Chapter Text
SHANE:
It was 9:43 PM. Seventeen minutes left of Shane’s shift, and exactly seven minutes until he could legally lock the diner doors.
In the kitchen, his childhood best friend, Hayden, was scraping down the grill while Rose, his work best friend, tackled the mountain of dishes. Both were aggressively dancing to whatever high-energy playlist was blasting through Hayden’s portable Bluetooth speaker.
Shane was just about to wipe down the front counter when headlights swept across the cracked linoleum. A sleek, black SUV pulled into the lot.
Shane let out a heavy, miserable groan. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
From the kitchen window, Rose immediately burst into laughter. "Told you guys! You each owe me five bucks." She didn't even pause her scrubbing, totally unbothered by the late arrival.
Hayden joined Shane in a synchronized groan that ended in reluctant laughter. Then the little brass bell above the front door chimed. Shane shot Hayden a look that practically screamed help me, but Hayden just grinned and shook his head, retreating deeper into the kitchen.
Bracing himself, Shane turned around, pasting on his best customer-service smile. "Hello, welcome to the Old—"
The words died in his throat.
Standing on the other side of the counter was a devastatingly handsome man. He had sharp features, golden curly hair, and a smirk that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was.
"What? You don’t know the name of the place?" the man asked. His voice was low, carrying a thick, velvety Russian accent that sent an immediate, embarrassing wave of heat straight to Shane’s face.
Thankfully, Rose chose that exact moment to slide out of the kitchen, having watched the entire short-circuit happen from the dish station.
"Hello! Sorry about him," Rose said smoothly, snatching a few menus from Shane’s frozen fingers. "He gets a little flustered when he sees a gorgeous man."
Shane’s eyes widened, but he couldn't even find the words to defend himself. Especially not when the Russian man’s smirk widened.
"I need no apology," the man murmured, his gaze locking onto Shane. "Especially if it comes from such a beautiful man."
He threw Shane a deliberate, slow wink before turning to follow Rose toward a booth near the back, two large, imposing men in suits trailing closely behind him.
Shane stood frozen for three seconds, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Feeling a sudden, desperate need to escape the heat creeping up his neck, he bolted for the employee restroom, Hayden’s muffled laughter echoing behind him.
Bursting into the bathroom, Shane gripped the edges of the sink and stared into the mirror. His entire face was bright red.
"Get it together," he muttered, turning on the faucet and splashing ice-cold water over his face. "He’s just a guy. A really, really attractive Russian guy who apparently finds you beautiful. No big deal."
The bathroom door clicked open.
Shane froze, looking up. Through the mirror, he saw the exact same smirk he’d been trying to erase from his mind. The man stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.
"Can I help you?" Shane asked, his voice a little breathier than he intended as the man slowly eyed him up and down.
"You like men, yes?" the stranger asked, entirely too casual for a conversation in a diner bathroom.
Shane’s brain scrambled. "Uhh… um, yeah. I mean, yes. But I’ve never actually been with a man, and—don’t get me wrong, you’re incredibly attractive—but I don’t really do hookups." He let out a long, ragged sigh, relieved he’d managed to string a coherent sentence together.
The man didn't back down. Instead, he took two slow, deliberate steps forward, trapping Shane against the edge of the sink. Shane could feel the heat radiating off him. Slowly, the man raised a hand, his thumb gently tracing the line of Shane’s cheekbone.
It was a surprisingly soft touch. Shane, completely helpless against the sudden intimacy, leaned into it without thinking.
The man let out a low, amused chuckle. He leaned down, his breath warm against Shane's ear as he murmured a phrase in Russian, followed by, "Silly bunny."
"I was not asking to hook up," he whispered.
Shane’s heart kicked into overdrive. "Um… so you mean like a date? Sir, I don’t even know your name," Shane attempted to tease, though they both knew his answer was already a resounding yes.
