Danger I know well. Unease prickles my skin as I watch Vin meld into the assembled crowd of criminals and socialites. It’s comical in a sense—politicians and crime lords alike, all gathered to kiss the ring of one man.
And, as if on cue, he appears beneath an archway at the back of the hall, drawing everyone’s notice.
I stiffen at the sight of him, but not out of fear. Hell, maybe it’s jealousy? Some men need whiskey to make it through the night while others…
They bask in the bosom of family like something out of a fucking sitcom. Despite his reputation, I’ve only seen him in person a handful of times. Tall, built like a bear with the cruelty and wit to match, he requires no introduction, nonetheless. Basking in the attention, he starts forward, a beautiful brunette on his arm. A mature grace gives her a poise I doubt a nineteen-year-old girl would possess. His wife, I presume.
They say she too comes from a powerful web of families—the proud, ruthless Vasilevs and the callous Winthorps. Standing beside a man nearly twice her size, she looks every bit the welcoming hostess I’m sure she is.
But no sane woman could live with a man like him without possessing some ruthlessness of her own. Even my Olivia, with her soft, gentle ways, had a temper. Mischa’s wife, I’m sure, is no different—and the elegance of this soiree is no doubt in part to her efforts. Though, judging from the size of her belly, Mischa looks well on his way to expanding his brood of daughters to display.
My jaw clenches as I take a step forward and consider approaching him now. Would he really refuse a direct meeting here?
In theory, he shouldn’t. Donatello the Butcher is dead. Brick by brick, he rebuilt his life in the sun—and I don’t intend to look back. Though while my days in the famiglia are over, I still have something to offer Mischa and his mafiya—an alliance. For peace. For stability.
For outright greed.
With Mischa’s resources and my assets, we could secure this city for years to come with plenty of spoils for us both.
Emboldened by that thought, I take another step, tracking the couple across the room to a raised dais festooned with white roses. Clearing my throat, I adjust my collar and try to compile a fitting greeting.
“Hello, Mischa. Thank you for presenting your daughter on a silver platter? Have you met my nephew?”
Not exactly tactful, but it might do. So intent on my quarry am I, I don’t realize someone’s beside me until they grab my forearm, triggering years of instinct. My hand slaps against my pocket before I even remember that I’m unarmed. Those empty fingers curl into a fist regardless, poised to attack in any way possible. Tense, I jerk my head around and sigh.
“I thought I told you that you were not welcome,” a man scolds. One look at him, and some of the tension drains from my muscles. Some. Rather than prepare to fight, I brace for a scolding like a boy caught by his mama with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Don’t look so grumpy, Fabio,” I gruffly reply, shrugging him off. “It’s a party. Don’t tell me you’re tired already, old man?”
Though he’s my age, thirty-five, he looks older. Gray has already started to color his auburn hair, a testament to his gift for worrying, though the trait is a double-edged sword. His obsession over detail makes him a sought-after accountant employed by everyone from the governor, to Mischa Stepanov himself.
“If it makes you feel better, I promise to be on my best behavior, scout’s honor.” I slap a hand over my chest for emphasis. “Trust me, Mama. You don’t have to be up my ass tonight. Relax, I’m here for business.”
“I wouldn’t have to be ‘up your ass’—” He grimaces with distaste at the wording. “If you weren’t swaggering about the place, drawing notice. I saw how you looked at Antonio Salvatore. The least you could do is be subtle.”
“This is me subtle, Fabio,” I say, though I submit to letting him herd me toward the back of the room where we’re more hidden among the crowd. Eyeing him, I’m forced to admit, “You look good tonight. Aiming to snag this Stepanova for yourself?”
He cuts a confident image in a tailored black tux, his hair perfectly coifed. It’s easy to overlook the fact that he barely comes to the middle of my chest. For what he lacks in stature, the man more than makes up for in reputation.
No one in this room is more respected.
“At least you remembered her name,” he grouses while snatching a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server.
“The adding an ‘a’ at the end for a woman?” I gloat, pleased with myself. “This old dog can learn some new tricks.”
“That’s the simple way of putting it. These Russians are sticklers for respect. Though like that matters any to you.” He takes a hearty sip from his glass as his cheeks flush pink. In a hoarse whisper, he confesses what has him so frazzled, “Even after all the years I’ve known you, you always manage to surprise me. Really, Don? Sneaking into the home of the head of the mafiya on my invitation. I’ll be lucky if I don’t wake up to a horse head in my bed tomorrow.”
“He’s the mafiya, not famiglia,” I correct. “It’s my kind that butcher horses—though Giovanni was partial to severing a finger or two instead. He was an animal lover, you see. I’m sure Mischa would just kill you. Or castrate you outright as a friendly warning.”
Wincing, Fabio downs nearly half of his glass in one go. “Thanks for the reassurance, Don. Cavolo! Why am I even letting you talk me into this?”
“Because I’m invoking Olivia’s name,” I say softly. It’s a low blow, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Sure enough, Fab’s strained frown reveals the appeal hit its mark. “You’re too good of a man to resist that,” I point out, but in no way am I pleased with myself.
Olivia. I can clearly remember the last fucker I killed… One would think I’d never forget her face. Never.
But as my last dose of whiskey wears off, the painful truth seeps in—I can’t even recall what she sounded like.
“She was twice the social charmer you are,” Fabio says. Some of the worry lines around his mouth soften. “If only she could see you now. She’d probably piss herself from laughing at the sight of you stuffed into a suit. Could you find no tailor to fit you properly? Though I suppose it’s too much to ask for a miracle—”
“Hey! I can’t help it that I spent more of my life fighting in the streets than mingling with the upper class,” I grumble, tugging at a sleeve of my jacket. Contrary to Fabio’s snide remarks, it was expertly tailored by a man I trust, not to mention damn expensive. Alas, fine material and expert craftmanship can only go so far.
My life didn’t offer me the same pampered safety as a Willow Stepanova, or a Giovanni Rossi, who never wielded a weapon in his life.
Wars may begin and end, but battle scars will always remain.
“I should have known you wouldn’t be able to resist drawing attention to yourself, even unintentionally,” Fabio grouses. “It’s in your nature, you damn, prideful Vanicis.”
I feel my upper lip quirk into a grin. “Yes, us damned, incredible Vanicis. For all of your worrying, look at Vin.” I nod to where he stands. Head held high, he’s taken my encouragement to heart, radiating that trademark charm. Joy swells in my chest, overpowering even my own doubts.