Shattered Crown: A Dark Mafia Age Gap Romance (Kozlov Empire Book 4)

I’m juggling a lowball of whiskey in one hand while pressing the phone to my ear with the other, when the limo pulls up to the curb beside Probka, the city’s hottest new restaurant that I have a majority stake in. It’s a favorite among the city’s eager-to-see-and-be-seen socialites, partly due to its celebrity chef owner, Daria Amelin. It’s not my usual choice, but it’s exactly what I need tonight.

‘All is set,” Nadya confirms on the other end of the line. “The restaurant is full, and the press has been notified. No one will miss your appearance.’

I take a sip of my whiskey. Its warmth contrasts with the cool looks Kira is throwing at me from the opposite seat. When she catches my eye, she crosses her arms in front of her generous chest and averts her gaze out the window.

“Did you let Daria know?” I ask Nadya.

“I did, and she’s thrilled.” Nadya pauses, and I know what that pause is about. My wife. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. She’s still so … much,” she says with distaste. “Given some time and training from me, I could mold her into a more suitable wife. Although, I’m afraid she’ll never be good enough for you.”

And there we have it—no woman will ever be good enough for me in Nadya’s eyes. She either has me on way too high of a pedestal or she doesn’t want to have to share the ‘lady of the house’ title with anyone else. Both, likely. I’ve spoiled her. Ever since Irina, I’ve kept my home a fortress—no women, no distractions. My affairs are short, to the point, and never where I lay my head.

But the idea of molding Kira, now that’s laughable.

I eye my wife carefully. There’s no question she’s a firecracker. Despite my earlier warning, she’s chosen thigh-high boots with bold stiletto heels. Yes, her black dress is simple and classic, but on her body it looks … it looks smoking hot. It’s not so much the dress I’m thinking about but what’s underneath it.

Now that I know what she looks like naked—her generous ass, creamy thighs, her pink tinged nipples—I can’t get the vision out of my mind. It’s been a full week, and the memory of her bare skin lingers like a constant torment.

“It’s fine, Nadya,” I say, an edge to my voice. “I’ll take it from here.”

What Nadya fails to grasp is that Kira’s youth and beauty are part of her public appeal. Our mismatch, our age difference—everything—works in my favor because the press is fascinated by the opposites-attract love story.

Outside the window, the paparazzi are already swarming like vultures waiting for their moment. Or rather, our moment. It’s our first public outing together, a carefully planned display of post-wedding bliss. Although, from the expression on Kira’s face, no one is going to believe the bliss part.

“Is that all for us?” she asks, gesturing out the window with a frown.

“It is,” I acknowledge. “Do you think you could try and look happy when we step outside? Not like I kicked your dog?”

She frowns. “Seriously, why would you even say that? What kind of person would even think of kicking a dog?”

I huff out a laugh. “A proverbial dog. I wouldn’t kick an actual dog,” I clarify. I’ve kicked men—done a lot worse to them, in fact—but I have nothing against animals.

“You’re a modern-day saint.” She scoffs. “Anyhow, don’t worry. I’ll flash my pearly whites for the cameras.” With a sneer, Kira pastes a smile so forced it borders on comedic.

One side of my mouth tips up at the corner. “You might want to try again. Didn’t quite buy it.”

“Chill, okay? I faked it at our wedding. I’ll be fine. Let’s get this over with.”

I take a deep breath and hold out my open palm to Kira. She hesitates momentarily, before taking my hand as the limo door opens and the charade begins.

‘For your next course, we have beautiful pan-seared scallops on a bed of truffle-infused cauliflower purée, garnished with microgreens, and a delicate saffron and citrus emulsion.’

Kira hangs on every word as Daria places the dishes before us. “Are these local truffles?’ she asks.

“They are, indeed,” Daria replies. “Few people know these mushrooms grow in Russia. I’m impressed that you do.”

Kira’s face lights up with a wide, genuine smile, the kind that reaches her eyes and transforms her entire expression. It hits me how beautiful she is when she’s not flinging insults my way.

