Speaking of which...
“Do you know who he is?” I ask her. “Why was he grabbing you?”
The girl makes a sharp, dismissive sound.
“You would not understand,” she says.
That just makes me curious.
“Why don’t you try me?” I say.
She looks me up and down, like she’s trying to figure me out. At last she shrugs, maybe thinking she owes me an explanation.
“My father is a powerful man,” she says. “He has a lot of enemies. I suppose this one here thought it would be easier to attack me instead.”
“Who’s your father?” I ask her.
“Alexei Yenin,” she says, not expecting me to recognize the name.
I do, though. He’s the head of the Bratva in Chicago. Or, I should say, he’s the new boss — after the Griffins killed the old one.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Yelena Yenina,” she says, with a proud upward tilt of her chin.
“Sebastian Gallo,” I tell her. I don’t see any flicker of recognition in her eyes. She doesn’t seem familiar with my family.
Instead, she looks me up and down again with a mistrustful look on her face.
“Why are you so huge?” she demands, as if it’s suspicious to be this tall.
“Genetics,” I say, blandly.
“No,” she shakes her head. “You know how to fight. What do you do?”
“As a job?”
“Yes, of course as a job,” she snaps.
It amuses me that this girl barely seems grateful that I helped saved her. Instead she’s haughty and imperious.
I don’t know how to answer her question, however.
I’ve been doing a lot of jobs, lately. All family business. Running our underground gambling ring, handling the various issues that arise at our restaurants and clubs. Doing some work on the South Shore project too, though Nero has mostly taken that over.
“My family owns a few businesses,” I say, vaguely. “Restaurants and whatnot.”
“Hm,” the girl says, still suspicious.
“Where are you going?” I ask her. “You want me to walk with you?”
“Why not,” she says, as if she’s doing me a favor. “It isn’t far.”
“Just a second,” I say.
I grab her assailant by the front of his shirt and heave him up, his head flopping limply. I toss him in the trunk of his own car and slam the lid.
“He can enjoy kicking his way out of there when he wakes up,” I say.
The girl gives a short laugh.
“Well, well,” she says. “Here I thought you were a good boy with that face.”
“This face?” I grin.
“Yes. Smooth cheeks. Big eyes. Soft curls. Like a little baby,” she says.
I can tell she’s trying to wind me up, but I don’t give a fuck.
“I think you look like a Viking,” I tell her.
She doesn’t want to smile, but I think she likes that.
I notice that her eyes are an unusual shade of blue — more like violet. Very striking against her fair hair and pale skin. I’ve never met a woman like this. She’s not like anybody I’ve seen around here.
“So where are we going?”
“What’s this we?” she says.
“Is it a party?” I persist. “I like parties.”
“You weren’t invited,” she says, a hint of a smile playing on her full lips.
“I bet you could get me in.”
“Maybe,” she says, arching one perfectly formed eyebrow. “If you were my date.”
I look down at her, grinning all the way now.
“Yeah?” I say. “What do I have to do to be your date?”
Yelena
Sebastian walks me the three blocks to the party. He is very handsome, I’ll admit, though I was never raised to have my head turned by a pretty boy. In Russia, beauty is for women. Power is for men.
What impresses me is his height. I’ve never seen a man who made me feel small. Even in my heels, Sebastian towers over me. I have to tilt up my chin to look in his face.
I’ve always loved and hated my own height. I like feeling strong. But I hate the way everyone wants to comment on it, as if they’re the first person to notice. Their jokes are unoriginal, and the way their eyes comb over me is even worse. They want to collect me like I’m a trading card that will complete their set.
But of course, I’m not available for collection.
I’m the daughter of Alexei Yenin, Pakhan of the Chicago Bratva. My father will find the appropriate match for me when the time is right.
I’m not exactly excited for that. Marriage does not appear to be a happy institution, from what I’ve seen. Too many men beating their wives, controlling every moment of their day, and taking mistresses whenever they please.
In Russia, it’s not a crime to beat your wife. It’s only a criminal offense if she requires hospitalization. You may have to pay a small fine — but that is paid to the government, not the woman.
I watched my own father hit my mother many times. And she was a good wife.
I don’t think I’ll be a very good wife.
I’m not a very good daughter. Or at least that’s what my father tells me.
I think it’s better to be smart than to be good.
We arrive at the house on Madison Street where Grisha is throwing his party. Grisha is my second-cousin. He likes pretty girls, fast cars, and expensive drugs. I wouldn’t say we’re close friends, but I’m allowed to come to his house because he’s family.
Tonight he’s celebrating his twenty-sixth birthday. I turned twenty-five last week. There was no party — my father just looked at me coldly and told me I’m getting old. He used to say that to my mother: “Men age like fine wine, women age like milk.”
Well, she ages like ivory now because she’s bones in a box.
Lucky you, father. You won’t have to be offended by the lines on her face.
This is what I’m thinking as I climb the steps to Grisha’s house. It makes me scowl, so that when his friend Andrei opens the door, he startles and says, “You look like you’re about to murder someone, Yelena.”
“I might,” I say, pushing past him into the house.
Sebastian follows along after me. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, coming into this house where he knows no one. I guess a man that big doesn’t get intimidated easy.
It’s dark in the house, the rooms lit only by blue track lights that give everyone an alien look. The music is throbbing — Slippery by Migos. The air is humid with body heat.
I find Grisha. He’s already half drunk. His usually slicked-back hair is flopping down over his eyes, and his shirt is half-unbuttoned to show his bare chest and his collection of gold chains.
He throws an arm around my shoulder and kisses me hard on the cheek.
“There she is,” he says in Russian. “My little Elsa.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, in English.
“I thought you said your name was Yelena?” Sebastian asks.
“He means Elsa from Frozen,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You gonna turn me to ice?” Sebastian says, lightly.