My father calls Adrian and me down for dinner in the formal dining room. We don’t eat in here very often, so immediately my nerves are on edge.
I’ve changed my clothes so that I’m wearing a sober high-necked dress, tights, and flat shoes, and I’ve brushed my hair and pinned it back with barrettes. This is what my father expects from us—that we dress and behave with the utmost respect for him at all times.
It reminds me of something I read a long time ago, about the different types of respect. There’s respecting someone as an authority, and respecting them as a human. My father believes that if we don’t respect him as an authority, he has no need to respect us as humans.
I hate the dining room. I hate all the ornate and elaborate furniture in this house. It makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
My father likes to think that he’s the tsar of his kingdom. He loves the luxury and history of our culture. Every room is full of plush oriental rugs, rich velvet antimacassars, cabinets painted with geometric Khokhloma folk art, and mosaic tiles in the bathrooms.
You would think that all these signs of home would help me not to feel the culture shock of moving to Chicago, but instead it gives me this sense that I can never escape the Bratva. Their tentacles extend through every major European city, and even here in America.
My father intends to take over Chicago like he’s taken over every other space he’s ever inhabited. He thinks the Irish and Italian mafia have become weak and complacent. He thinks they’ve forgotten how to rule.
When I sit down at the table, my father is already seated at the head, dressed in a dove-gray suit of impeccable fit. He’s adopting the American style of suit, but he still hasn’t cut his hair, which hangs down lank around his shoulders. I don’t think he’ll ever cut it. It makes him look like a warrior king, like a grizzled old lion. Like Sampson, he believes it’s the seat of his power.
The Bratva can be extremely superstitious. Maybe that’s a characteristic of all mafia families—after all, Sebastian seemed to believe in the luck of his gold medallion. Or at least, that his uncle had lost its luck by giving it to him.
That’s why my father is so wound up about the Winter Diamond. It represents the luck of the Bratva, and their pride.
Perhaps he should consider the fact that we don’t have it anymore. Our luck has run out.
As Adrian and I sit down at the table, my father watches us with his blue eyes, cold as Siberian frost.
“Good evening,” he says.
“Good evening, father,” Adrian replies.
“Good evening,” I say.
“Look at my two children,” he says, surveying us as we sit at his right-hand side. Adrian always sits next to our father. I sit next to Adrian. I prefer to have a buffer between me and Papa. “Did any man ever have such impressive offspring?”
Adrian glows with pride. He has always had a different relationship with our father than I have. He’s aware of our father’s cruelty and sternness, especially as it related to our mother. But Adrian is treated differently as the son and heir, and that blinds him to the true depths of our father’s selfishness. Adrian believes that our father loves us. That he would never actually harm us.
I think he’s wrong.
Adrian defends him. He says, “We can’t imagine what it was like growing up poor in Soviet Russia. He had to do whatever he could to survive. And look how far he’s come. No one ever taught him kindness. He had to be harsh and violent to survive.”
The problem is, there’s a difference between doing what you have to do, and enjoying it.
I saw my father’s face as Rodion tortured the banker.
He definitely enjoyed it.
Just as he’s enjoying this right now . . . making me squirm in my seat, as he pretends to be in a good mood with us.
Rodion already told him what I did. I’m sure of it.
“What were you two doing while I was gone?” he asks us.
“I spoke with one of our Armenian suppliers,” Adrian says. “They have a new way of shipping product—they package it like a bath bomb. Scented and colored and wrapped in cellophane. Almost impossible for a sniffer dog to detect.”
“What’s the price?” Papa says.
“The same. They save money because less is seized at the border.”
My father nods slowly. “Very good,” he says. “Double our order. We’ll be expanding distribution on the west side of the city. I want a full presence in our old territory.”
The Bratva used to have exclusive run of that side of the city, until the Gallos torched our warehouses and drove us out.
Now that I think about it, that happened twelve years ago. Right around when Sebastian’s uncle was killed. Which action came first, I wonder?
