Chapter Text
Ilya jabs at the little red ‘end call’ button with a grunt of annoyance. Across the room, Svetlana cuts her eyes at him, waiting for him to speak.
“The mark is in position,” he says, in Russian. It’s his habit to default to their mother tongue when it’s just the two of them. “Fifteen minutes from here. I need to head out now.”
She quirks his lips. “Will you be able to handle yourself, or do you need me to come hold your hand through it?”
“Stay.” Ilya rises from the plush armchair in his study. “This should be over quickly.” He reaches into his desk drawer, grabbing his Glock and sliding it into the leather holster under his left arm. His suit jacket falls over it neatly, giving no hint at the weapons concealed on his person, gun or otherwise. He had it specially tailored, as do all the men on his payroll.
Svetlana stands as well, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “Don’t die,” she says into his ear. “Or else I will have to take over your operations for you, and I will be very displeased by that.”
Ilya scoffs. “Please. As if something this simple could be dangerous.” He steps back, and walks out the door. With a wave of his hand, his men fall in step behind him as they walk to the garage.
In English, he says, “Call Connors. Have him clear building. Discretely. Do not scare the boy off.”
Marlow, his lieutenant, snaps off a jaunty salute. “You got it, boss,” he says, Canadian accent thickening the ‘o.’ He steps out in front of Ilya, pulling open the car door of the sleek black SUV for him. The driver knows the location already, peeling out of the concrete garage.
They set out for the coffee shop known as ‘A Whole Latte Love,’ where Ilya has received a report of the arrival of one Shane Hollander.
-----
Ilya Rozanov is the second son of Grigori Rozanov, avtoritet of the Moscow Bratva. His father specialized in money laundering and other financial crimes, and had been very good at it indeed in his heyday. He is retired, now, and looking to have Ilya’s brother Alexei, his oldest son and rightful heir of the Rozanov name, take over Grigori’s operations.
As the younger son, Ilya has been given the dubious honor of managing their North American operations, based in Ottawa. For Alexei, this is a convenient assignment to keep his (more handsome, more charming, and above all, more competent) brother out of the way. Ilya prefers this, if he’s being honest. He’s never liked Moscow. Not since his mother passed.
In Canada, he can be free. As free one can be when they’re born into the Russian mafia.
He’s grateful that Svetlana came, too. Not for him in particular, but to chase her own dreams of building a business from her own father’s legacy. Her work naturally intersects with his. Given their shared past, it’s only natural that they work together, as long as it benefits the both of them.
For the most part, his family leaves him alone. As long as their Canadian and American branches pull their weight in gold, all is well.
Therefore, it’s highly unusual when Ilya receives the call from his father.
“Hello, Father,” he says.
“Ilya.” As usual, his tone is cold. “Still wasting your time in those clubs, da?”
“No, Father.”
“It is a wonder that our Canadian branch has not crumbled away, with your laziness.” He continues as if he hasn’t heard Ilya. “Well, here is an assignment to prove yourself with.”
“Yes, Father.”
“It’s come to our attention that our friends from Ginza have established a long-term operation in Ottawa,” his father says. “I bear the shame that you have not discovered them sooner, despite your years residing there.”
“It is my mistake.”
“And so you will be the one to fix it. We cannot allow them to continue unchecked. Remind them they are operating on our territory. They will owe us the standard fee, if they wish to remain.”
“And if they do not cooperate?”
His father sighs, staticky over the phone. “Do not ask stupid questions. If they do not cooperate, you will shut them down. That is the Russian way.”
Ilya hears the meaning in those words. “Yes, Father.”
His father leaves him with a name: Hollander.
-----
When the bell of the cafe door jingles, Shane barely looks up. He’s engrossed with his chemistry textbook, highlighting line after line of material. Midterms are coming up next week. He’ll need to study if he wants to make the Dean’s list again. Voices murmur and the automatic coffee grinder whirs noisily as the barista serves the new customer. He tunes it all out, biting his lip as he rereads the notes he made during lecture.
