NATASHA IVANOV | 26 | RUSSIAN - CAMPAIGN MARKETER To be happy, society screams at us with images of perfection. What you wear, how thin you can be. Who you are never mattered. The pain they throw upon young girls. Pretty hurts, skin and bones are beauty. Reality is that the norm is no more. Why can't the pain go away? Looking into a mirror you’re not happy, tears stain the floor beneath you as you pull against the parts you can no longer stand because of the words that you are fed through media images. When you close your eyes at night your no longer happy with yourself. Perfection kills you from the inside out as you finally see a beauty that was always there. | DIAMONDRINGPRG |
&& OPEN [ to russians only ] || fucking! fuck fuck fuck!
She knew the doctor’s orders was to remain in bed. Not that she had actually gone to a hospital or anything like that, god no. Simply while she had been out, Viktor had known better than to take her anywhere and brought a doctor to her. So yes, it was literally doctor’s orders to be resting in bed, drink plenty of water and not overexert herself. She had no physical injuries but the drugs had done quite a bit to her system. Whatever. She was alive and she was bored. Walking to the kitchens of the Valentina home wasn’t such a big deal right? Its been a while since she’s stayed the night but walking into the kitchens still felt normal, she wondered if she would find her favorite cook? Maybe indulge in a snack made with love. That sounded nice.
While walking she felt a dizzying spell and was forced to lean against the table. Groaning as the world shifted around them. She was sick of this. “Fucking…Irish. Ugh! Fuck fuck fuck!” Pounding on the table with her fists she managed a few hits before she was forced to stabilize herself again. There was no proof it was the Irish mafia behind the drugging, but in her gut she knew it to be true. For they were the one true enemy they faced, more than any of the other factions. Her face twisted up in a snarl just thinking of how easy it would have for her to die at the gala. She had been left defenseless, useless, truly vulnerable. It was maddening to think of.
Natasha’s own mind was reeling. The events of the Gala had taken a turn for the worst -- she’d only slipped out Roan’s room several hours earlier, when the sun had barley peaked over the Upper Bay and Viktor Valentina had called her to his home. Technically speaking, Natasha wasn’t the Russian’s political advisor. She was just her elder brother’s -- but all the same, she had enough knowledge on the topic that she’d been unsurprised to be summoned as she had. There would be a fall out for this. There was no doubt. Even if it hadn’t been the Russians so cause the shootout, whispers of repercussions were already flooding New York, within their territories and from outside. With Mikhail as their way back into the government, it was her duty -- of only self appointed -- to ensure that there was still a Bratva to support him.
The blonde hesitated as she heard the heavy fist falls, thudding violently against what sounded like a wooden table. Her heels clicked loudly on the floor as she backtracked to the door from which the sound had come from, and with a square of her shoulders, she pushed open the slightly ajar door and stepped past it’s threshold. It took her a moment, but she recognized the woman. Her presence in the compound only confirmed her earlier suspicions.
Call Viktor Valentina.
“Pardon me,” She said after a moment, keeping her hand on the doorknob incase she was asked to leave as quickly as she’d come in. “I’m Natasha Ivanov. We spoke, at the Gala -- are you alright?”
And there was the other shoe, dropping right smack on Roan’s face as always. He’d managed to help a few bystanders find shelter behind the bar he’d been working all evening (minus the “breaks” he took when he spotted a familiar face), but being pinned down under reckless gunfire was about as far from where he wanted to be as he could imagine. He chanced a peak over the bar, but had to duck back down as another hailstorm of bullets flew mere inches overhead, shattering bottles along the wall behind him. It was too loud in here to think properly, and panic was overtaking him by the minute. Despite his fervent desire to escape the mafia game, to leave behind the violence he’d ingrained in himself since youth, Roan knew he was going to have to put it to use if he wanted to make it out of here alive. He’d just… rather put it off until it was absolutely necessary.
Just as he was committing to that thought, he spotted her. Across the room, hunkered down, trying desperately to stay out of the line of fire. He should have known she’d be here, and yet somehow the possibility hadn’t occurred to him until this exact moment. And in that moment, tactical planning went out the window, as did any concern he had for anyone else at the party. Roan Ó Faoláin was not a good man, even by his own reckoning. He would wrestle with the moral quandary his actions posed later—for now, he was focused on keeping Natasha Ivanov safe, because who was he if not the sorry sonofabitch who was still in love with her in spite of everything? Disregarding the bullets still flying everywhere, Roan abandoned the people cowering behind the bar and made a dash for it, circling the room, cover-to-cover until he reached her and could clasp a hand on one of her slim shoulders. “I’m getting you out of here. Now.” It was a promise. An order. A declaration.
