudden comfort.

“So how long have you been in service to Tolya?” I bravely ask.

Yaro pauses, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. Placing it down on the plate, he takes a sip of his second glass of wine instead.

“The entirety of his time as Pakhan. All seventeen years.”

I learned that my new husband is twelve years my senior when we signed our marriage certificate. If he’s thirty-six now and he’s been Pakhan for seventeen years—my eyes widen as I do the math.

“Seventeen years… so he became Pakhan when he was only nineteen? How? I mean why did he become Pakhan at such a young age?”

“His father died, mother too,” Yaro says dryly. “He took up the mantle without hesitation."

He picks up his fork and shovels the pasta into his mouth. As if to stop himself from saying more.

“How did they die?” I ask softly.

Taking another bite, Yaro doesn’t answer right away. The wheels in his head visibly turn, considering the possible implications of revealing more.

“His parents, they were… different,” he finally says. Eyes distant, jaw suddenly tense. “My father, he was close to the Pakhan. His right hand you could say. They wanted out. Out of the filthiest parts of the underworld. Out of the sex trade. Together they started dismantling the rings that made some of the families millions.”

My stomach turns. “Sex-trafficking?”

He nods. “The girls were all young, underage mostly. Brought over from Ukraine, Belarus, wherever they could be quietly acquired from. Bought and sold like livestock. Tolya’s parents were determined to shut it down here in the city. But it got them killed before they could complete the job. All of them.”

“They were killed?” I ask in shock, not surprised by the fact but wondering how and why. Death is common enough amongst our kind. “By whom?”

“Another house. Bratva politics. Too much money was lost, too many secrets exposed,” he says, taking another sip of wine.

I go quiet, letting the information set in. Swallowing hard.

“Tolya was barely out of school when he took over,” Yaro adds. “Just shy of his eighteenth birthday. He had no time to grieve and very few people he could trust. It added fire to his blood and that fire burned into a name that many will never forget.”

“He’s still burning it down…” I murmur.

“There’s been a lot of progress over the years. The Albanians, the Irish, the Triad. He’s pushed them all out of the trade. Only one family remains in the game.” His eyes lock onto mine as he says the last part.

And instantly I know who.

“Don De Mello,” I whisper. “I should have known.”

The mood lightens after that. Yaro asks about my childhood and what it’s like growing up in the Italian folds. I tell him of my adventures with Nico, all the ways I invented over the years to torture my older brother while staying within the lines of respectable behavior.

We’re laughing at some story about one of Tolya’s bodyguards misplacing a shipment of rare wine and how he nearly tears apart the city to find the cases when the elevator dings. Announcing Tolya’s arrival.

He steps into the kitchen, dark coat draped over one arm, jaw set in a hard line. His eyes find mine first. Then they go to Yaro. Then to the wine glasses and then back to me.

The air shifts instantly, suddenly charged with an uncomfortable electricity.

“We were just talking,” I say innocently.

Tolya’s voice is cold when he finally speaks. “I can see that.”

“That’s my cue,” Yaro says coolly, standing then taking his plate and glass to the sink. Clearly feeling the displacement in the air. “I’ll take my leave and let you two enjoy your evening. Thank you for the company, Eva.”

He steps from the kitchen, retreating quickly toward the elevator.