It doesn’t matter. Because the bloodshed and violence is a cycle. An ouroboros of revenge.
My father turns and fixes his eyes on me instead.
“And what about you, my daughter?” he says quietly.
I take a sip of my wine, to stall for time. We’re having prime rib and mashed potatoes with asparagus on the side. The prime rib looks raw. It turns my stomach.
I consider lying to my father—or attempting to lie.
It’s pointless. He already knows. He’s just testing to see what I’ll do.
“I’ve been seeing Sebastian,” I tell him.
No flicker of surprise on his face. He definitely knows.
“And what have you been doing with Sebastian,” he hisses.
“I’ve been dating him,” I say coolly. “Just like you told me to.”
“Not just like I told you . . .” he says.
Adrian looks back and forth between us, confused. I haven’t told him that I slept with Sebastian. He doesn’t understand the tension freezing the room.
The smile has dropped off my father’s face. He’s lowering his chin, getting that look like a bull about to charge. I have to head him off, immediately.
“He wants to marry me!” I blurt. “He wants to make a formal agreement between our families. This could be good for us, father. Instead of fighting the Gallos, we could align ourselves with them. Like the Griffins did. Like the Polish mafia. They don’t have to be our enemies. It would be so much more profitable to—”
“Do you think you can school me on how the Bratva should operate in this city?” my father interrupts. He hasn’t raised his voice, but his furious tone cuts through my words like a scythe through dry grass.
“No, of course not. I—”
“Quiet!” he barks.
I fall silent, and Adrian finds my knee under the table, squeezing my leg in sympathy.
“This is why you can barely be trusted with the simplest of tasks,” he says, his blue eyes boring into mine. “You’re weak, as all women are weak. I send you out hunting, and not only can you barely secure your prey, now you’re developing feelings for him.”
I press my lips together, knowing that I’m supposed to deny this, but unable to even pretend. I have a lot more than feelings for Sebastian.
“And worse,” my father hisses. “You’ve destroyed the only value you had to me.”
Adrian’s hand tightens on my knee. I’m sure he can guess what our father is referring to. He’s flinching not out of disgust, but out of fear for me.
“Oh yes,” my father hisses, his eyes drilling into me. “You can’t keep any secrets from me, Yelena. I know everything you think, and everything you do. You will be punished, at a time of my choosing.”
This is something new. Usually our punishments come at once, in the most painful and upsetting way possible. The fact that he’s delaying his discipline . . . that’s the worst torture of all.
“I’ve tried to teach you two,” our father says, including Adrian in his anger now. “I’ve tried to ready you for this world we inhabit. I’ve tried to harden you. You may think I’ve been cruel or demanding, but the world is infinitely more cruel than I could ever be. If you can’t make your skin into steel and your soul into iron, you’ll be torn to shreds.”
He takes a long drink of his wine, looking us up and down. This time there’s no pride in his expression, only disgust for how we disappoint him.
“There is no stasis in crime,” he says. “Your fortune is rising, or it’s falling. There’s no middle ground. The Gallos believe they can transition from mafia dons to wealthy citizens. They are FOOLS!”
He bellows that word so loudly that Adrian and I jump in our seats, almost knocking over our wine.
“They think they’ve moved up a rung on the ladder with that South Shore Development . . . but all they’ve done is announce their weakness to the world. Dante Gallo is gone—the heir of the family, and their enforcer. Nero Gallo, that filthy thief, has ensconced himself in the world of so-called legitimate business. He thinks he’s above OUR rules, above OUR laws. But he’ll pay for what he did, stealing our crown jewel. And the youngest brother, the cripple,” my father scoffs. “He has never been trained to take their place. He knows nothing about being a don.”
I notice he doesn’t mention Aida Gallo. She’s only a girl, and therefore of no interest or importance.