Nastaha couldn’t find her phone. After the gunshots had rained down in the ballroom, she’d pulled it from her pocket book in a panic. Hands shaking, body trembling -- and someone had hit her with such a force in an attempt to flee that she’d had to let it go in order to stop herself from tumbling to the ground. Since then, she’d kicked off her heels. They weren’t suited for running. Neither was her dress, but she couldn’t exactly strip naked in front of New York’s elite, even if there were crazy men slinging guns around like they controlled life and death. She’d passed a spot of blood before she’d managed to stow herself behind a toppled table.
Natasha didn’t want to know who it belonged to.
She whipped her head around as the grip around her shoulder materialized, twisting her body in her crouched position to raise a can of pepper spray she always kept on her. Had it been anybody else, she’d have sprayed him -- but her stomach flipped, and even Natasha couldn’t ignore the sickly sweet feeling of suddenly knowing she would make it out of this alive.
“And how do you expect to do that? You’ll be seen.” He’d done his job already -- he’d kept her alive for a number of years. They didn’t owe each other anything. But something in her had known, even if she’d been avoiding him the entirety of the gala. She’d known in her deepest heart that Roan would come for her. Even if she didn’t want to admit it. “People were screaming. It was the Italians -- and the Irish are here. If they see you, Roan. I just have to find my phone -- and -- and you need to get out of here.”
Catarina was making her way towards the nearest balcony, it was too stuffy, too crowded in the main ballroom. The opulence was overbearing and the competing designer fragrances were assaulting her senses. Everything in her body was screaming for release, for a way out. She needed a break and thought, perhaps now, the fresh air would help.
However a step later Catarina felt the room tilt and swirl around her. Her balance became non existent and she accidentally bumped into a person walking by. “I’m sorry I-” The same feeling came over her again and she was forced to lean on the person, she clutched onto their arm strongly, trying to stay upright. What the fuck was happening? She didn’t even drink enough to warrant this kind of dizziness. “I don’t… I swear I’m not drunk. I just…I’m sorry for getting so handsy. I-I need to get out of here.”
Hands flew out to clutch her arm, and the sound Natasha made in the back of her throat was nothing short of a quieted yelp of surprise. Half a squeaking noise, half a quick and learned habit of shoving down the sound so she didn’t sound like a child. Her pocketbook skittered to the floor as she reached out to catch the woman -- she swore she’d seen her before, but at these parties, that always seemed to be the case -- and she quickly found herself carrying the weight of the woman. Natasha had slipped out into the balcony to avoid such drunkness, but the way she was rambling on...
“Did someone put something in your drink? Were you watching it?” With the amount of Russians, Italians, and all the rest roaming the hotel that night, traffickers couldn’t be far off. “Were you watching it?” Natasha asked in earnest, gently helping her in the direction of a small table on the edge of the balcony. Candles flickered atop it, but she was sure it was paleness that made the brunette look so gaunt, not the firelight. “Here, here -- sit, okay? Do you need me to call someone?”
SHE TAKES A MOMENT / BREATHES. takes in the environment that she’s at currently, all too unfamiliar to her. people all around talking - socializing, some grim, some pretty and there’s not denying that most of them hold themselves very gracious & charming. for the kind of work she does, one would think that she would be used to people or all kinds but this, was just a tad bit out of her zone. the few portraits hanging, the decoration and the soft music in the background; as a whole it was a long room too, and every way capacious.
boney hands tremble as she pats her dress down in an attempt to get rid of any wrinkles that may show. she’s come to the gala on behalf of her chief, and though she knows how to behave in such events there’s still s hint of nervousness when it comes to it ‘ is it really that obvious? ’ she finally manages to muster, at no one in particular but to herself
Natasha had been in her own world -- daydreaming. When she was younger, it was almost a constant look for her. Crystal blue eyes fixed at a spot on her feet, the sky, an empty spot on the wall. Daydreaming about the world and what adventures there were to be had. Now, it was almost like a day nightmare. The world crashing down around her, everything she’d put her blood, sweat, and literal tears unraveling like a spool of thread. At least it would be fast, if it did.
