Page 7 of Mafia Christmas Vows

“She will be without family…”

“I don’t give a fuck, Anatoly,” I snap. “Let her decorate the house. Take her to get presents. Have her talk to her mother. She’s here for a reason and I will hold her to that reason, but beyond that the girl is not my fucking problem.”

“Boss,” he murmurs, the words cold.

I sigh. “Get her settled. And Anatoly?”

“Yes?”

“Buy her some fucking clothes.”

I meant what I said to Anatoly.

I don’t care about having a wife. I never have.

My own mother died when I was barely a teenager. She was a wonderful person and I have a great deal of fond memories of her. She loved the holiday season, and often spent months decorating Orlov House, throwing elaborate parties for all my father’s associates.

But those memories are mere fantasies.

Sometimes I think that they couldn’t possibly have existed. Because my father?

He is nothing if not stern.

Not at all interested in celebrating holidays.

And would absolutely not marry someone who created the joy that my mother had around this time of year.

He taught me that there are things that matter more than a wife. Legacy. The ability to retain power.

Commanding respect through violence.

While they may not have been conventional, these were the things that made me far more suited for my current role than the ability to throw a merry party.

So I do not plan on returning to Orlov house.

Not, at least, until after the holiday.

Instead, I linger in my office in Novgorod. A day passes, the meetings that I am required to do go as planned, and I end my day by looking out over the lights of the city from my penthouse apartment. Ice clinks gently in my glass as I look out the window, the historical palaces illuminated at night. I can see snowdrifting gently down, blurring the bright lights and softening their illumination, tempering the palace’s shadows and angles into something kinder and smoother than the sharp contrast of light and darkness that I’ve grown used to.

It changes the environment entirely. No longer are the walls of the palace brutally bone-white, but they seem… pleasant.

The view is old, but it never fails to charm me. It’s more than just the view, I muse as I sip my drink. Novgorod is an old town, one that has a pedigree going back as far as my own bloodline. Nobility, Russian and otherwise, have called it home for a great deal of time.

My own family, of course, counts themselves among them.

A family of direct descendants that have passed Orlov House and the surrounding estate down for hundreds of years. Father to son. Genetic link to genetic link.

I would be a fool to be the one who violates the legacy of this place.

More than that, I will not be the one who loses their ancestral home, all because he simply cannot be bothered to find a wife. Having one fall in my lap?

A perfect solution.

However, having a wife does not mean that I have to interact with said wife, outside of the duty required of me to provide an heir.

My phone buzzes and I look down.

Elena. The housekeeper.

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