The sale on stage has not yet begun. The curtains, thick and blood-red, are still drawn, and the men here to bid are circulating around the room, drinks in hand.
It is a who’s who of the North American underworld—mob royalty as far as the eye can see. I find my father stationed at the back of the room, overseeing the proceedings. There is much to be learned from who talks to whom and which little cliques cluster together.
He’s talking to a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders, dressed impeccably in a navy suit. I hang back, but when my father spots me, he ushers me towards him.
“Tomas, you remember Mayor Vaknin, don’t you?” he says. “We visited him in Toronto recently.”
I turn to him. “Yes, of course. How are you?”
Gavril Vaknin shakes my hand and nods. “Doing well, son. I’m in town for a little event and thought I’d stop by to pay my respects to you and your father.”
“We appreciate you coming,” I answer smoothly.
“Your father tells me you have a wedding on the horizon.”
“It’s about damn time,” Bogan drawls.
Gavril’s eye twinkles. “Well, you can’t rush these things.”
“Tell that to my father,” I reply.
He chuckles. “I did. He didn’t want to listen anymore than you do. But,” he says, clapping his hands, “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. My wife and son are back at the hotel, probably wondering where I ran off to.”
“A pleasure to see you, as always, don,” Bogan says to Vaknin. The men hands once more.
“Please,” he answers, “just Gavril. My don days are almost behind me.”
“That will be a loss for the Syndicate indeed,” my father tells him. The Bratva Syndicate was Gavril’s idea in the first place. A loose organization of Bratva leaders across the continent. We help each other out from time to time as needed and do our best to keep Italian fucks like Roberto Totti in the gutters where they belong.
“Something tells me it’s in good hands,” Gavril says with a strange glance at me. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.” He turns and strides away, going out the same doors I entered through.
I start to follow his lead and get the fuck out of this dog-and-pony show, but my father grips my elbow to keep me in place. “Everything go okay?” he asks.
I nod. On a normal night, that would be the end of our discussion about the incident at the dock. But today, he motions to the door. Since he doesn’t generally care about the play-by-play, I can only assume he has another issue.
Goddammit. That means I’m not going to catch even the last round of the fight.
I can smell the stench rising off my clothes—blood and sweat—as we step out into the courtyard. My father reeks of cologne and whiskey. His tuxedo looks a hell of a lot better than my stained black t-shirt, too.
“Leonid wants to host the wedding on Victory Day,” he tells me once we’re alone.
That’s the ninth of May. I do the math on my fingers. Less than two months away.
Fuck.
“His father fought in the war. Leonid wants to honor him.” My father spits distastefully on the concrete walk and dumps his glass onto the lawn. Bogan Dubrovsky honors no one but Bogan Dubrovsky.
I say nothing.
“I need this alliance to defeat Roberto Totti. Gavril is too preoccupied with his re-election campaign to help, and the Morozovs have problems of their own. We are alone in this if we do not get Leonid’s support, and I cannot wait two months for that. By then, Totti can import a whole fucking army of wops to throw at our territory.”
This isn’t news to me. Between the gangs and the motorcycle clubs fighting for street turf, we have plenty of avenues to move our stocks—guns, drugs, women, and the occasional shipment of uncut gems—but Totti’s men have intercepted a couple of recent supply boats. It’s a small slight thus far, but the Bratva is losing ground and respect—not to mention money. None of those things are acceptable. Left unchecked, someone in the Bratva might blame Bogan and challenge him for control.
Meaning I have less than two months to figure out a solution that doesn’t involve a Russian princess, vows at the altar, or a gold band on my fucking ring finger.
But I nod because he’s the don and I’m derzhatel obschaka—second-in-command. Father or not, disrespect to the don will earn me nothing but death.
“I have it on good authority that one of Totti’s men, a high-ranking lieutenant, will be at the Dezarian Hotel two nights from tonight. Penthouse.” From his jacket’s inner pocket, he pulls a small folded paper and hands it to me.
Douglas Giordano. 14th floor. Suite 1409.
Once I’ve memorized the information, I rip the paper to shreds and throw it in the pond. No need to keep it. “Alright.”
He doesn’t need to say more. I know my job and how he wants it done. But he says it anyways: “Quietly, Tomas. But send the message.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Now, go.” He waves me out. Out of his sight. Out of the house. Tonight, I’m nothing more than his hired gun, to be aimed and fired at his enemies whenever and however he desires.
Fine with me. I don’t need his companionship. I need only his trust, and his endorsement when he steps down. A man like me only needs power. That—and only that—is why I’ll marry Katerina.
It sure as fuck is not for love.
I won’t make that mistake a second time.
2
Corinne
My office at Sentinel Security is usually my safe space. A little messy, a lot loud, but productive. It’s where I get shit done.
But today, I’ve been invaded. Plus, my six-inch heels are killing me. And Leila has turned the music down three times to pepper me with questions.
I get it. It’s her job. She’s the boss, and she needs to make sure I’m prepared for my meeting with Dunlow International. They want software to protect their clients’ information—impenetrable, no-hack software, because that’s what I create. But I don’t sell it. I don’t market it. And I certainly don’t deal with clients.
Until today. Hence the heels.
She grins as if she can convince me through sheer smile power to do this and be good at it. But here’s what I know: I’m good at code because I control it. I change the configuration, and the program does what I want. The icky, messy, dealing-with-people part of the business is her skill set, not mine. I don’t ask her to write code. And on a normal day, she doesn’t ask me to turn the music down and deal with clients. Life is better that way for both of us.
The fact that she’s on her tenth heavy sigh in a matter of about seven minutes should mean something to me, but I choose to ignore it.
“Corinne,” Leila says, “they want to meet you. I don’t know why. I told them you don’t usually do this, but they want to see the caliber of person who’s designing the software that protects their multi-gazillion-dollar business.”
Caliber of person. So delightful, so humanizing. They want to see what ‘caliber’ I am. That’s why I’m being forced to wear Leila’s skirt, which is so tight over my hips that a deep breath might blow the whole thing apart. And again, not that I’m complaining—okay, yes, I definitely am—these godforsaken heels.