Endings in New York always were.
The blonde blinked sharply, sucking in a breath of air as the woman spoke -- had she been starring at her? She must have, based on the words she spoke. But her face spoke a different story despite her words, and as Natasha’s eyes fluttered back into focus, she could see she was a little... lost, perhaps?
“Obvious?” She asked, her voice raising in question. “Nothing around here ever is -- if you mean that you look a little out of place, it could be that you don’t have a drink.” Realzing the sharpness in her voice, the normally stern woman smiled. “Pardon me, I’m not myself tonight. Are you looking for someone, maybe?”
Once in the public eye, always in the public eye. It was no surprie that Natasha received an invitation to what is being considered the party of the year. While the Golighty Gala feels exactly like the many coming of age parties Natasha attended as a budding woman in society, this is certainly a party she can’t miss. Her main priority -- in addition to keeping a close eye on her brother Mikhail -- is to schmooze the Golightys into supporting her brother in his race for senator. When the rich show their interest in a promising candidate, usually the rest follow. While she by no means wishes to be there, and would much rather be trying to figure out why her life feels like it is falling apart, she has arrived with a smile on her face -- stag. The lack of a date has been duly noted by onlookers.
Feliks hummed as if he understood and that sort of thing happened to him all the time. It didn’t, he rarely left New York. “Yes, and I have no doubt that you are serving us well down there.” If Feliks was being honest, he didn’t trust politicians. Not the ones out front, making the speeches. But people like Natasha, they were the smart ones. Honestly, they were the ones you shouldn’t trust but they were also the ones who were the most useful. “I’ve been alright. You know, it’s impossible to get blood out of ties though which is rather annoying.” He glanced over at her and offered a charming if somewhat actually genuine smile. “You know you can call me Feliks, right? Everyone calls me Feliks.”
“Clearly you haven’t tried getting blood out of delicates.” Natasha said the sentence without quite realizing what she was saying -- but as soon as the words left her lips, she sharply set down her drink and shot him an apologetic look. “Pardon me -- the flight was long, and I’m not really feeling well.” She lied. God, when had she slept last? He stomach was in knots constantly.
Turning in her seat -- the bar stool rotating as she did -- the blonde faced him, quirking a pine needle straight eyebrow. “Feliks. Right.And what, exactly, has you trying to get blood out of your formal wear?”
She put up a fight, which wasn’t unexpected. Natasha had always been her own woman, no matter how much care she put into the politicians she managed. They didn’t own her heart or mind, and she was fiercely protective of both. But Roan did still have the advantage of strength, one of the few advantages he felt he had left to his name, and though she dug in her heels, she couldn’t stop him from hurrying her out the door. The sooner the better, too; he wasn’t much for praying, but he prayed now that everyone in the bar let it go as just another one of “those things” that happened in New York.
No sooner were they in the hall than he saw a blur out of the corner of his eye. Her palm landed squarely on the side of his face, and the skin she’d hit immediately flushed and stung. His cheek throbbed and his mouth hung open, but it happened so fast that it took him a moment to actually realize that she had indeed smacked him. One hand prodded gently at his face as he stared at her in shock. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time she’d had cause to hit him like this—when he’d been younger and even more stupid, he’d said one or two things that warranted a good wallop, and she’d rightfully delivered. But of course, this was the first time they were seeing each other after years, and this was the first smack that he felt as much in his heart as on his face.
The shock (tinged with a bizarre feeling of pride for her) melted quickly into dread that dripped like a sickly syrup into his stomach. The photo she held up to him on her phone was not what he wanted to see. No one should ever have seen this. Or him. Fuck. Natasha was ranting at him, but there was a ringing in his ears that wasn’t actually from the smack. Who took that photo? Who were they working for? How had they recognized him? Had they been told to look for him, or was it a coincidence? Millions of questions ricocheted around his skull, adding a headache to the throbbing in his face.
