Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #1: THE EXILE
Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander（Heated Rivalry烈愛對決TV版; 1965黑幫AU）
In 1965, Ilya Rozanov, a Russian mobster from Boston, fled to Canada, seeking the protection of the Canadian-Japanese yakuza. His secret rivalry with Shane Hollander, however, spiraled into something neither of them ever saw coming.
Or: The sons of two mob bosses fell hopelessly in love, pretending it meant nothing—until the other's life was on the line.
A quick heads-up: The plot gets a bit complicated, so forgive me for not bringing in too many of the canon cast! Also, any names or places tied to the criminal stuff have been changed. Any resemblance to real life is completely coincidental.
***
***
The pouring rain was relentless. Heavy waves crashed against the seawall, kicking up huge sprays of sea foam with every brutal hit. Seawater flooded the pier, only to be sucked back into the churning ocean by the howling wind. The air was thick with the sharp, raw smell of salt. A cargo ship, its hull painted with Japanese, pitched violently in the harbor. Under the narrow overhang of a port warehouse, three men in fedoras were locked in an argument.
The dark-haired young man rolled down his window, straining to hear them over the storm. His hand was on the door handle, ready to shove it open, when the middle-aged man in the front seat stopped him.
"Shane,"
"But Dad—" Shane argued toward the passenger seat.
Shane's father shook his head. "I don't think you need to step in." He looked out at the trio by the docks. "Looks like the Russian's got it handled."
Shane narrowed his eyes, squinting through the downpour to make out the guy's face, but all he heard was the argument slowly turning into laughter. The accented laugh sounded young. The upper half of the guy's face was hidden in the shadow of his fedora. Just as the wind blew the brim back for a split second, Shane caught sight of a mole on his left cheek. Then, pulling the hat down tight, the guy turned and walked away from the warehouse.
One of the men headed toward their car, shouting over the rain. "David!" He shot them a thumbs-up. "It's done. The Port Authority agreed to let the ship dock until the storm blows over."
"For free?" David asked from the passenger seat.
"For free! That Russian kid is something else," he said, yanking the door open and sliding into the driver's seat. He jerked a thumb in the direction the guy in the fedora had disappeared. "Sweet-talked the Port Authority into it with just a couple of Soviet jokes."
David let out a low scoff. "But that means we owe the Russians a favor."
David let out a low scoff. "But that means we owe the Russians a favor."
Shane chimed in from the back seat. "At least Mom—at least the kumicho can breathe easy now."
"Yeah, Shane. Yeah." David turned his gaze back to the howling storm over the harbor. "We can head back to Ottawa now."
***
***
The scenery outside the train window gradually slowed to a crawl. The man with golden-brown hair pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from his suit pocket and slipped them on. He rose from his seat, buttoned the double-breasted front of his black pinstripe suit jacket, and leaned down to grab the leather duffel bag at his feet. The train ground to a halt with a sharp screech from the tracks, and the passengers rose, crowding into the aisle. The man's tall, broad frame and intimidating presence made him look entirely out of place in the cramped line. As he stepped off the train, the crowd on the platform naturally parted for him.
The other platforms in the station were closed off. A row of identical posters was plastered across the construction barricades, showing faces lost in wild celebration. The blank spaces on the posters read: "Celebrate the 1967 Canadian Centennial."
The man strode through the main hall and out onto the driveway by the main entrance. The metal lettering above the doors read "UNION STATION." Built half a century ago, the building was now swallowed by scaffolding, with barricades lining the streets.
The man gazed into the distance, muttering to himself, "Otstalost..." Backward.
That was until the growl of an engine caught his attention. A black Mercedes-Benz W110 was rolling toward him. He immediately shifted his duffel bag to his left hand. His right hand slipped inside his suit jacket; the fabric over his chest bulged slightly, followed by a soft click.
The driver stepped out of the Mercedes. The dark-haired young man smoothed down his black leather jacket, then ran a hand through his bangs. A few stray strands fell across his forehead, making him look even younger than he probably was. His features carried a striking, exotic look. His flawless, smooth skin seemed to glow under the winter sun. He walked around the front of the Mercedes, approached the man, and extended a hand.
