I can’t stop thinking about Yelena.
I’ve never seen a woman so ferocious, so haughty, or so utterly gorgeous.
I have no problem getting girls. When I was the star of the U of C team, they quite literally threw themselves at me after every game. I had a cheerleader do a backflip onto my lap at one of the afterparties. She was a little bit drunk and she clocked me with her heel, but I still let her give me a BJ to make up for it.
Even now, it’s not hard to pick a girl up at a club or a party.
But that’s all it is—a quick encounter. A few dates, plenty of sex, and then I move on to the next one as soon as my head turns in a different direction.
I’ve never actually had a girlfriend. Never wanted one. At first because I was too focused on sports, and later because I was stewing in frustration, feeling like I hated everyone and everything.
This . . . this is different.
I want this girl.
I want her badly.
I should have let her take her bra off. Trust me, I wanted to see those tits bare and close enough to touch. I only stopped her because I felt the tiniest bit guilty about running the table on her. And also, now that I know who her father is, I have to be careful.
We’re not on the best footing with the Russians at the moment.
The Chicago Bratva has been going through a decade-long rough patch. And a lot of their problems can be directly or indirectly traced to my family.
Our territories overlap. Sometimes we’ve been able to cooperate and keep the peace. Other times, we’ve had skirmishes that have resulted in some of their men dead, or some of ours. Warehouses blown up, product stolen, soldiers arrested.
All of that could be forgiven.
But they’ve lost two of their bosses now, and I can’t think that’s gone unnoticed in Moscow.
The first wasn’t our fault. Ajo Arsenyev got himself thrown in federal prison when he got sloppy with his weapons shipments. But his replacement, Kolya Kristoff—that’s a different story.
When my family allied ourselves with the Irish mafia, the Bratva and the Polish Mafia made their own alliance in return. They tried to attack us. But their pact didn’t last. Mikolaj Wilk, the head of the Polish Mafia, fell in love with Nessa Griffin, the youngest daughter of our Irish allies. He turned on the Bratva. Kolya Kristoff tried to gun her down in the Harris Theater—Fergus Griffin riddled him with bullets instead.
Without a leader, the Bratva went rabid for a while. We had to beat them back, driving them underground, smashing their businesses, seizing their assets.
Alexei Yenin was dispatched from Moscow to clean up the mess. He took over as the new Pakhan. We came to a shaky kind of truce. Without making a formal agreement, it seemed mutually determined that our skirmish was over. We would each stay within our newly defined borders.
But my family hasn’t exactly kept to that.
It’s Nero’s fault.
He saw a temptation he couldn’t resist.
He found out that Kolya Kristoff was storing the Winter Diamond in a vault on LaSalle Street. After Kristoff died, nobody came to collect the stone . . . so Nero decided nobody knew about it.
That’s where I got roped in.
Nero and I broke into the vault. We stole the diamond. We sold it. And we used the money to fund the South Shore Development.
That was over a year ago. We haven’t heard a peep about it. So I’m assuming that we got away with it. Nero is an evil genius, after all . . . he doesn’t usually make mistakes.
But there’s always the chance that fate will intervene in even the best-laid plans.
So with all that in mind, I’m wary to kick this particular hornet’s nest. The Bratva are some nasty fucking hornets. They’re not going to appreciate me fucking around with one of their queens.
From what I’ve heard, Yenin is an old-school gangster. I can only imagine how he protects his one and only daughter.
The smart move is to walk away right now. I saved her from her would-be kidnapper. Probably earned myself a little goodwill with the Russians, if she told her dad about it. I can chalk that up as a win and let the rest of it go.
The face of a warrior princess . . . the body of an Amazon . . . the spirit of a wild wolf . . . Surely I can find that again, in a girl whose father doesn’t crush skulls and break spines for entertainment.
I tell myself that. But the other part of my brain scoffs at the idea that there’s more than one Valkyrie walking around on the earth.
All week long, I throw myself into activity to try to distract myself. I go to the gym every day with my roommate Jace, lifting harder than ever, until I’m grunting like an animal and sweat is running down my body.
“What’s your deal?” Jace laughs. “You training for the Olympia?”