Finally, he looked up at her again. For a heartbeat, he was seeing her as he’d last seen her years before, young and hopeful, graceful and ready to take on the world. Then he blinked, and time righted itself so that he could see better the difference seven years could make. She was still beautiful beyond words, still graceful, still poised and polished, but she bore herself as a woman who had already experienced her share of hardships and had come away from them stronger than ever. The way her jaw was set, the rage in her eyes that made their blue irises crackle like lightning, he knew she’d learned better than most civilians how to take punches and throw them back (literally and figuratively) harder than she was given.
He tried to come up with a response. But nothing came to mind. No words that could explain away over five years of separation, of the things he’d seen and done, why he’d left her without a word as though nothing had ever happened between them. So his mouth made do for him.
“I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry.
Once, she might have melted at the sound of those words. Her rage would have subsided, flickering out like the burst of light after a firecracker. She could smell it – feel it, and hear it. The unmistakable sweet smell. Hand in hand with the sizzle on a stove top and a morning breeze drifting lazily in through the window. Natasha nearly closed her eyes in attempt to savor the memories that had so long been caged at the back of her mind, take a deep breath and let herself remember those words and that feeling. Once, she might have craved it all.
I’m sorry.
She had no such craving. Now, her gaze was razor sharp, digging into Roan’s with no intention of releasing him. She wanted him to see her pain. To see all that he’d done with her heart, her mind. It had been one of her girlfriends who’d sent the picture that morning. Nothing more than an innocent bystander, unattached to the mafia or mob or crime rings of the Big Apple. No, Taylor was simply that – a civilian. Isn’t this your ex? The text had read. The text that had caused this… interaction. The chance meeting of strange circumstances, where an older and different – so, so different – Roan was saying i’m sorry.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She asked, words like a ice-pick chipping away at solid steel. Natasha rarely cursed – she’d been raised to think it beneath her, that there were better way to express one’s self without using such awful language. But – damnit! – nothing else seemed to fit. “You’re sorry? Sorry? Is that all you have to say for yourself? After everything you’ve done.”
Not a question – a command, accusing and poisoned as it dripped from her tongue and seemed to heat up the room. Her palm pulsed – a tingle ran through her fingertips, and she flexed her hand. Then, she balled it into a fist, tiny crescent moons digging into her flesh. The throb they caused suddenly seemed to be the only thing keeping her from turning and leaving him this time. Walking out of his life, as he had hers. Living with the satisfaction that he would cry over her, that he would feel all of that pain she’d bottled.
No. She thought. No, this isn’t about that. This is… This was about Nicollo, how Roan had taken a life and vanished without a trace… Or was it?
“Miss Ivanov,” Feliks said with a flourish, “a pleasure as always.” He was in the High Tide, the music slightly dimmed up here in the VIP loft and Feliks was making the most of his evening off. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again for a while. I thought you were off on business.” @natashaivanov
“Just a quick trip to DC,” Natasha said with a tight lipped smile, before tipping back her white Russian. Ironic, she thought bitterly, before setting it back down with a sigh. It was far too early for drinks, but the blonde couldn’t seem to help it. She suddenly had so much more on her plate than she did 48 hours ago -- she hadn’t been in DC at all, rather dealing with reappearance of Roan. Mostly how to keep the idiot hidden. “Mikhail had a few meetings. How have you been, Mr. Dyatlov?”
Just another day slinging drinks for the Happy Hour crowd. Despite the low level of tension that hovered around him every waking second, Roan had to admit that he was really quite glad to be back in New York even under these shitty circumstances. He wasn’t technically in the mob life anymore, and although there had been a time when he couldn’t imagine such freedom, he now found himself thoroughly enjoying it. Even the deal that had brought him back wasn’t actually mob work as far as he was concerned. He didn’t go to any deals, he didn’t push any illicit goods, he didn’t have to beat the shit out of anyone or kill them. And he wasn’t even in a position to actually be called a snitch, not with how little he knew the city and the Irish anymore. He could give Olivier a couple names of important people not to cross and the general layout of the New York crime scene when asked, but he wasn’t a spy. And the only time the Magpie had required him as a bodyguard so far was just in his wanderings around this ridiculous hotel, talking and acquainting him with this new and exciting city.