"Ilya Rozanov? I'm Shane Hollander," Hollander said, flashing a blinding smile that made the freckles on his cheeks dance.
Ilya stared at the outstretched hand, the corners of his mouth unmoving. He pulled his hand from inside his jacket but didn't return the greeting. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze darting between Hollander and the Mercedes. "I did not expect a limo driver to pick me up," he said, his English thick with a Russian accent.
Hollander's smile vanished instantly. He shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets, his shoulders tensing. "I—" he started, then forced out the rest as if grinding his teeth. "I'm sorry my appearance doesn't meet your expectations."
Ilya took off his sunglasses. "Nu neeeet..." Nooo. He shook his head playfully, dragging out the vowel. "I do not mind," he purred, narrowing his eyes as he waved his sunglasses at Hollander. "Especially not those pretty freckles on your face."
Hollander was speechless for a second, his mouth opening and closing as a light blush crept up beneath his freckles. But Ilya was already walking toward the back door of the Mercedes.
Resting his hand on the handle, he asked, "Can I get in now? Canada is freezing. Car has heat, yes?"
Before Hollander could even answer, Ilya yanked the door open.
He tossed his duffel onto the back seat, slid in, and slammed the door shut. The heavy door of the Mercedes instantly cut off the outside noise, splitting the world in two. Ilya pulled off his leather gloves, running an index finger over the leather seat before rubbing his fingertips together—the interior was obsessively clean, not even a hint of cigarette smoke. When Hollander slid into the driver's seat, Ilya swore he caught the scent of soap.
"New car?"
Hollander's furrowed brow appeared in the rearview mirror, looking like Ilya had just asked something completely ridiculous. "What?" He shook his head. "No. Had it for three years."
Ilya gave a soft grunt, pretending to look out the window while Hollander fired up the engine in awkward silence.
Ilya pulled out a pack of cigarettes, slid one out, and tapped it against the box, a sound that likely drew Hollander's attention. Then, he casually placed the cigarette between his lips and rolled down the window.
"Put it away."
Ilya turned back. Dark eyes glared at him from the rearview mirror. "Put it away. No smoking in my car."
"Hey, I rolled down the window. Besides, who doesn't smoke these days?" Ilya shrugged, the cigarette between his teeth slurring his English.
"I don't. Put that away, or get out." Hollander's threat seemed dead serious as he flicked on the turn signal, ready to pull over.
The car started drifting toward the outer lane before Ilya finally pocketed his lighter. Hollander's gaze didn't waver, his hand resting firmly on the gear shift.
Ilya finally took the unlit cigarette from his lips. "Okay, okay."
But as a petty compromise, he left the window down, letting exhaust fumes and Canadian chill flood the cabin.
The black Mercedes-Benz cruised past the Canadian Parliament Buildings, merging onto a straightaway and following the flow of traffic out of the city. The towers of Parliament and the stone mansions gradually faded into the rearview, replaced by scattered small houses and abandoned auto repair shops.
Once they hit the highway, there was nothing but trees on either side. Just before the fishy stench of river water and the sour smell of wood pulp could flood the car, Ilya rolled his window up. Smokestacks towered over the forest by the riverbank. A transport ship pulled into the river port, where workers with white cloths tied over their mouths and noses unloaded cargo, hauling it into a paper mill pumping out thick smoke.
Ilya's gaze lingered, chasing the passing scenery left behind them.
The Canadian forest in winter looked like it was covered in a thin veil of faded colors. The bare woods were stripped to skeletons, massive trees standing shoulder-to-shoulder like the teeth of a black comb stabbed into the dead grass. Flocks of winter birds circled in the gloomy sky. Heavy clouds softened the sharp peaks of the distant mountains, the range stretching northward like torn strips of pale blue silk. There were no sounds of life in the woods, only the rattle of loose gravel caught in the tires, ticking against the car's undercarriage.
The entire winter was a quiet, suffocating shade of grayish-blue.
Eventually, the trees lining the road began to thin out. The Mercedes turned onto a gravel driveway, the uneven surface bumping the car around, before finally stopping in front of an old, rusted metal warehouse.
