AU. Ivan Braginsky, head of the local Russian mafia, falls in love with naive Alfred Jones. He hopes Alfred will never find out just what he does, but nothing in life is ever easy. De-anon from the kink meme. Rated M for a few scenes of adult fun, story is mostly T otherwise. RusAme main, Franada, mentions of GerIta.

So yeah, this is what I've been up to lately. That, and I've been stuck with my other stories. XD If you've been patiently waiting for an ending to my other RusAme ongoing story, The Best Laid Plans... sorry. ^^; I'd had an ending in mind when I started it, but lost it somewhere along the way, and now I have no idea how to interestingly conclude it yet. lol I fail.

Bratva means 'brotherhood', a word used for various Russian crime syndicates, like the Solntsevskaya Bratva in Moscow. It seemed like a nifty word for a title, anyway.

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.


Ivan tensed when he heard his bedroom door open. He wasn't on edge because he didn't know who the intruder was. Quite the opposite. It was because he did know, and it creeped him out every time. And not much creeped him out.

Without any sound or warning, slender arms slipped around him. She moved on silent feet; she always did. It went with the job. "Brother..."

Ivan swallowed at the husky way she said that word. "You're back."

"Yes." Natalia stepped around him, dark smile marring her otherwise sweet appearance. With her slight figure, long flowing hair, and childish outfit, only those who already knew her would guess her true nature. "I finished what you asked of me."

A smile spread across Ivan's face. "The snitch?"

"Taken care of."

"Excellent. Good job, Nata."

She gave him a pleased, slightly hopeful look.

"I have another job for you."

"Tell me," Natalia said promptly.

"From the owner of that gentleman's club. The Dollhouse."

"The Dollhouse," she repeated, eyes narrowing and smile dropping into a frown. "That strip club is owned by Mr. Beilschmidt."

"Yes."

"You know his brother is with the Italians!" Natalia hissed.

"I know that." Ivan smirked. "Ludwig is with the Italians. And now his brother owes us a favor..."

"Ahh." Natalia giggled. "Splendid. All right, who is it?"

"A gang of thugs. They call themselves the East Side Boys. They have apparently been causing trouble in Mr. Beilschmidt's establishment."

"I see. A mob war, then?"

Ivan snorted. "Hardly. They are merely a gang of young punks. The world would be better off without them."

"I will see to it." Quick and silent, as her movements always were, Natalia simultaneously stood on tiptoe and tugged Ivan down by his scarf to kiss him. He suppressed a shudder.

After watching his sister leave, Ivan himself wandered out of his ornate bedroom. He had other things to attend to. He strolled through the vast hallways of his home, locating the men he was searching for seated in the game room playing poker, surrounded by alcohol and music.

"Toris," Ivan said. "Eduard. You're needed."

"What is it?" Toris said, tossing his cards aside.

"Go visit Wallingford Cleaners."

Eduard, fan of cards still held before his face, raised an eyebrow. "Do you need some dry cleaning done?"

Ivan sighed, running a hand through his pale hair. "No. But they are quite late in their payment for our protection."

"We're on our way." The pair stood, and Ivan turned to leave. He was pretty sure that was all the business that needed taking care of for the time being. Satisfied, he walked down to the kitchen, to the bar, and poured himself a glass of vodka. The liquid burned its usual path down his throat and he smiled, content.

He had just started in on his second glass when the doorbell rang. Frowning, Ivan set the full glass down. He was the closest to the front door, so he approached it on silent feet and glanced out the peephole. He frowned when he was confronted by the sight of a friendly grin and cardboard box. "Yes?" he said, tugging the door open. "Did somebody order a pizza?"

"Hey," the delivery boy said, "that's my line, man. Are you Toris?"

"Ah. No." Ivan noticed the logo on the box. It was an Italian place Toris had grown fond of. Not to mention one of the few Italian joints in town not under their jurisdiction. Ivan patted his pockets. "Come in, let me find my wallet."

"Sure." The boy stepped inside, shutting the front door with his foot. Ivan led the way. Uncomfortable with the silence—broken occasionally by the boy's humming—he tried making idle chitchat. "So. You have been in the pizza delivery business long?"

"Nah. Just started recently. It pays okay, though not as much as my night job. I tend bar at The Hideout."

"Two jobs." Hard work was something Ivan could appreciate. The boy looked young, though. Ivan imagined he would look even younger without his glasses. "Do you go to school around here?"

"Nah," he said again. "My brother does, though. We graduated high school last year and he moved here to go to college, so I came with him. I was gonna join the Air Force right outta school, I've always wanted to, but y'know. Our parents—they're good parents! Don't get me wrong!—but they're the type of parents who are all 'You're an adult now, you're on your own!' So I decided to put off the Air Force for a year or two and work to help out my brother so he has more time to study."

Ivan held up the wallet he had retrieved, blinking at the talkative boy. He hadn't really asked for his life story... "So you put off your dream to work two thankless jobs to help your brother." He had to admit, that was somewhat impressive.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," the boy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I get thanked sometimes! Oh, it's fifteen bucks."

Ivan nodded, pulling a ten and a five out of his wallet. "What did you say your name was?"

"Me? I'm Alfred F. Jones!" He set the pizza on the table with a grin, eyes sparkling. They were pretty, Ivan realized. His bright blue eyes and golden hair reminded Ivan of wheat fields and sunny skies. The very type of imagery that had driven him to move to that country in the first place. "You?"

"Me?" Ivan blinked, before understanding dawned. "Ah, right. I am Ivan Braginsky." He tugged another bill out for the tip, a hundred, and passed the money to Alfred.

"Thanks, man. Oh, hey..." Alfred's smile fell. "I can't make change for that."

"I know. That is for you."

"Wha—hey. I can't-"

"You will," Ivan said, eyes narrowing.

Alfred swallowed, staring up into Ivan's eyes. "Oh. Y-yeah. Thanks, man! Damn..."

Ivan glanced down at the large pizza on the table, hoping Toris chose decent toppings. The delivery boy hadn't left yet. For some reason, Ivan didn't mind. "Your jacket is nice. Is it old?"

Alfred's face lit up. "My grandfather was a World War II fighter pilot. He gave it to me when he died."

"Is that what led to your future career choice?"

"One of the reasons. What do you do? Something good I bet. Doctor? Lawyer?"

"I... run a business."

To his relief, the boy did not press for details. "Cool. So hey, I guess I better get back to work."

Ivan nodded. "Goodbye, Alfred."

"Bye!" The boy waved cheerfully, and walked off in the general direction of the front door.

Ivan retrieved his second glass of vodka, and seated himself at the table, flipping open the box. Pepperoni and mushroom. Good enough. He helped himself to a couple slices, picking mushrooms off and setting them aside. He turned the television on, occasionally giggling at the news as they reported on acts of violence.

And all the while, he kept finding himself thinking of blue eyes.