He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice the man walking across the shop to him, coffee cup in hand. Shane always sits in the back left booth. He spends hours there at a time with his textbook and laptop, chugging espresso shots like his life depends on it. Which it sort of does.
“Hello.”
Shane jumps a meter in the air. He nearly knocks his own drink over, and smears a long line of fluorescent yellow ink down the page he had been working through. Looking up, he opens his mouth to curse.
There’s a man standing before him. His hair falls in golden curls, and Shane’s eyes are drawn to the distinctive mole on his left cheek. He’s tall and muscular, wearing a well-tailored suit that leaves nothing to the imagination about the man’s physique.
He is, unfortunately, incredibly attractive.
Shane’s voice dies in this throat, and he’s left with his jaw hanging slightly open.
“Can I sit?” He has a Russian accent. It registers dimly in the back of Shane’s mind, but the rest of it is too busy short-circuiting.
“Uh—” Shane glances around the shop, which is completely empty save for the barista on duty, Emily. Given how tucked away the back booth is, they’re out of her line of sight. “ —I’d really prefer if you didn’t, I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
But his protest falls on deaf ears as the man drops into the faux leather seat opposite of Shane.
“Thank you,” the man says. “You are very generous.”
Shane furrows his brow, fixing his gaze somewhere near the man’s mouth as he talks. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ilya Rozanov,” he says. When Shane doesn’t react to his name, he tilts his head. “I am simply wanting a conversation.”
“Okay, well,” Shane says, “you picked the wrong person.”
But Rozanov shakes his head. “No, no, I think you are exactly who I am looking for.” He leans forward. “Hollander. Shane Hollander, yes?”
Shane feels his heart stutter. “...How do you know that?”
“I was surprised to know that someone with a name like Hollander is connected to Yakuza,” Rozanov says. “But you are connected to them, da? With the, ah, Bijutsu Foundation?” He struggles on the Japanese word slightly, Shane watching the way his lips form the vowels.
“I’m telling you, you have the wrong person,” Shane says, beginning to gather his loose papers and shutting his laptop. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, I think you do, Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says with a smirk. Shane shoves everything in his backpack without looking, a far cry from his typical meticulous organization. “Relax, I only came to deliver message.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested. I have to go.”
“Moscow says hello,” Rozanov calls after him. “Please pass that along to your people.”
Shane reaches for the front door—and finds his path blocked by two burly men in black suits, similar to the one that Rozanov wears.
“It’s okay. Let him go.” The man’s voice, tinged with amusement, says behind him. The men back off.
Shane forces himself to take deep, even breaths as he walks as fast as he can. Can’t quite force the image of those finely-sculpted lips, quirked in a slanted smile, out of his head.
-----
Shane Hollander doesn’t consider himself to be particularly interesting. He’s in his second year of an MD program specializing in sports medicine, and plays for his university’s varsity hockey team. He’s lived all his life in Ottawa, and hopes to become an athletic trainer for the NHL when he completes his degree.
His mother, on the other hand, is Yuna Hollander, nee Nishiguchi. Her father, Shane’s grandfather, is the chairman of the Sumiyoshi-kai—the second-largest yakuza group in Japan. Shane met him once, when he was almost too young to remember it. He can only dredge up a vague impression of an old man’s laugh. His mother grew up in Canada, and keeps that part of her family separated from David and Shane.
…aside from the fact that she’s the CEO of the Bijutsu Arts Charity Foundation, generously endowed by her father’s company. If the charity offers some venues for particular dealings with Japan—Shane has learned not to ask. He simply allows himself to be grateful to his mother’s financial support for his studies, and strives to make an honest man of himself.
In fact, he hasn’t thought about that side of his family in years. Not until Ilya Rozanov sweeps his way into Shane’s quiet routine, and upends his life.
“Hello, Shane.”
He grits his teeth and resolutely doesn’t look up from his assignment. “What do you want, Rozanov.”