The man smiled, catching Shane’s hand and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the knuckles. "Ilya Rozanov. And what is your last name, Shane?" Ilya asked, his eyes dropping briefly to the plastic name tag pinned to Shane's apron.
"Hollander," Shane replied, a genuine, flirtatious smile finally breaking through his nerves. "Shane Hollander."
"Well, Mr. Hollander, you have a beautiful face," Ilya said, his hand lingering on Shane's cheek.
Shane let out a small, breathless laugh. "Please, just Shane. Mr. Hollander is my father."
"Well, I would hope so," Ilya chuckled.
The bubble burst violently when the bathroom door slammed open. One of Ilya’s large companions stepped in, his expression dead serious.
Ilya dropped his hand, a look of profound frustration crossing his features as he rubbed his face. "What the hell do you want, Cliff?"
Shane stayed pressed against the sink, his chest heaving, acutely aware of how close Ilya’s body still was to his.
"Ilya, it’s your father," Cliff said, his tone grim and urgent. "We need to go. Now."
In an instant, the playful, charming air around Ilya vanished. His posture stiffened, his jaw locking as he gave Cliff a tight nod. "Okay. Give me a moment."
Cliff disappeared back into the diner, leaving them in a heavy silence. Ilya turned back to Shane, his expression strained, but his touch was still remarkably gentle as he ran his thumb over Shane’s cheek one last time. "I must go. Very urgent family matter. Do you have phone?"
Shane’s brain short-circuited again. He nodded quickly, fumbling in his apron pocket for his phone, unlocking it, and handing it over.
He watched as Ilya quickly typed in a number, sent a text to himself, and handed the phone back. Shane took it, a small, knowing smile returning to his lips. "So, when will I see you again, Mr. Rozanov?"
Ilya smirked, the shadow of his previous warmth returning. "Tomorrow night. There is a game. I will text you the details."
Before Shane could ask what kind of game, Ilya leaned in, capturing Shane’s lips in a brief, sweet kiss that left Shane melting on the spot. Ilya cradled his chin for a split second, then turned and strode out of the bathroom.
It took Shane a full minute to collect his senses before he walked back out to the dining area. The booth was empty. Near the kitchen doors, Hayden and Rose were standing by the register, staring at a piece of paper in Hayden's hand.
"Shane," Hayden said, holding up a crisp green bill. "Your boy toy left a hundred-dollar bill for a ten-dollar order of coffees."
Shane stared at the money. Well, shit, he thought.
ILYA
The cool night air hit Ilya’s face as he hurried out of the diner, flanked by Cliff and his other bodyguard, Troy Barrett.
"What's going on, Cliff?" Ilya demanded, his voice tight with an anxiety he rarely allowed himself to feel. The ongoing territory war between his family and the Gambinos had been escalating for months. He already knew the answer before the words even left Cliff's mouth.
"Ilya… your father was killed," Cliff said quietly.
The words hit like a physical blow, but Ilya didn't flinch. In his world, showing vulnerability in the open was a death sentence. He kept his stride unbroken until they reached the armored SUV.
Once inside the locked vehicle, the atmosphere shifted. Maria, who had been Ilya’s driver since he turned eighteen, caught his eye in the rearview mirror, her expression heavy with pity. "Ilya, I am so sorry."
Cliff patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry, kid."
"What happens now?" Ilya asked. His voice was entirely flat, stripped of all emotion. It was a defense mechanism, a wall built over years of mob life. There would be time for grief later. Right now, there was only survival.
Cliff sighed. "Your older brother takes over your father's seat. You are being moved up to handle the main laundering operations and the narcotics distribution."
Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, inhaling deeply. He nodded. "Has Svetlana been informed? What about Hunter and Kip?"
Troy turned from the front passenger seat. "Svetlana is already at the Montreal office. Hunter and Kip are flying in from New York as we speak."
"Where are we heading?" Ilya asked, looking out the window as the neon lights of the city grew denser, the buildings stretching higher into the dark sky.