Hollander yanked the parking brake and stepped out without a word. Ilya studied the tin shed through the window, watching Hollander push open the main doors and walk inside. Letting out a breath, Ilya wrenched the door handle and shoved his way out of the car.
As Ilya approached, the harsh scraping sounds echoing from inside the warehouse grew louder. A faded flyer was taped to the door, its edges torn. It read: "Home of the Wolfbird. Join Us. 1964-65 Season," with a hand-drawn black silhouette of a bird beneath the text.
Ilya stepped back, tilting his head up to read the peeling paint above the entrance: Blackwood Rink.
He pushed the doors open and walked in.
A wave of smells hit him instantly—sweat, damp leather, and the musty reek of cold air. The whole rink only had five rows of wooden bleachers, the seats sagging and splintered. The rink echoed with the sharp scraping of skates and rough shouts. A small group of guys in black jerseys glided across the center ice. Hollander casually flicked his fingers toward the ice, signaling the players to turn their backs.
Ilya gave them a quick glance before following Hollander down a hallway behind the bleachers.
The hallway was dimly lit, the stale smell of sweat fading into the sharp, chemical bite of bleach. The scraping from the ice was muffled behind the walls. Only the squeak of Ilya's leather shoes on the rubber mats broke the quiet. Hollander's steps, however, made absolutely no sound, like a ghost slipping through the shadows.
"Rozanov, I forgot to mention." Hollander stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. As their eyes met, the light above them flickered.
"Welcome to the Suzuran Clan's territory, the Ottawa Valley." Hollander flashed a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, then turned the doorknob.
***
BLACKWOOD RINK, OTTAWA, ONT.
***
Hidden inside the rundown hockey rink was a luxurious office.
A liquor cabinet was stocked with fancy drinkware and sake. Under the warm, dim lighting, the red velvet sofa seemed to shine with gold. A perfectly clean glass ashtray sat on a dark wood coffee table, without a single speck of ash. Behind the sofa stood a row of Japanese folding screens covered in gold leaf. In the back of the room was a large desk, and mounted on the wall behind it was a display stand holding a long sword—a katana.
Ilya couldn't help but let out a low, impressed whistle.
Hollander pointed at the couch, walking toward the cabinets against the wall. "Grab a seat," he muttered, his tone rough and impatient. The polite, respectful driver from the station was long gone.
Ilya didn't go for the sofa. Instead, he leaned against the bar. "How many rigged games does it take to build an office like this?"
Hollander grabbed two glasses, not bothering to look back. "More than just hockey."
"Smuggling?" Ilya narrowed his eyes.
His eyes slowly dragged over Hollander's build. Broad shoulders and a strong upper back that narrowed down to a tight waist. His eyes lingered on Hollander's ass for a beat before he snapped back to attention.
Hollander just grunted at the question, still facing away as he opened the liquor cabinet.
"Printing money?" Ilya asked.
Hollander shook his head. He pulled out a bottle of sake, opened it, and poured with the quick, smooth ease of a pro.
"Brothels?"
Hollander moved too fast. As he spun around with the glasses, the liquor nearly spilled over the edges. His eyes went wide. "No."
"Why not? You look like you could use a good lay." Ilya dragged his tongue slowly over his lower lip, watching as Hollander's eyes tracked the movement, following it inside his mouth.
"Stay this tense in our world... that's how you get sloppy." Ilya bit down gently on his lip, and in front of him, Hollander visibly stumbled for a second.
A sudden damp chill made Ilya glance down at the hem of his white dress shirt. Dark spots bloomed across the fabric. That was when he noticed the sound of Hollander's breathing. They were way too close. Ilya looked up at the tilted glass in Hollander's hand. There was definitely less sake in it now.
"God! I'm so sorry!" Hollander scrambled, slamming the glasses down and rushing toward a drawer by the desk.
Ilya untucked his shirt from his slacks, inspecting the spots. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa, revealing a leather shoulder holster strapped tight beneath his arm. He smoothly drew the M1911, setting it down on the coffee table before taking off the rig. Taking his time, he began unbuttoning his soaked shirt. The sweet scent of rice wine hung heavy in the air. The clear liquid only left faint gray watermarks on the fabric, but Ilya peeled the shirt off anyway.