“I can’t say hello to my favorite coffee partner?” Rozanov’s voice is teasing. He slides into the booth, at 12 P.M. on the dot, as he’s been doing for several weeks. “I am wounded.” He takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his coffee.
“You’re going to have to give up eventually,” Shane says. “My answer is the same as the last two times. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I want you to leave me alone.”
“Aw, you are so boring,” Rozanov says. “Is not like anybody will hear us.”
Unlike their first meeting, there’s a quiet murmur as patrons move about the shop today. Shane has the sneaking suspicion that Rozanov had something to do with it, but he’s not exactly about to ask the man. When he raises his gaze, he fixes his eyes on Rozanov’s lips, as always.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” he says quietly.
“I already told you,” Rozanov says. “Tell your people to do things properly.”
“Through your people, you mean.”
“Da. Is that easy.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in charge of anything, unlike you,” Shane snipes at Rozanov. He bites his lip immediately after, realizing he’s said more than he’s intended to.
Rozanov scents blood in the water. “So tell me who is in charge. I will go to them, and finally leave you alone.”
Shane’s already shaking his head. “I can’t do that. I… don’t know who it is.”
“Hm. You are lying,” Rozanov says. “Lucky for you that you are a cute liar. Otherwise, I would have my men find a way to make you talk.”
He chooses to ignore part of what Rozanov just said. “If you were really going to torture me, you would’ve done it already. Why drag this out? More trouble for the both of us.”
“Ah, Hollander, but I am having so much fun.” Rozanov clutches at his chest in exaggerated agony. “You feel the same, I know it.”
“You can tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.”
“It does.” The Russian man stands. “Good talk, Hollander. I will see you next week.” He leaves his empty coffee cup on the table as he stands. Shane watches him go, eyes dipping briefly down his backside before he schools himself. Unlike the last few times, Rozanov doesn’t have a pack of suited henchmen waiting at the door. Instead, there’s a curly-haired woman wearing a designer coat. As the door jingles merrily with Rozanov’s exit, she catches him looking, and smiles. Says something to Rozanov, who turns around and winks at Shane through the glass windows of the shop.
He jerks back, slumping in the booth so he’s out of view. His face burns.
-----
Svetlana is waiting for him when he ends his call. Her gold sequined dress flutters in the night air, the party muted behind balcony doors. Ilya itches for a cigarette, but he knows she would be displeased by the smell clinging to his clothing.
“Your father, again?” She asks. “That’s the third time this week.”
Ilya shakes his head. “You know how he is. Impatient about the job.” He straightens his cufflinks, sliding his phone into his tuxedo pocket. “Do not worry about it. Tonight is your night.” He offers his arm to her.
“Damn right it is,” she says, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Don’t embarrass me, Rozanov.”
“I could never.”
She only laughs at that, and they step back into the dinner gala he had left only a few minutes ago. A charity something-or-other. For once, it’s a legitimate event, and he’s attending as Svetlana’s plus one. He enjoys playing his role as her arm candy, watching her run circles around old businessmen who should have retired decades ago. As they reintegrate with the partygoers, Ilya nods at his men stationed around the corners of the room.
Ilya loses count of how many hands they shake. He subtly wipes his hand after the last one, glancing around the room for a good excuse to tow Svetlana away from her socializing.
He finds one.
Ilya locks gazes with Shane Hollander. He watches as the other man’s eyes move away instinctively, before doubling back to Ilya and widening in shock. Hollander looks good tonight. He’s dressed in a tux as well, per gala dress code, hair lightly gelled, hands in his stuffed pockets. It’s a far cry from the dishevelled student Ilya has grown accustomed to seeing.
“Look who it is,” he murmurs to Svetlana, who follows his gaze. “Let’s go say hello.”
She quirks her lips knowingly at him. “Naturally.”
Ilya strides across the room in large steps, expertly weaving through the crowd. Hollander looks like a deer caught in headlights, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice but rooted in place. When he gets closer, Ilya sees the reason for it—an older woman, whose features echo Hollander’s, is deep in conversation with someone. She holds Hollander’s arm, and he seems incapable of escaping.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, savouring the taste of his name like the fine champagne being passed around the party. “I am surprised to see you here.”
