Sasha: A Dark Mafia Romance (Belles & Mobsters)

“Killian Brennan.”

Tatiana dropped the name like it was nothing. Like she was discussing dinner plans.

My growl traveled through my home in New Orleans, chasing all the fucking ghosts, witches, any fucking thing out of the goddamn state. The fury burned like a motherfucker, ready to bring the entire French Quarter to ashes.

Killing Killian might cause a tiny war. Okay, maybe not tiny. Whatever. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

Agitation rolled off my shoulders. It had been over a month since I last saw Branka in Montréal. I could still smell her scent, feel her soft skin under my palms, and hear her moans. All those fucking years and I could still taste her. I let out a sardonic breath, hating that fucking goddamn promise that kept me away from Branka.

Fuck!

I should kill Brennan for daring to look my woman’s way, and then kill my brother for interfering in my fucking affairs.

But Branka wasn’t ready for me seven years ago. Not even four years ago.

I’d been watching her for years, stalking her and biding my time. I waited for her to be ready. She was fucking ready. For me. For us. I knew more about her than I did about my own family and friends.

“So you gonna kill him?” Tatiana asked casually, sipping on her choice of poison and wearing sweatpants. Jesus Christ. She never wore sweatpants and from the looks of it, they were men’s Hanes sweatpants. My little sister was falling deeper and deeper into depression.

The girl who never even wore leggings found herself in sweatpants.

I kept tabs on her and there were no signs of her wanting to end it. She searched and searched for the culprits of Adrian’s death. My brothers and I didn’t exactly give up, but we kept running into roadblocks. Tatiana refused to let those roadblocks stop her.

Apparently she’d use a jackhammer to get through those. Maybe that was the reason for the sweatpants.

“Sestra, you can’t keep this up,” I told her, calling her sister in Russian. “You’re killing your liver.”

She waved her hand. “Livers can be repaired.”

I shook my head. “So can your heart,” I reasoned.

Her eyes came to me, a window to her pain staring back at me.

“Then why are you chasing the Russo girl?”

God, she could be annoying when drunk. But I hated seeing her unhappy.

“Tatiana, you have to let him go,” I told her, ignoring her comment. “You have to find a way to move on. And searching for clues, drinking vodka,” my eyes lowered to her pants, “-and wearing sweatpants is not the way to move on.”

She tsked, clearly not convinced with my reasoning.

“Like you’re looking for ways to move on from your obsession.”

Touché, little sister. I’d be proud of her comeback if only it wasn’t aimed at me. She set her empty glass down on the table next to her and stretched her long legs.

“What do you know about Branka and Killian’s arrangement?” I asked instead.

“Only that they’re getting married and Branka refused to walk down the aisle until her friend was back safe and sound.” Tatiana snapped her fingers. “Of course, that’s assuming her friend gets out of Afghanistan.”

She’d get out of there. I’d make sure to help. For Branka. She loved her best friend, and Autumn, with her family, helped grow the damaged little girl into the woman she was meant to be. None of the therapists were able to do that.

Although, her friend was slightly reckless with her need to save the world. But Alessio’s woman was neither here nor there. I had a bigger problem on my hands.

How to kill Brennan and not start a damn war. Maybe I could blame the Corsican mafia. It was an entertaining notion. Except that Autumn might get caught in the crossfire. Okay, forget the French. Maybe the Greeks?

“You know, Killian Brennan is practically family,” Tatiana remarked, as if she could read my thoughts. But she was right. Killing Killian might be a problem since my younger brother’s wife, Aurora, was the sister to Liam Brennan’s wife.

And he was Killian’s father. Stepfather. What-the-fuck-ever.

And speaking of family, our early Christmas gathering was coming up in Portugal. Killian’s sister and father would be there. Would it be awkward if I killed Killian before the party? Or maybe I should leave it for the week after?

Jesus fucking Christ, why was this world so goddamn small?

I could make it look like an accident. Nobody would ever be able to pin it on me.

Leave it as a last resort, my mind whispered.

Wynter Flemming, my little protégé, was fond of her cousin. Of all the damn people in this world, why in the fuck was Killian related to my sister-in-law and the kid I rescued? However, if the fucker didn’t back off, I’d skin him alive. And he better not have touched Branka; otherwise a damn war would be the least of everyone’s worry.

That was how deep I had fallen. I was here contemplating murder and starting a war. For Branka Russo, the woman that chose someone else.

No matter though. The little cat was jealous. It showed she was as deep into this as I was.

Either way, Branka wouldn’t marry the Irish fucker.

As long as there was a single breath left in my body.