“Yeah.” I grin. “Gonna make Arnold look puny.”
Jace isn’t the biggest of my lieutenants, but he’s the most loyal. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and I’d trust him with my life. He’s not even Italian—he’s a redheaded European mutt. His parents are schoolteachers. Still, he wants to be a made man.
He’s helping me pick up the slack left by Dante’s departure. With a couple of my favorite soldiers, including Jace, I take a shipment of guns from Micah Zimmer, exchange them for what we call in the business “a metric fuck-ton” of cocaine out of Florida, and then I split that up amongst the Marino and Bianchi families, because they handle distribution. I supervise the underground poker ring, including the monthly high-roller game in the Drake Hotel, and I deal with a petty squabble between the Carmine and Ricci families.
I handle it all, to the point that even my father seems surprised that nobody had to bother him all week long.
I meet him for dinner on Friday night. Nero was supposed to come as well, but he’s tied up down on the South Shore, closing a deal for an entertainment complex on one of the last available patches of land.
I had planned to take my father out to The Anchor, which used to be his favorite restaurant. At the last minute, he said he’d rather eat at home instead.
I’m concerned how little he leaves the house these days.
I drive over to see him, dressed nicely in a button-up shirt and slacks, to show respect to him. In return, my father is wearing one of his custom-made Italian suits, straight from the Zegna mill in the Alps, with a short stop in Savile Row for the actual tailoring.
My mother designed every one of his suits. She selected the silk lining, the thread for the pick stitching, the cut of the jacket, the positioning of the pockets, even the color and material of the buttons. My father hasn’t bought a single suit since she died. He just re-tailors the ones she chose to fit his shrinking frame.
Today he’s wearing the navy notch-lapel with the horn buttons. His dark hair, with its stark streaks of white, has grown long enough that you can see it’s not really straight—more wavy, like mine. His heavy brows hang so low that they half-cover his eyes, like an old basset hound. His beetle-black eyes glimmer underneath, still bright and fierce, no matter how tired the rest of him looks.
I can smell his aftershave, the same Acqua di Parma he’s been wearing all my life. Made of cypress and sage from the sunny slopes of Tuscany, it’s a scent that makes me feel like a child again—awed by my father, and feeling like I’ll trip over my own feet if he looks at me.
All boys are frightened of their father to some degree. To me, he was a god-king. Every man I saw paid homage to him. You could tell by the way they bowed to him, the way they barely dared to meet his eye, that he was feared and respected.
He was a large man and a stern one. He spoke slowly and carefully. The only person he deferred to was my mother. And even then, we still knew he was the boss.
It’s strange to look down on him now that I’m taller. Strange to see his hand tremble when he picks up his glass of wine.
Greta is eating with us. She eats most meals with my father these days. She’s been his housekeeper for as long as I can remember. I wouldn’t say she’s like a mother to me—nothing can replace your actual mom. But l love her like family, and she certainly helped raise me.
Greta is one of those people who looks almost the same at sixty as she did at thirty. She was a mature young woman, and a youthful older woman. Her hair is more gray than red now, but her cheeks are still ruddy, and her eyes are as bright a blue as ever.
She used to make feasts of all the traditional Italian foods my father loves, but under the repeated nagging of Dr. Bloom, she’s tried to cut down the fat and salt in his food, so he won’t die of a heart attack too soon.
Tonight she’s made a poached salmon salad with raspberry vinaigrette. She’s poured a small glass of wine for each of us, and I see her watching the bottle, ready to scold Papa if he tries to take more.
“You handled the Carmines and the Riccis very well,” my father says in his low, gravelly voice.
I shrug, taking a bite of my salmon. “I just did what you always said.”
“What’s that?”
“You said a Don has to be like King Solomon—if either of the parties leave happy, then the compromise wasn’t fair.”
Papa chuckles. “I said that, did I?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you listened, mio figlio. I meant to instruct Dante. I always thought he’d take my place.”
“He will,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.
“Perhaps,” Papa says. “I think he places love over family or business. His love is taking him in another direction.”
“He’ll come back,” I say. “Like he came back from the army.”