“...you too,” Hollander says, reluctantly.
The woman finishes her conversation, turning to greet Ilya and Svetlana politely. “Oh, hello!” She reaches her hand out to shake, and Hollander makes an aborted motion as if to smack Ilya’s hand away. “I’m Yuna Hollander. Director and CEO of the Bijutsu Arts Foundation.”
Ah. Ilya understands now. He’s had the wrong Hollander this whole time. His men must have overlooked Yuna in their research, giving him Shane’s profile instead. He makes a mental note to have Svetlana teach them a lesson on underestimating women. For now, however, their mistake is Ilya’s gain. Because he finds that he’s having too much fun with Hollander—he can’t tear his eyes away.
Svetlana introduces herself and Ilya. Yuna Hollander looks between Ilya and Shane. “Do you two know each other?”
“We’ve met.” Hollander, the younger, doesn’t elaborate.
Ilya allows his smile to broaden across his face. “Da, we have met a few times over the last few months. I hope to become good friends.”
An indignant flush works its way across Hollander’s cheeks, but Yuna beats him to his reply.
“Oh, I didn’t know you would have friends here tonight, Shane!” She pats his arm. “Why don’t I go chat with Mr. Hunter over there for a bit. You can spend time with your friends.” Hollander tries to protest, but Yuna is already walking away.
Svetlana catches the glint in Ilya’s eye. “I will go find some more champagne,” she says. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“You know I will,” he says, and she’s gone too. And then it’s just Ilya and Hollander.
He steps up to Hollander, just a little too far into his personal space. Hollander eyes him warily.
“So,” Ilya says, “I see how it is. You were hiding your beautiful mother from me.”
“Fuck off,” Hollander snaps. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“Ah, but I must,” he says. “She is the one I am looking for, after all. And I regret to inform you, Mister Hollander, but Moscow is growing impatient as the months pass. Now that I have found my true target, perhaps I will go speak with her—”
“No!” Hollander’s hand reaches out, and catches Ilya’s wrist. “Don’t—don’t do that.”
“And what would you have me do instead?”
“We can—what do you want from me? I’ll do whatever you want. Just leave my mom alone.”
“Aw, so sweet,” Ilya all but purrs. “Perhaps you will not be saying this, however, when you hear of what I am thinking.”
Hollander glares. “Well? Tell me.”
Ilya leans in close to his ear, and tells him exactly what he wants.
-----
Rozanov’s residence is sleek, modern, all straight lines and ambient lighting. Normally, he would take more time to appreciate the interior design, but he sort of has bigger fish to fry at the moment.
He’s not sure how he got here. Actually, no, he knows exactly how it happened. Rozanov whispering in his ear, the hot flash of indignation that had seared through Shane’s body, his stuttered excuses to his mom, the awkward car ride in Rozanov’s sleek SUV with the Russian man’s chauffeur. And now, Rozanov standing before him, hip jutting out as he sweeps his clear blue eyes over Shane’s body.
(“Come home with me tonight,” Rozanov says. His lips graze the outer shell of Shane’s ear, and a shudder runs down his spine.
He jerks back on instinct. “What? No way in hell.”
“Don’t lie to yourself. I have seen you looking.”
“I—I don’t—”
“Okay. Perhaps I will ask your mother, instead.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Come home with me tonight, and I back off of your yakuza charity.”
“For good?”
“For now.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Mm. Work with me here, Hollander. What is your Canadian saying? Ah. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine. And maybe I will scratch more than your back.”
“Fuck you.”
“Only if you ask nicely.”)
His phone pings.
Mom
Have fun, get home safe!
Possibly the last thing he needs at this moment. Shane taps back a quick message, before shutting his phone off. When he looks up, Rozanov is right in front of him.