And when he wasn’t doing any of that, Roan was tending the bar at The Garden Hotel. Well, one of its bars, it had a couple that he rotated through. The hotel owner wasn’t a Corsican but was apparently always in need of bartenders for some reason, so the arrangement had been easy to make. And it was soothing work in a way. He dealt with some idiots, he dealt with some pretentious assholes, and he dealt with drunk fucks who couldn’t find their way out of a sweater, let alone into the bathroom. But it was so simple and easy compared to what he’d done before that he couldn’t complain. And despite being a shady shite, the Magpie was good on his word of providing Roan with protection and cover. No one from the Irish had caught wind of his presence in the city again, and he was looking forward to keeping it that way.
So when the click-clack of heels on the tile of the Belladonna Bar caught his attention over the Happy Hour hubbub, Roan didn’t really think anything of it. It was only when a furious and familiar voice screeched his name across the bar, grinding the chatter to a halt, that he looked up. His heart didn’t so much sink into his stomach as plummet through his stomach, out his ass, and straight into the molten core of the Earth.
How?!
There was no way she should have known. Not her of all people. Damien had promised him, sworn that he would make sure Roan was safe and kept out of sight and sound from anyone who had once known him. He’d used every alias he’d ever had, even creating a few new ones for good measure. He’d never paid with a card or checks that had his real name on it. And as much as it had pained him, he hadn’t even called or tried to contact his mom or Kelly.
So how had Natasha Ivanov, the woman he’d have married without hesitation if he could’ve and had fled to protect (as much as to protect himself and his family), found him here?
He was struck dumb for a moment before adrenaline surged through his system. “Take over, Johnny,” Roan muttered, tossing his towel to the other bartender, who was looking just as shocked as the rest of the patrons. With broad strides, he left the bar and approached her. She looked as beautiful as he remembered her, and full ten times as wrathful, but that didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. There was too much at stake. Without a word, he slid an arm around her shoulders and forcibly began pushing her back towards the door, trying to get her out of the bar and away to somewhere more private as fast as possible. All the while, Roan’s mind raced. How had she found him? Did she know about Boston, what he’d done? How had she been? What was he going to say? He had no answers, but he was sure he was about to get plenty.
Natasha’s mind was moving a million miles a second, flashes of a younger Roan like a sheen over the figure that was headed in her direction in long, powerful strides. The memory of him. The mocking innocence of it all, how life had seemed so much easier. But with each step, it was fading, and his true colors loomed like a mournful shrine to the past he’d abandoned. On one side, she had as many questions as he did – what the hell was he doing back in New York, and why the hell hadn’t he told her he was leaving in the first place? On the other, there was blind fury, a red tinge like a haze over her powder blue eyes. She’d been two seconds away from grabbing the nearest empty beer bottle and chucking it at his head.
Murderer! She wanted to scream at him, her shoulders heaving as she sucked in several deep breaths. Her scowl was practically tattooed. You’re just like the rest of them! And he was – his shock at the sound and lack of verbal response to his given name was enough to confirm it.
But instead, she was lifting her pocketbook and pointing it at him accusingly as he leered closer, his face losing the shocked expression she’d initially installed on it. “Don’t you dare,” She warned, as if her purse might stop him from swooping down on her. “I swear, if you so much as touch me – “ But his arm locked around her, and Natasha’s body went as rigid as ice. It was a split second – enough to let her be herded towards the door. But it was his silence that broke the spell – what reignited her previous anger even brighter than before. She dug her heels into the tile, the sound scraping across her eardrums as the bar-goers moved fully to the back of her mind. It was only after he’d pushed her completely out of the bar that she managed to spin out of his hold.
Crack! At a slender 5′9 – taller, in heels – striking him clean across the face had come almost easily. The slap echoed in the empty hall, and she became all too aware of the tingling across her palm and the red mark appearing on his cheek. She’d hit him, and she’d hit him hard.
“You – how stupid are you?” She demanded, not bothering to lower her voice now that they were alone. Natasha hated him – her blood boiled, and despite the emptiness of the hall, there was a roar in her ears. The heartbreak he’d caused her was threatening to bubble back to the surface, to send her into a puddle of tears and sorrow like it had when he’d first left. Seeing him was like ripping her heart out again and cutting it clean in half. Natasha thrust her hand into her pocket book, letting it clatter loudly to the floor as she brought out her cell phone, unlocked it, and practically shoved it into his face.
It was a picture of him on a New York sidewalk, headed into The Garden. An image her friend had texted her only hours ago, which had spurred Natasha to leave the office and head straight there. Roan had taken everything into account – everything except that the mafia weren’t the only ones who remembered him.