An hour earlier, we had posed for photos in front of the restaurant, the paparazzi’s cameras flashing away. As promised, she smiled broadly for the pictures and posed beside me. But her expression was brittle, her pose stiff. I doubt anyone else noticed, so captivated by our appearance, but I did. That’s why seeing her now, at ease, with real joy on her face, stirs something inside me.

‘My aunt was a real foodie,’ Kira responds, a hint of emotion in her voice. Not surprising, considering the way she lost Masha. ‘She took me to nearly every Michelin-star restaurant across Europe. I learned to appreciate fine dining from a young age.” Kira flicks a quick, assessing glance my way as she takes a sip of the Chenin Blanc that was paired with this course.

“Thank you, Daria,” I say. “Everything has been outstanding so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” With a nod, Daria heads back to the kitchen and Kira sits back, smoothing the napkin in her lap.

“So, you’re on a first-name basis with the chef?” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s cute.”

I’m not sure what Kira is getting at. Yes, Daria is young and attractive, but our relationship is strictly professional. “It’s not cute, it’s business. Daria needed help to open this place, and I was in a position to help her.”

She looks at me doubtfully. “You don’t seem like the type to invest in small businesses. What’s in it for you?”

I lean back, scanning the restaurant’s sleek black-and-gold modern decor while a sultry beat injects life into the room. “Money. But investing in Probka isn’t only about financial returns. It’s about supporting someone with real skill and vision. There’s not enough of that in today’s world.”

Kira carefully swipes her fork through the cauliflower purée and releases a little moan that travels straight to my dick.

‘I agree.’ She arches an eyebrow. ‘And yet, you don’t seem that interested in the food. You haven’t even mentioned how well the yuzu and saffron taste together.’

I huff out a dark laugh. ‘My background was far from this world of fine dining. I came from a place where any meal on the table was a blessing. So, while I enjoy these elaborate dishes, I’m not particularly picky about the specifics like yuzu and saffron.’

Talking about my past isn’t something I usually do—it opens doors to memories I’d rather keep at bay. But there’s something about her genuine curiosity that makes me lower my guard.

She leans back, studying me. ‘So, from simple beginnings to the kingpin of Moscow’s bratvas,’ she muses. ‘That’s a story I’d like to hear.’

I ball my fists under the table. “It’s not a happy one.”

She raises her glass to me. “Who among us has a happy history? You know mine. It’s only fair that you tell me yours.”

Usually, I’d shut down any talk of my past, but fuck… Maybe it’s the wine or the way she’s looking up at me with those big, curious hazel eyes, but I don’t have it in me to deny her. “I was born in the Chertanovo district. They call it Moscow’s forgotten periphery for a reason,” I say wryly. “My mother died when I was young—two or three years old. I don’t remember her. I was mostly raised by my paternal grandmother. My father too, but he’d come and go, never really a constant presence. But he taught me one valuable thing—how to fight.”

Kira leans forward, her expression intense. “Is that how you survived on the streets?”

“It was helpful for self-defense, but it was more valuable as a way to make money. There weren’t many choices for moving up in life, not beyond stealing or drug dealing. So, I used my fight winnings to invest. I started small, with investments in real estate, gradually expanding to bigger, more lucrative deals as I built my empire.’

What I don’t tell her is that her father, Oleg, was my introduction to the world of the bratva. But he was only that, an introduction. It was my work ethic, my drive, and my smarts that opened doors in the underworld. But does Kira really want to hear about my short-lived connection to her asshole father? I doubt it.

For some reason, I don’t want to ruin this surprisingly normal moment between us.

“That’s quite a story,” she admits, holding eye contact. “Why do you keep your past so tightly guarded? You should be proud of the fact that you overcame a difficult childhood and made something of yourself.”

“Pride is a useless emotion. What good has it done anyone?”