“Shit!” Shane yelps, moving away instinctively. His back hits the wall. Rozanov reaches a hand up, cupping the side of Shane’s face. It’s surprisingly gentle. Shane lets out an unsteady breath, and looks away.
“You are shy.”
“Shut up.” Shane scowls. “So… what now?”
“Hm. Perhaps you can tell me.” Rozanov’s fingers find Shane’s bowtie, loosening it expertly before he starts on his shirt buttons. Shane presses his hands against the smooth wooden door behind him, as cool air hits his bare torso. “How do you like it, usually? You want my hands on you, on your cock? Or do you prefer to be touched up here?” He accentuates his words, sliding his large hands across Shane’s chest, one gliding over his left nipple.
Shane makes a noise at the back of his throat, one he hadn’t meant to make. “Stop teasing me.”
“But that is half the fun,” Rozanov says. He pauses as something occurs to him. “...you have been with men before, yes?”
Shane didn’t think his face could get any warmer than it already was, but somehow his body manages it. He could lie. But he hesitates too long, and understanding dawns on Rozanov’s face. So Shane gives a quick, small shake of his head.
“Hollander,” Rozanov breathes, and suddenly Shane can’t take it anymore.
He sinks to his knees in one motion, reaching up for Rozanov’s belt. Doing his best to pretend like the burning in his stomach is humiliation, not arousal. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” He says out loud. Shane looks up at Rozanov through his lashes. “Your family’s rival getting on his knees for you, sucking you off.”
Rozanov cards his fingers through Shane’s hair, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black. “In fact, yes, that is exactly what I want.” He helps Shane undo the rest of his belt and underwear, leaving his cock erect in the air.
He takes a deep breath. Okay, they’re really doing this.
Shane opens his mouth and licks tentatively at Rozanov’s head. Rozanov lets out a sigh above him, but Shane keeps his focus on his task. He licks at it again, gaining confidence as he slides his tongue down its length. It’s not… unpleasant, slightly salty, with a musk that he can only describe as Rozanov. He opens his mouth, and takes the tip fully in.
Rozanov swears in Russian.
Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, Shane takes Rozanov’s cock into his mouth. His shoulders tremble as it hits the back of his throat. He bobs his head experimentally, and Rozanov’s grip tightens in his hair.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he says, accent thickening. “Look at you. So pretty, for me.”
Shane’s mouth is full, so he pinches Rozanov’s thigh in retaliation. He bobs his head again—it’s too much, all of a sudden, and he gags reflexively. He gasps as he comes up for air, spit leaking from his mouth, and all of a sudden he feels filthy.
“Is okay,” Rozanov reassures. “Go slow.” He feeds his cock back into Shane’s open mouth. “I show you.” He moves his hips back and forth, slower than Shane’s speed, and he can only let his jaw slacken as much as possible. Shane would wonder at the show of restraint, if he wasn’t openly drooling now, feeling like nothing more than a toy as Rozanov fucks into his mouth. It’s also impossibly hot.
Something bitter blooms across his tongue. Rozanov whispers in Russian, gentle nothings that help Shane settle into the rhythm. He closes his eyes, lost in the sensation.
And then Rozanov is pulling him up, off of his cock. Shane sputters, glaring at him over the sudden movement. “What?” He winces at how hoarse his voice is.
“C’mon, Hollander, you want to get fucked or not tonight?” Rozanov says, although he sounds breathless. He manhandles Shane through the door and into his bedroom. “Clothes off.”
“Geez, do you treat all your hookups this way?” Shane says, shrugging out of his open jacket and shirt, before starting on his slacks. He folds everything into a stack on a chair, Rozanov’s gaze heavy on his body as the other man also strips. Unlike Shane, he tosses it into a pile haphazardly onto the floor.
“Da. It is compliment. I am eager for the main show.”
He’s not sure what to do with his hands now that they’re both fully naked. Luckily, Rozanov solves the problem for him by pushing him onto the bed. The mattress is soft, he notes, and the sheets are silky smooth under his palms. Rozanov flips him onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow to shove under his hips.
