Mafia's African Rose

Alexio

            The meeting had ended, but a few men lingered, as they always did. Some came for gossip; others, for business they didn't want discussed in a room full of ears. I stood by the window, lighting a cigar, my back to the murmuring crowd. Viktor, of course, remained, leaning casually against the table, his smirk fixed in place as he nursed a glass of whiskey.

Then there was Rocco—one of the younger bosses. Arrogant, always speaking a little too freely. He was leaning toward Viktor now, a sly grin on his face, and I could already feel the tension building.

"So, Viktor," Rocco said, his tone light but laced with something dangerous, "what's the deal with your big brother and his little Angel? I mean, I've heard rumors, but you... you've spent time with her. What's she like?"

Viktor raised an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Careful, Rocco. You're playing with fire."

"Fire?" Rocco laughed. "Come on. We all know Alexio's obsessed with her. But if you ask me..." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "He doesn't deserve her. She's wasted on him. A woman like that? Needs someone who actually knows how to treat her. Someone... softer."

Viktor's smirk froze, and his grip on the glass tightened. "Softer, huh?"

Rocco nodded, clearly emboldened by Viktor's lack of immediate reaction. "Yeah. Someone who sees her for what she really is, not just a pawn in his twisted little game. Hell, I'd take her away myself if—"

The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space, cutting Rocco's sentence short. He staggered back, blood spreading across his chest, his eyes wide with shock as he crumpled to the floor.

The room fell silent, save for the echo of the shot. Viktor lowered his gun slowly, his expression cold, almost bored, as if he'd just swatted a fly.

"Didn't anyone teach you to keep your mouth shut about things you don't understand?" Viktor muttered, tossing the now-empty glass onto the table, where it shattered into pieces.

The remaining men exchanged nervous glances, inching toward the door. None of them dared to speak.

I turned from the window, my cigar still in hand, and walked toward Viktor, who stood unflinching by Rocco's lifeless body.

"Was that really necessary?" I asked, my voice low.

Viktor shrugged, slipping his gun back into its holster. "He crossed the line."

"And what line would that be?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"The one where he thought he could disrespect her," Viktor said, his gaze locking with mine. There was something unspoken in his eyes—a challenge, maybe, or a warning.

I took a long drag from the cigar, letting the silence stretch. "Clean this up," I said finally, addressing the remaining men. "And let this be a reminder: Angel's name doesn't leave your lips unless you're ready to pay the price."

As the men scrambled to follow my orders, Viktor leaned against the table again, lighting his own cigarette.

"You think I overreacted?" he asked, his tone casual.

I studied him for a moment, then shook my head. "No. You reacted exactly how I would have."

He smirked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Good to know we're still on the same page, brother."

I didn't respond, but as I turned away, a single thought lingered in my mind: Viktor was walking a dangerous line. And if he ever took one step too far, I wouldn't hesitate to do what needed to be done.

         The docks smelled of saltwater and betrayal—fitting, given I was standing beside Viktor, my half-brother and the Russian Mafia Don. We'd forged this alliance out of necessity, not trust, and every interaction with him reminded me why I didn't trust family, let alone Russians.