As soon as he looked up, Ilya caught Hollander standing there with a fresh white shirt in hand, staring dead at his chest. "マブい…" Hollander breathed out, his lips parted in awe.
A slow smirk crept onto Ilya's face. He turned his body fully toward Hollander, trailing a hand down his own abs. His fingertips traced the hard lines of muscle, sliding down the trail of hair on his lower stomach until they hit the edge of his belt. Hooking a thumb into his waistband, he pulled it away from his hips in a bold tease. Hollander sucked in a sharp breath.
"Enjoying the show?" Ilya finally broke the heavy silence.
Hollander's eyes snapped up to meet Ilya's, as if suddenly remembering: Where they were. What they were doing. What had just happened.
Hollander stammered, scrambling for an excuse, but Ilya just gave a wicked laugh, pointing at his hand. "For me? The shirt?"
He took the crisp shirt from Hollander's trembling grip. "I told you at the station. I do not mind." Ilya slipped into the new shirt. It smelled heavily of starch and that clean soap. He felt a familiar, pulsing heat stir between his thighs.
Looking up at Hollander, he repeated, "I do not mind what's between the legs."
He purposefully held Hollander's gaze. The guy was still totally stunned. Making sure the flush on Hollander's face wasn't fading anytime soon, Ilya closed the distance between them. Hollander was forced to back up until his hips slammed against the bar. He threw a desperate look over his shoulder for an escape route, but Ilya's hands were already resting on his belt.
"No experience?" Ilya murmured, his fingers working the buckle.
Hollander frowned, his denial sounding more like a weak defense. "Of course I do."
Ilya arched an eyebrow. "Ah. But you acting like a virgin. Why? Never been with a guy?"
When Hollander couldn't come up with a comeback, Ilya yanked his belt loose. Hollander let out a startled yelp in Japanese before Ilya dragged down the zipper of his pants.
Hollander tried to stop him, but Ilya's hand was already slipping past his waistband. "Not right now!"
"Why not?" Ilya stroked him. What was only half-hard instantly went rock-solid in his palm. "You wanna sit down to business like this? With a hard-on? You got some weird kinks, Hollander."
"I don't—" Hollander gripped the edge of the bar, failing miserably to bite back a moan.
Hollander tried to grab Ilya's wrist, but Ilya just pumped him with a slick, maddening rhythm, stealing more pathetic whimpers from him and turning his legs to jelly.
Hard enough. Ilya abruptly let him go.
Hollander stood there panting heavily, looking down at him in total confusion, cheeks bright red and lips wet. Looking up at the sight, Ilya felt a dizzying buzz at the base of his skull, but he shoved the feeling down. "If you don't want to, we can stop."
"Fuck! You bastard." Hollander cursed. Ilya nearly laughed out loud in pure triumph. He leaned in and blew a soft breath against the side of Hollander's neck, making the guy shiver violently, unable to string a single clear sentence together. "I—this—"
Ilya hummed softly, waiting for Hollander to cave. Ilya knew he'd get exactly what he wanted.
"Please." Finally, the word slipped from Hollander's lips, so shaky and quiet it sounded like his teeth were chattering.
"What you say?" Ilya faked a reach, stopping just a hair shy of touching him, which was enough to make Hollander's thighs tremble. Smelling that intoxicating soap in the tips of his hair, Ilya couldn't resist pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against Hollander's burning throat.
"Please..." Hollander leaned his weight entirely on the bar, shifting his hips. Ilya's lips trailed along his jawline, ghosting over the skin again and again. Hollander's body language offered zero resistance. "I want it."
Ilya practically had to bite his tongue to keep from growling, but he kept baiting the hook.
"Want what?"
Suddenly, Hollander threw his head back and glared fiercely at Ilya. His brown eyes went completely dark, turning into a bottomless black with a fire raging in their depths. The clueless virgin routine had been entirely ripped away, this was a young wolf taking back his power. Hollander set his jaw. Ilya never thought a threat could sound so incredibly electrifying. Hollander ground out every syllable,
"Give. It. To. Me."