“I should turn you into the police! You murdered him.” She seethed. You left me. “I should hand you over to the Italians – better yet, the damn Irish!”
If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
“The coast, I think. Somewhere quiet. On the beach, and theres a small town where nobody reads enough tabloids to know who I am or what my family has done. Where I could raise my own family and not have to worry about guns and gambling.”
Natasha resembled someone on a man-hunt. Her blonde hair was windblown, and she could have sworn she’d nearly broken one of her heels – all because of her haunting pace, quick and angry and dead set on getting to her destination. A bar – the bastard was working in a fucking bar, after he’d abandoned her and nearly ruined the Ivanov name. A fucking bar, after he’d shot and murdered her fianće.
While the news was old – and everybody had their opinions of Nicollo Vicario – Natasha was still furious. He’d been meant to be her husband. Protection with the Italians, when her father and Roan had disgraced them with the Irish. Her father had slaved over the match -- damn him -- but it was her poor mother who had worked tirelessly to un-do the damage her father had created out of selfish, greedy desire. And Natasha had agreed. Despite her successful life and own innocence, she’d agreed, because that was what you did for family. She could’ve found a way to love Nicollo, if not for the fact that Roan had appeared out of nothingness and snatched it all away.
Roan, Roan, Roan. She was going to murder him.
“Who do you think you are?” Natasha all but screeched as soon as she laid eyes on him behind the bar, ignoring the patrons who looked at her as if she’d broken a window. What a story that would be – the Natasha Ivanov, esteemed campaign manager, roaring like a lioness preparing for a kill. She half expected the story to be in the news the next morning.
Natasha’s phone was pressed close to her ear, her full lips twisted into a hard line. “No -- no. Mikhail’s interview was supposed to be pushed until Friday, not Thursday. Call the station and tell them he’ll be in a meeting with Mayor Shapiro, and if they try to tell you they can’t do it, remind them that they’re the ones who begged him to come in.” The person on the other line started chattering away, causing the blonde to scowl. “I don’t care if they’ve already booked him for Thursday. He’s on Friday, or not at all.”
With that, she hung up with a sharp click of the end call button. “I swear, I have to do everything myself,” She grumbled, pushing out of the revolving door of her office, only to knock shoulders with someone on the way out. “Oh, really?” Natasha gasped, her briefcase spilling open on the concrete.
&&. word has it ( natasha ivanov ) was just spotted around the city. ( she ) is a ( 26 ) year old affiliated with ( the russian mafia ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( rosie huntington-whiteley ). ( she ) has been said to be ( dutiful & well-mannered ) but also quite ( prudish & strict ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( a campaign manager ). // ace
( natasha ivanov ) would describe ( herself ) as a ( fall ) person and would identify as a ( lawful good ). ( her ) birthday is ( december 23rd ), making ( her ) star sign ( capricorn ) and ( her ) animal sign the ( hawk ). ( his/her/their ) biggest pet peeve is ( disorganization ), and (her ) theme song is ( style by taylor swift ). finally, ( her ) primary goal is to ( prove that her father’s mistakes are not her own ).
The political history of the Ivanov family is a complicated one. So complicated that Natasha Ivanov has become notorious for sighing through her nose, squaring her shoulders, and repeating the phrase pay attention, it’s a lot to explain to her close friends and co workers.
It all began with her great grandfather. There wasn’t much to tell about her grandfather Mikhail, other than the distinct fact that it was he who brought that Ivanovs to New York City, and it was he who her grandfather, father, and older brother were named after. But, it was also he who they all gave credit to. If he hadn’t ever moved to the Big Apple, there might not have been the biggest scandal the city had seen in a decade, spurred on by his yet to be born grandson. Though he would die before he ever met the third Mikhail of the Ivanov family, he would live long enough to establish himself with the Russian Mafia, marry a woman who also happened to be a first generation Russian immigrant, have a son, and then promptly stumble drunk in front of a bus and die on impact before that son reached the age of five. His newly established connection to the Russian Mafia died with him.