“Hey!” Shane protests, mostly on principle. “Asshole. You’re just gonna assume—”
“Oh,” Rozanov says, raising an eyebrow. “You would prefer it the other way?”
Silence.
Rozanov laughs, not unkindly. “That’s what I thought. Have you ever touched yourself like this before?” He runs a hand down Shane’s backside, pulling one cheek aside with his thumb. It’s embarrassing, being so exposed, and unexpectedly arousing. He feels his own cock, already hard, pressing into the cushion below him.
“I…” Shane can’t stand to look at him any longer, and buries his face into the sheets. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I… have a. You know.”
“I don’t know. What?”
He forces himself to let his breath out, and the words tumble out with it. “Ihaveadildo.”
Rozanov laughs again, slightly disbelieving. “Of course. What color is it?”
“I’m not answering that,” Shane snaps. “Get on with it, already.”
“Impatient,” Rozanov says, but he obligingly reaches back to the nightstand, rummaging around. He produces a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms, and begins to slick up his fingers. Shane turns around again. Somehow, he can’t bear to look. Hands find their way to his ass again, and something wet and cold traces his hole, before pushing in.
Shane tenses instinctively around the finger. It’s different from when he does it himself.
“Relax,” Rozanov murmurs, leaning over Shane, pressing his chest to his back. Shane takes a deep breath. As Rozanov establishes a rhythm, the friction slowly turns to pleasure, and Shane sighs quietly. “Good,” Rozanov says, chest rumbling, and Shane’s breath hitches.
One finger turns to two, then three, and then Shane is panting as liquid pleasure runs down his spine when Rozanov crooks his fingers just right. “Hurry up,” he says, “I’m ready.” Actually, he usually prepares himself for longer, but he thinks he’ll come soon, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing on their first time having sex together? And then he shakes his head, because why is he thinking about having sex with Rozanov multiple times?
“So eager,” Rozanov says. But he pulls his fingers out, Shane clenching around the empty feeling. He hears rustling behind him, before Rozanov is lining himself up. “Ready?”
“Yes, fuck,” Shane groans, “just get on with it.”
And then Rozanov pushes his way in. Shane gasps—it’s different, compared to his previous… experience. He knew it would be, but knowing and experiencing are two very different things. Rozanov, considerately, gives him a moment to adjust, although from the way he groans, Shane thinks he may be just as aroused as he is.
After a moment, Shane nods. “Okay, okay. Keep going.”
Just like earlier, Rozanov starts slow, rocking into Shane at glacial speed. It hurts a bit, Rozanov’s base stretching him wider than his fingers. But it’s quickly overridden by pleasure.
“Fuck,” Shane groans.
Rozanov lets out a breathy laugh. “Working on it.”
A retort bubbles on the tip of Shane’s tongue, but Rozanov picks up speed, and higher thought flies out of his mind after that. He can’t say if it lasts for hours or a minute, although if he’s being honest it might be the latter.
“Rozanov,” he slurs, drooling into the expensive sheets below him. “Please, Rozanov—”
“Ilya.”
“Ilya,” Shane says, dazed. “I’m gonna come—”
Ilya reaches around Shane and wraps a hand around his cock. He pumps once, twice, and then Shane is overcome with sensation as he climaxes.
Everything whites out. His head hums through the bliss, and he slumps into the bed.
Distantly, he hears Ilya groan, and feels him tense, his hips stuttering, rhythm growing uneven. “Shane,” Ilya murmurs, and then he pushes himself deep into Shane and comes. Shane only sighs, unable to muster up the energy to do anything else.
A moment later, Ilya collapses onto the bed next to him.
“It was good, da?”
“Shut up, asshole,” Shane says. “What do you think?”
The other man chuckles, and Shane has a vague sensation of a hand running down his back. He sinks deeper into the bed. Of all the irresponsible shit he’s done that day—going to the gala, accepting Rozanov’s proposition, letting him fuck him—in that moment, Shane does the most irresponsible thing of all.
He closes his eyes and falls asleep.