"Blya." Fuck. Ilya dropped to his knees in a heartbeat.
He grabbed Hollander's waistband, yanking the man flush against him. He rubbed his cheek against the bulge, making damn sure Hollander was watching as he nuzzled his nose into the cotton of his briefs. Right on cue, a low string of curses spilled from above.
Ilya pressed a soft kiss to his hipbone before shoving the briefs down. Beneath the fabric hid a weapon completely mismatched with that pretty baby face—something that would make Ilya insanely jealous of whatever girls he took to bed, if Hollander actually had any.
But what truly drove Ilya insane was that raw, aching erection, weeping pre-cum yet still smelling impossibly like innocent soap. So Ilya kissed the base, the shaft, and finally the tip, feeling the frantic, throbbing pulse of his desire against his lips. Only then did he open his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head, tracing its shape, drawing out even more breathless moans.
Ilya relaxed the back of his throat, letting it rest heavy on his tongue. He curled the edges of his tongue around it, playing a cruel game of pretend, pretending he was just going to hold it like this, pretending he was going to torture this boy with nothing but painfully slow friction for the rest of the night. But when Ilya heard Hollander swallowing hard over and over, saw the feverish flush on his cheeks and heard his ragged, desperate panting, Ilya took it as the ultimate green light.
Without warning, he took him deep.
Ilya couldn't tell if Hollander's muffled, choked-off cries were begging him to stop or go faster, so he just clamped his hands down on Hollander's thighs to make sure he couldn't back away. He bobbed his head with expert precision, taking him all the way down before pulling back. He reached up to knead Hollander's chest, while smacking the back of his thigh. Silently urging the rookie to figure out how to work his hips, to learn how to fuck a man's mouth.
Hollander's moans shattered into broken pieces. He trembled, his legs caving inward like a newborn calf, completely stripped of his dignity within another man's mouth. Abandoning the last shred of his pride down Ilya's throat, he was forced through his brutal rite of passage.
Then, Ilya let him slide wetly from his lips. He tilted his chin up, making a show of swallowing thickly right in front of Hollander, dragging his tongue slowly over his lower lip, just to force the realization into the boy's head: Where they were. What they were doing. What had just happened.
"Oh, fuck." Every trace of restraint was gone from Hollander's voice, replaced by heavy, regretful pants as that boyish, clueless panic climbed back onto his face.
"You'll survive, Hollander." Ilya patted his thigh.
Ilya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood up, and casually buttoned his shirt before slipping back into his shoulder holster and suit jacket.
"Bastard," Hollander cursed behind him, but the tail end of the word was mixed with a breathless laugh.
By the time Ilya sank into the red velvet sofa, Hollander had already cleared the floor. The flush had faded from his face, but seeing the slightly wrinkled state of his shirt and his thoroughly messed-up hair, Ilya couldn't hold back a laugh.
And then, there was a knock on the office door.
－
♪Listening: almost monday "enjoy the ride"
Don't give my time to the future 'cause there's nothing to lose
I got my windows down, gonna swim in the blue
How will I make it out, yeah, I don't have a clue
Glossary and Historical Notes:
- Kumicho (組長): The boss or absolute head of a Yakuza organization (similar to a Mafia Godfather).
- Mabui (マブい): Old-school Japanese slang meaning "stunning,". It’s actually short for 'まぶしい' (blindingly bright) and is typically used to describe a beautiful woman.
- Russian Mafia in the US: Historically, they didn't actually set up shop in North America until the late 20th century, after the Soviet Union collapsed. So yeah, Russian organized crime wasn't really a thing in the 1960s.
- Canadian-Japanese Yakuza: Japanese syndicates weren't operating in Canada in the '60s either. But I absolutely love Kill Bill, so...
- Boston Harbor: After the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, security got super tight, and all U.S. ports were put under heavy restrictions.
- Ottawa Union Station: This place was open from 1912 to 1966. It actually closed down right at the end of 1965 for an urban renewal project to prep for the 1967 Canadian Centennial. Today, it’s the Senate of Canada Building.
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