That five year old eventually became a man. Her grandfather’s luck in New York was significantly better than his father’s. Mikhail the second did not marry a Russian woman, much to his mother’s disgust. Instead, Mikhail the second married a first generation Irish immigrant who had moved to New York with her parents and younger sister. Like Mikhail the first, Mikhail the second’s wife — a red head named Aileen, Nastasha’s grandmother — had established herself with the Irish Mob. Unlike her husband, her ties and loyalties ran much deeper, as she and her parents simply paid the Mob to protect their small grocery store. This relationship would lead to that the Irish backing his bid for the mayor of New York City.
Now, Mikhail the second managed to win the race, despite the fact that his parents were immigrants. His attachment to the Irish Mafia managed to stay completely underwraps, and he kept the title for two consecutive terms. The Irish Mafia was able to get away with a little more crime than most, kept out of the public eye as much as Mikhail the second could manage without raising suspicion. Within those two terms, Mikhail the third was born, and his political future was laid out before him.
It’s here that Natasha begins to leave out her family’s involvement with the Irish crime ring, glossing over the gory details. The picture perfect version is that her father — Mikhail the third — was caught laundering money and committing fraud in order to win his campaign. But, the true story of the scandal that would knock Mikhail Ivanov III out of his own race for mayor, losing to the current mayor of New York, Lana Shapiro, was that he betrayed the Irish Mafia to work with the Italians, after gambling most of his money — i.e, Irish money — away in their casino, promising information and names in exchange for forgetting his debt and protecting him from Flanagan’s wrath.
This aspect of the political history of the Ivanov family was what most involved Natasha. With her grandfather the former mayor of New York, and her father vying for the title, Natasha was a socialite without wanting to be one. Constantly in the eye of the press, it wasn’t long before her father hired Roan Ó Faoláin to keep an eye on her prior to betraying the Irish. It was her grandmother Aileen’s idea, and the events that followed involving the Belfast native complicated things even farther.
From the time she was eighteen, the brutishly tall man was a constant presence in her life, a sort of back bone in an otherwise crazy existence. Between paparazzi and trying to get her public administrations degree at the Melbourne Institute, having someone to talk to outside her picture perfect life was a blessing. Falling in love with him was slow, and then all at once — the two of them tried to keep their relationship strictly professional, but it seemed as if fate had another plan entirely. Natasha might even have married him, if her father hadn’t been such an idiot. For two years, the two shared an intimate and secret relationship, because Nastaha Ivanov was supposed to be picture perfect perfection, not sleeping with the help.
But then, Roan disappeared, right when she needed him most. Natasha and her brother were shocked to hear of their father’s dealings with the Italians, nearly as blind sided as the Irish has been. Several days later, Mikhail the third was out of his race for mayor, his face plastered across newspapers, magazines, and broadcasts — the Irish had released his part in illegal activities, sullying his reputation just weeks before the final vote. He’d stay in prison for the ten months.
The Italians, particularly Dante Vicario, didn’t wait very long to secure proof of the Ivanov’s loyalty. Mikhail III quickly and quietly arranged the engagement of Natasha to Dante’s elder half brother, Nicollo, before his arrest. Heartbroken and plagued with the responsibility of trying to fix the Ivanov name, Natasha agreed. Protecting themselves with the guard of the Italians was the right choice, even if it felt so awfully wrong.
The two were engaged for the better part of a year and a half, waiting for wedding planning until her father was out of prison. Little did she know, Nicollo Vicario was monster in his own way. But, that didn’t matter — Nicollo was shot and killed before they could even properly set the date. It didn’t take Natasha long to figure out who had fired the bullet. There were only so many people with his physical description, especially those who had shown up randomly in Boston at the time of Roan’s disappearance. While Dante Vicario didn’t seem too beat up about his half brother’s death — and neither was Natasha, despite what people think, and the fact that Roan had not only broken her heart but possibly ruined her chance at happened— it meant there was no real alliance between the Italian Mafia and the Ivanov family, even if they were on good terms.
This was that promoted her brother, older than her by five years, to announce his intentions to run for Senator — in addition to the fact that he had discovered his name sake, Mikhail the first’s, association with the Russian Mafia. Her brother pledged himself to the Valentina family as their great grandfather had done in order to once more protect his family, and disowned their father. Natasha, tired of having men dictating her path in life, did the same of her own free will. Finally using the degree she’d worked her ass off to get, she became her brother’s campaign manager, and is now currently doing her best to show the political scene that the younger Ivanov generation isn’t here to be pushed around.