I was proud of the life I had built, right up until I lost my son. After that, everything changed. Pride didn’t bring him back nor heal the pain. The harsh reality is that life can be cruel and unforgiving, no matter who you are.

“I prefer to look forward, focus on what’s next. Not look back,” I say, clearing the ball of emotion from my throat.

Kira tilts her head in thought. “Is that why you gave Daria a chance? To invest in her future?”

“That, and she was good in bed.”

Kira looks horrified.

I bark out a laugh. “I’m kidding. God, you’re easy to rile up.”

Her eyes flash with irritation. “Trust me, I don’t care.”

An amused smile plays across my lips. “Sure you don’t. Jealousy is perfectly normal. I’m not judging.”

She exhales sharply in annoyance. “You can sleep with whomever you want until … you know.”

Oh, do I know. Until the month is up.

‘But there’s only one person I want to sleep with,’ I say, drinking her in.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize two things. One—it’s true. And two—that’s a problem. Because I don’t do marriage and relationships. Once burnt, twice shy.

Kira grips the edge of the table and gives me an unreadable look.

Blyat. I curse internally, pushing my wine glass away. Clearly I’ve drunk too much. “Tell me stories about Masha jet-setting you off to fabulous restaurants.”

She freezes, her glass of wine halfway to her mouth. She lowers it and stares at me through narrowed eyes. It’s like I’ve asked her to reveal state secrets rather than happy memories of her childhood.

“Why do you want to know about that?”

I shrug. “Why not? I’m sure you have some good stories.”

She leans her jaw into her hand, and looks away from me briefly as if cataloging her memories. Finally, her lips quirk upwards. “She once took me to Australia for three days so we could try pavlova in the country it was invented.”

“Pavlova? Like, the meringue dessert?”

“It was her favorite.” She tilts her head, focused on her next bite. “Little known fact: pavlova is named after Anna Pavlova, the Russian ballerina, but it was invented in Australia or New Zealand. There’s some debate over where.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Do you like ballet?”

“I like it as much as the next man. I can appreciate it as an art form, but it’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”

“So what’s your idea of a good time then? I haven’t seen you do anything for fun.”

My idea of fun is pummeling an opponent in the ring, torturing a confession out of traitors, and orchestrating hostile business takeovers. “I like golf,” I tell her.

“Bullshit.” She snorts. “Haven’t seen you play a game once.”

“I’m a busy man. Recently married, actually.” I wink at her.

She rolls her eyes. “Newlywed life running you off your feet?”

“Something like that.” I bring the glass of wine to my lips, not taking my eyes off of her. “And what about you? What do you do for fun?”

Her fingers toy with the edge of her napkin, a wistful look crossing her face. ‘I used to dance ballet, you know. Not professionally, but it was something I did for fun.’

‘Dancing, huh?’ The disciplined precision of ballet contrasts with her stubborn, brash personality, but I like that she’s a contradiction. ‘Why did you stop?’

Kira shrugs, her gaze drifting off. ‘Life, I guess. Responsibilities. Family stuff.”

I can read between the lines. Her asshole of a father was becoming more unstable, and she had to step up to take the reins.

“Do you miss it?’

‘Not as much as you’d think. The instructors were always telling me to lose ten pounds, and it pissed me off.’ She exhales softly. “To be honest, what I liked most about it was that my aunt loved to watch me dance.” She looks over at me as if gauging my reaction. “Masha loved the arts—any form, really. Dancing, singing, theater, visual arts. She always came to my final recitals with two dozen red roses and a bottle of champagne. Not sure the nuns at my school appreciated the champagne as much as I did.”

“Masha was one of a kind,” I say, stretching my legs under the table. “You’re a lot like your aunt.”

Kira’s brows pull together, and she looks at me like she’s weighing everything I’ve said.

“How well did you know her?” Kira’s voice sounds accusatory.

Does she think I had a thing with her aunt? She was a beautiful woman, but it was never like that. “I didn’t know her that well, only in passing.”