"To meet with Svetlana and the rest of the captains—Kip, Hunter, Ryan, and Fabian. There are some new soldiers you need to meet. You need to know exactly who you're commanding, and you need to see the club you now own."
Ilya nodded silently. The SUV eventually slowed to a crawl, pulling up to the curb of a massive, roaring nightclub. The line of patrons waiting to get in stretched past the block, wrapping around two adjacent businesses.
A faint, cynical smile touched Ilya's lips. Well, he thought, this might be more interesting than I expected.
Cliff led the way through the VIP entrance, Troy guarding their six. The moment they stepped inside, the heavy, thumping bass of the music vibrated straight through Ilya's chest. The air was thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and the energy of hundreds of bodies dancing on the floor.
Ilya’s eyes swept over the crowd out of pure habit, scanning for threats. But his gaze caught on the main bar.
Sitting on a high stool, laughing at something his friend said, was a boy with a dusting of freckles across his nose and an expression entirely too innocent for a place like this.
Shane.
Ilya’s eyebrows arched in surprise, his lips pulling into a genuine smirk.
"Cliff," Ilya said, adjusting his jacket. "Tell the others I will be in the back momentarily. I see a friend I must say hello to."
Cliff huffed, clearly annoyed by the distraction, but fell into step a few paces behind him. Troy just let out a low chuckle.
SHANE
Shane had been ruthlessly dragged out of his dorm room by Hayden and Rose. He was supposed to be studying for his macroeconomics exam, but instead, he was standing at a packed bar, watching Rose pay an astronomical fifty dollars for three shots of the lowest-shelf vodka available.
He was busy scanning the glowing shelves of liquor, trying to pass the time, when a sudden presence materialized right behind him.
"Fancy seeing you at my club, Shane."
Shane didn't even have to turn around to recognize that smug, beautiful accent. When he did pivot on his stool, his jaw dropped. Ilya was standing there, looking like absolute royalty in a tailored suit.
"Your club?!" Shane gasped, his eyes wide.
Ilya chuckled, the sound rich and low. "Yes. Well, sort of. It is family owned."
"Um, should I leave you two alone?" Rose asked, a massive, teasing grin plastered across her face.
Shane felt his cheeks burn. Before he could stammer out a response, Ilya stepped closer, effectively cutting off the rest of the crowded bar.
"If you don't mind me stealing your friend for a moment," Ilya said. It was phrased as a request, but the smooth authority in his voice made it clear it wasn't an option.
Rose laughed, raising her hands in surrender. "Nope, not at all. But Shane, I'm taking your shot. Have the owner buy you the good stuff." True to her word, she knocked back two of the shots in rapid succession and grabbed the third, disappearing into the crowd.
Shane stood there, completely helpless. He turned back to Ilya, who hadn't taken his eyes off him. "I am so, so sorry about her."
"It is alright, moya lyubov’," Ilya murmured, placing a warm hand firmly against the small of Shane’s back. The touch sent a jolt of electricity down Shane's spine. "What do you drink?"
Shane blushed at the foreign words, assuming it was some kind of Russian pet name. "Um, I love gin, but honestly, the prices here are a little—"
"Kyle!" Ilya barked to the bartender. The same bartender who had completely ignored Shane and Rose for ten minutes immediately snapped to attention. "Two glasses of Watenshi, please."
The bartender nodded quickly, pouring the incredibly rare gin into two crystal tumblers. As he handed them over, he shot Shane a look of intense, newfound respect. Shane blinked, a little confused by the sudden VIP treatment, but shook it off as Ilya handed him a glass.
Shane took a sip and nearly gasped. It tasted like pure luxury.
"Would you like to come up to VIP?" Ilya asked, leaning down to whisper the invitation directly against Shane's ear.
Shane’s stomach did a violent, dizzying backflip. He nodded quickly. "Yeah. Okay."
