Part of Your World

Addictions

A/N: This story takes place five years after The Great Wide Somewhere, but these stories can still be read out of order, as they have their own unique characters and plot. Words that are italicized with no quotations are Aria signing, and sentences italicized within quotes are being conversed in Russian.

September, New York City

Maks Volkov

I inhaled the scent of the city, my lungs burning with smoke from the cigarette pinched between my fingers as the rush of cars and incessant noise plagued my ears. My eyes slid closed in relief as the nicotine swirled through my lungs and veins, and I exhaled a sizable cloud. A damnable addiction, one of my many. I leaned against the brick wall of the alley, the pavement below wet and shimmering in the light from the beaming fluorescent signs at the entrance to the darkness. I smirked, staring at the white and tan cancer stick in my grasp, bringing it to my lips once more, my inhalation creating a deep orange glow in the night. I belonged to the darkness, I always would. A man like myself had no hope of ever holding onto anything pure, and at my age, I had come to terms with it.

I flicked the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, listening as it sizzled and died out in a small puddle before I snubbed it with the toe of my shoe.

"Thought you were quitting," came a deep voice, along with the sound of his approach. I snorted, glancing in his direction. He stopped, massive hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, a formidable giant, clean cut and calculating.

My antithesis.

I was tattooed from head to toe, impulsive, and often skirted the line between simply bad and pure evil. I glanced down at my watch, understanding the reason for his coming to find me. The runic ink on my knuckles peered back up at me, meant as symbols for protection. So far, it had worked, but I was one to flirt with fate. I ran a hand through my black hair, so long on top, shaved on the sides. I needed a cut. I needed to go home. I'd done my duty and helped him take out the last of the scumbags that had tortured his woman.

If there was one absolute rule in the mafia, it was that any harm befalling a significant other was punishable by death. Or torture. Preferably both.

I'd been pleasantly surprised at how willing Nick had been to dole out such malicious justice. But once I met his Ellie, saw the adoration in her eyes as well as his, I understood it. I didn't need a woman to protect to tap into my animalistic side, though. And perhaps that was one of the many fucked up things about myself. I enjoyed killing for the sake of the thrill.

"What's one more vice?" I said, smirking up at him. I'd thought I was tall (and was, considering average men's heights), but Nick was a fucking neanderthal. He chuckled, leaning against the wall across from me.

I'd been in New York for nine months, working side by side with him, and we'd developed a brotherly bond over that time, one that surprised me. I was never one to get attached to anything or anyone, not even my family. Perhaps that had to do with my culture, or how I was raised. I wasn't sure.

"What would your mother say if she knew?" he teased, quirking a brow at me. I leveled him with a dark smirk.

"You want that answer in Mandarin or Russian?"

"You know I speak both."

I sighed, leaning my head against the cold brick. If the Fordson empire controlled most of the U.S., then the Volkov empire controlled much of Russia and eastern Europe, and an alliance made perfect sense in our father's minds, and we had been, for some fifty odd years before now. I was just lucky enough that we actually got along. There were things I sensed Nick wasn't willing to do for the business, though—things I had no problem with completing. Another nail in my coffin of evil.