“There’s blood in the water . . .” my father says coldly. “The sharks will come, whether it’s us, or someone else. The Gallos are bleeding freely, an invitation to all. They will be torn apart.”
I don’t understand any of this. I can’t tell if he’s being hyperbolic, or if he actually has a plan. He wanted me to date Sebastian, but if he expected me to learn the Gallos’ secrets and spill them to the Bratva, I haven’t done that. I haven’t met Sebastian’s family. We don’t talk about the Gallos’ business. And even if we did . . . I wouldn’t tell my father.
Actually, I do know one piece of information he’d love to have.
I could tell my father that Enzo Gallo lives all alone in that huge house, without any security besides the housekeeper. It would be child’s play to send Rodion to that house to strangle them both in their sleep.
But I would NEVER do that. Papa can’t actually read my mind—that secret is safe with me.
Maybe he sees the look of defiance on my face.
He stares at me from the head of the table, his steak knife clenched in his fist and juice from the bloody meat gleaming on his lips. I can tell that he’s simmering with anger—at me, at the Gallos, maybe at Adrian, too. Papa has never been a happy man. The more he tries to squeeze out of the world, the less satisfied he seems.
He looks like he’s about to explode into one of his rages.
Desperately, I try to think of a way to convince him that we don’t have to fight the Gallos.
I blurt out, “To surprise the enemy is to defeat him. The Gallos know we have a grudge against them. They know our brutality and our fury. We could surprise them with magnanimity. They’re in an unstable position—it’s an advantageous time to make an agreement.”
My father narrows his eyes at me.
To surprise the enemy is to defeat him—that’s a quote from Generalissimo Suvorov. My father’s idol. He’ll listen to those words, if not to mine.
To my shock and relief, he nods his head slowly.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Even Adrian looks surprised to hear that.
My father sets down his knife and dabs his lips with his napkin.
“This is what you want, Yelena? You want to align yourself with those Italian dogs?”
I don’t know how he wants me to answer that.
All I can say is the truth.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want to marry Sebastian.”
My father shakes his head in disgust. “He can have you,” he says. “You’re no good to me anymore.”
With that, he pushes away his plate and stands up from the table, leaving Adrian and me alone in the dining room.
Of course, I don’t actually trust him. Not for a second.
I turn to Adrian, whispering out of fear that my father is still lurking around, or one of his men. “What is he doing? Tell me, Adrian. What is he planning?”
Adrian just shakes his head at me. He’s not touching my knee anymore. He’s looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen before.
“Did you actually sleep with the Italian?” he asks.
“He’s not an Italian,” I say in irritation. “He was born right here in Chicago.”
Adrian looks at me like I’m speaking gibberish. “He’s our enemy, Yelena.”
“Why? Because our father says so?”
Adrian frowns. What I’m saying is absolute treason. Our father’s word is law. Loyalty to our family is supposed to be our highest priority.
“What he said is true,” Adrian tells me. “We were born Bratva. We have countless enemies everywhere. Who do you think will protect you? The Italians? They barely know you. They don’t care about you like we do, Yelena. Their loyalties are to each other. Do you think Sebastian would choose you over his own sister or brothers? Over his own father?”
I swallow hard. I believed Sebastian when he said he was falling in love with me. But could I really expect him to prioritize me over the family he’s loved all his life?
“Would you choose him over us?” my brother demands. “Over me?”
I look into Adrian’s face, which is so like my own. He’s so much more than my brother. He’s been my best friend and protector all of my life. The other half of me.
But he’s the other half of what I was.
Sebastian is the other half of what I want to be. The Yelena I could be, if I were free.
I can’t choose between them. I don’t want to choose.
It’s only my father trying to force that decision.
I want to explain this to Adrian, but all he hears is my silence. My refusal to assure him that he matters more to me than Sebastian.
His face darkens and he pushes away from the table as abruptly as our father did.
“You’re making a mistake, Yelena,” he says to me. “And you’ll regret it.”