Ilya smiled, taking Shane by the hand. He leaned over to say something in sharp, rapid Russian to one of his suits. The man looked irritated but gave a stiff nod. With a sharp wink, Ilya guided Shane through the sea of dancing bodies, leading him up a private staircase to a roped-off balcony overlooking the entire venue.
"Good evening, Rozy. Who is your friend?"
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick accent and a shock of ginger hair stepped forward.
"Price, this is Shane Hollander," Ilya introduced, giving Shane’s waist a gentle squeeze that made him flush. "We met at the diner earlier. Shane, this is Ryan Price, a business associate."
Wanting to make a good impression, Shane smiled brightly and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Ryan!"
Ryan looked at Shane’s outstretched hand, then looked at Ilya, his eyebrows climbing practically to his hairline. Suddenly, Ryan burst into a loud, booming laugh. He shook Shane’s hand heartily.
Shane’s smile faltered, confusion settling in. His confusion only deepened when Ryan turned to Ilya and switched completely to Russian.
"He is so innocent, Rozy," Ryan laughed, his tone dripping with amusement. "It reminds me of when Kyle first started."
Ilya’s expression instantly darkened. The playful warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, dangerous edge. "Shane is not Kyle," Ilya snapped back in Russian, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
Ryan immediately raised his hands, backing off. "Maybe. But I will see you shortly, Rozy. I'll send Svetlana up when she arrives. Kyle is staying down at the main bar to handle things."
As Ryan walked away, the bodyguard dropped the velvet rope, allowing Ilya to lead Shane over to a plush leather couch that undoubtedly cost more than Shane’s annual college tuition.
They sat down, and Ilya immediately pulled Shane close, resting their joined hands on his lap. He took a long drag from his glass, set it on the low table, and turned his full attention back to Shane.
"So tell me," Ilya murmured, his eyes searching Shane’s face. "Who is Shane Hollander?"
Shane swallowed hard, taking a sip of his own drink to steady his nerves. "Well, there's not much to tell. I grew up in Ottawa with my parents. After high school, I moved here to go to McGill University. I’m studying business and economics with a focus on marketing." He paused, clearing his throat. "I chose McGill because my dad graduated from their law program. He’s in politics."
Shane found himself rambling a bit, the expensive gin loosening his tongue. He told Ilya about his childhood on the ice, how he had lived and breathed hockey up until his freshman year of college. "I was hit hard by another recruit during a scrimmage. Shattered my knee. Ended my career before it even started."
Ilya listened intently, a look of genuine understanding in his eyes. "I grew up playing hockey as well," Ilya shared. "But in Russia, it is… more aggressive. I had many broken bones by the time I was sixteen."
By the time they finished their second glasses, Ilya’s arm was wound tightly around Shane’s waist, pulling Shane practically onto his lap. Shane didn't mind it at all. He leaned his head onto Ilya’s broad shoulder, feeling the heavy, pleasant buzz of the alcohol settling deep into his bones. He was a notorious lightweight, and it was catching up to him fast.
"What about you, Ilya?" Shane asked softly, looking up. "What's your story?"
Ilya’s lips thinned into a tight line for a fraction of a second. He looked at Shane, his gaze softening before a smooth smile masked whatever he was thinking. "My family is Russian. I live in Moscow, mostly, but I travel constantly. The family business requires me to move around a lot."
"And what exactly is the family business?" Shane asked, tilting his head.
Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes suddenly darted past Shane’s shoulder.
A striking woman and a sharply dressed, elegant man were walking toward the VIP enclosure. It was Svetlana and Fabian. Fabian, who handled the financial side of the family’s laundering operations, was dressed in an impeccably tailored, avant-garde suit that was far more stylish than any of the traditional mob enforcers.
Before Shane could follow Ilya’s gaze, Svetlana’s voice cut through the music. "Of course you find yourself a pretty one already, Ilya," she said, stepping into the booth and leaning down to press a kiss to each of Ilya’s cheeks. "Where did you find this one, a church?"
Fabian let out a soft chuckle, speaking in fluent Russian. "Look at him, Svetlana. He looks ready to kill you for touching what belongs to him."