“Did you know my father⁠—”

Before she can finish the thought, the grating voice of Mayor Rashnikov assaults my ears, ruining the moment.

“Maxim, never thought I’d see you here, but it’s a pleasure nonetheless.”

By here, he means a hot new restaurant that attracts the glitterati. He’s right—despite it being a good investment, it’s definitely not my scene, mostly because douchebags like him are regular guests.

I turn, barely concealing my irritation with a nod. ‘Funny. I’m not surprised to find you here.’ I take a sip of my wine. ‘Where’s Zoya?’

He pulls a face. ‘At home, where wives should be,’ he says dismissively.

Kira’s expression sours.

Pyotr’s attention shifts to her, his eyes bright with unwelcome eagerness. ‘And who might this be?’

‘My wife,’ I say, letting the word hang for a moment for my own satisfaction, then add, “Kira, may I introduce you to Mayor Pyotr Rashnikov?”

Kira, keeping her poise, offers a restrained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes as she extends her hand and murmurs, “Nice to meet you.”

Pyotr, seizing the opportunity, grasps her hand and leans down to kiss the back of it.

She stiffens noticeably, and it takes all my control to not to stab him with the steak knife beside my plate.

‘Ah, yes, the young beauty everyone in the city is talking about. I regret missing your wedding; I was away on business,’ Rashnikov claims, though his kind of business likely involves gambling and whoring. ‘I’m hosting a dinner at my house soon. You and Kira must come.” A smarmy grin spreads across his face as his eyes drag over Kira.

As much as I loathe the mayor, interacting with him is an unavoidable part of doing business in this city, be it above or below the law.

“We’ll see if our schedule allows it.” I give him a terse get-out-of-here nod.

“Excellent! I’ll have my secretary send over the details to Nadya.”

“Perfect,” I deadpan.

Pyotr shifts his attention back to Kira. “I must have been living under a rock to miss that Maxim snagged a young gem like you. I look forward to getting better acquainted with you, Kira.”

My hand wraps around the knife and before I’m conscious of it, I’m standing, about to plunge the blade into his carotid artery because how dare he fucking look and talk about my wife that way.

“Maxim,” Kira hisses, her sharp tone snapping me back to reality.

Seizing the moment, the mayor quickly excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd.

Once he’s out of sight, Kira hits me with a questioning look. “What was that?”

I sink back into my chair and signal the waiter for a whiskey. “That’s the mayor of fucking Moscow.” I spit.

“God help us all.” She pulls a face.

“I can’t stand him,’ I confess, swirling my wine. “Pyotr plays dirty. He’s got incriminating info on almost everyone in this city. Uses blackmail, threats, whatever it takes to get what he wants. He’s not a man of honor.”

“Isn’t that a common tactic in business, politics, whatever?” Her eyes bounce over to where he’s holding court with a group of men.

I sigh, grateful that my whiskey has shown up. ‘True, it’s common, but Pyotr takes it to another level. He doesn’t just play dirty—he revels in it, using people’s vulnerabilities to his advantage without any moral code. Even bad men like me have lines we don’t cross, but he has no such boundaries.’

She smiles tightly, her eyes hardening. “Really? You want to talk about boundaries? Should we call up Aly and ask her about your moral code?”

I gnash my teeth. Would Kira believe me if I said I acted in what I believed were my daughter’s best interests? Yes, my methods were shitty, but it was all in the name of protecting Alyona and giving her a better life.

“I did what I thought was best for her at the time,” I grit out. ‘But I don’t want you anywhere near Rashnikov. He’s especially slimy when it comes to beautiful young women.”

She swallows and eases back in her chair, her eyes drifting to the mayor. ‘But you do business with him, right?”

“I can’t avoid it.”

“Then I suppose we can’t avoid his dinner.”

Her words give me pause. There’s a note in her voice I can’t quite place.

“We’ll see,” I say. “Now, put on your brightest smile. The paparazzi are waiting outside and require one more show.”