Shane didn't understand the words, but he didn't like the woman’s dismissive tone. He gave Svetlana a cool, defensive look.
Ilya noticed the protective flash in Shane’s eyes and let out a genuine laugh. He reached down, offering his hand to Shane, who took it, his cheeks flushing again.
"This is Shane," Ilya introduced proudly. My Shane, he wanted to say, but he knew it was too fast, even if he had already claimed him in his own language. "We met at the diner earlier."
Fabian immediately stepped forward, offering a warm, enthusiastic hand. "Fabian. It is a pleasure to meet you, Shane." Shane smiled, sensing the man’s genuine warmth, and shook his hand.
"Ilya has always had excellent taste," Svetlana added, her icy demeanor melting as she extended her own hand. "I’m Svetlana. I have known this idiot since we were in diapers."
Shane visibly relaxed, shaking her hand with a bright, breathtaking smile that made Ilya's chest ache. "Nice to meet you both."
Svetlana turned to Ilya, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Ilya, we need to go upstairs to the boardroom. Your men are waiting to hear from you."
Ilya let out a heavy groan. Shane raised an eyebrow, picking up on the sudden shift in tension.
Nodding to Svetlana, Ilya told them to give him a moment. Fabian and Svetlana murmured their goodbyes to Shane. "Let's hope we meet again, on good terms," Fabian added the last part in Russian, earning a sharp, warning glare from Ilya.
The moment they were alone, Ilya turned, cupping Shane’s face and pulling him into a deep, surprising kiss. Shane gasped against his lips but immediately melted into it, his hands gripping Ilya’s jacket.
Ilya broke the kiss with a soft chuckle, pressing one last peck to Shane’s pouty lips. "I must go. I have an important meeting right now."
Shane whined softly, the alcohol making him bold. "I should probably go find my friends anyway," he said, looking over the balcony at the chaotic dance floor. Hayden and Rose were nowhere to be seen.
Ilya scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes confirming the friends had abandoned him. "It looks like your friends have left you. I will have my driver take you home."
"Oh, no, you don't have to—" Shane started to object.
"It was not a question, Hollander," Ilya interrupted softly, his thumb tracing Shane's cheekbone. "It is very late, and the center of the city can be dangerous."
Shane huffed, a little spark of defiance in his eyes. "I can handle myself."
Ilya laughed softly. "Maybe. But I already have her waiting outside for you. Just give her your address."
Shane let out a dramatic groan, though his heart was racing at how fiercely protective Ilya was being. "Fine. But next time, I’m taking myself home."
"That won't happen," Ilya smirked, taking him by the waist. "Let me walk you out."
He guided Shane down the stairs and through the crowded venue, keeping a protective arm locked around his waist until they reached the curb. Maria was already waiting, the back door of the luxury SUV held open.
"Thank you, Maria," Ilya said, helping a slightly swaying Shane into the plush leather back seat. The gin had officially hit its peak. "This is Shane Hollander. Please make sure he gets home safely."
"Always, Ilya," Maria said, a knowing, amused smirk on her face. "I doubt this will be the last time I see him."
Ilya rolled his eyes affectionately, then leaned into the cabin, taking Shane’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze. "Text me the moment you are inside."
Shane nodded, a giggling, loose smile on his face as he lifted Ilya’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. "I can't wait to see you again, Ilya."
A strange, unfamiliar flurry of butterflies erupted in Ilya’s chest. He smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Shane’s warm cheek.
"I will see you soon, moya lyubov’."
He gave Shane's hand one final squeeze, then stepped back and tapped the roof of the car. "Take care of him, Maria."
"Always, boss," Maria chuckled. "Now go, before Svetlana comes down here to drag you by the ear."
Ilya threw Shane one last, devastating wink before closing the door. He stood on the sidewalk, watching the taillights of the SUV disappear into the city traffic, feeling a distinct piece of his heart drive away with it.