Papa lets out a long sigh. He hasn’t touched his food.
“When he enlisted, I knew he would never be Don,” Papa says.
“Nero will, then.”
“Nero is brilliant. And ruthless,” Papa agrees. “But he was born on an island. He’s always been that way.”
I would have agreed with that before—that Nero was meant to be a lone wolf. Until he surprised me by falling in love.
“He seems pretty wrapped up in Camille,” I point out.
“Camille is an extension of himself,” Papa says. “Anime gemelle.” Soulmates.
I eat more of my salad, so I don’t have to look directly at my father.
I’m afraid of what he’s trying to say.
We’re sitting up on the rooftop, under the fragrant fox grapes that hang down in heavy bunches. Their thick leaves keep the table beneath shaded and cool, even at the height of summer.
We’re eating off the heavy pewter plates my great-grandmother brought from the old country. Poor Greta has had to haul them up and down the stairs for countless meals on the roof. But she never complains. She just rolls her eyes at us when we try to help. She says sloth is the only sin, and work keeps you young.
Maybe that’s why my father is getting so old.
“I built this empire,” Papa says quietly. “As did my father, and his father. Each generation has added to it. Increased our wealth and power. We own this city now, along with the Griffins. Miles is the link between our families. The assurance that our futures will be entwined.”
He pauses to catch his breath. Speaking too long makes him winded.
“But never think we are secure, Sebastian. All dynasties seem invincible, until they fall. There is always a challenger digging at the foundations. Clawing at the walls. You don’t know how much your fortress has eroded. Until it comes tumbling down around you.”
“We’ve beaten back plenty of challengers,” I say.
My father reaches across the table to lay his hand over mine. His fingers are still thick and strong, but his palm is cool, without any warmth radiating from within.
“There is no going back,” he says, his glittering eyes burning into mine. “There is no retrenchment, and no retirement. We keep our power. Or we’ll be destroyed by our enemies. If the fortress tumbles . . . there is nothing to protect us anymore. The jackals will come to pick us off, one by one. Every old enemy. Every old grudge. They will return to find us.”
“You’re in a mood tonight!” Greta says, trying to break the tension. “Nobody is coming to get us.”
“We’re moving toward legitimacy all the time,” I say to Papa. “Someday soon we’ll be like the Kennedys or the Rockefellers—all our criminal history swept under the rug of our licit wealth.”
Papa isn’t placated. His fingers clench around my hand, squeezing hard. Harder than I thought he could.
“Legitimate maybe, but never soft,” he tells me. “Promise me, Sebastian.”
“I promise,” I say, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.
“What do we do when we’re hit?” he demands.
“For every blow, return three more,” I recite. “Our fury overwhelms their greed.”
“That’s right.” Papa nods.
Greta presses her lips together. She doesn’t like this kind of talk. Especially not at the dinner table.
“Is there dessert?” I say, to change the subject.
“I have sorbet downstairs,” Greta says.
She starts to gather the plates, and I help her, even though I know it will annoy her. She tsks at me and says, “Stay here!” I help her carry the dishes down anyway, noticing that my father never touched his food.
“Has he been like that all week?” I ask her, once we’re out of earshot down the stairs.
“Gloomy?” she says. “Paranoid? Yes.”
“What’s the problem?”
Greta shakes her head, not wanting to talk about my father behind his back. She’s been unwaveringly loyal to him all my life.
“It’s hard having you all gone,” she says. And then, after a moment, she admits, “He’s forgetting things.”
My father is only seventy-one. Not so very old. Time is cutting away at him faster and faster, but he could live twenty years longer. Maybe more. He’s always been so sharp. Even if he’s forgetful compared to his old self, I can’t help but think that’s still better than most people.
“Does he need to see Doctor Bloom again?” I ask Greta.
“I give him the supplements the doctor says to give him. I follow the diet. I try to make him walk on the treadmill downstairs, but he says he’s not a hamster on a wheel.”
“You could go for a walk outside together,” I say.
“Well . . .” Greta sighs. “That’s the paranoia. He thinks people are trying to kill him. He brings up old . . . old rivals who aren’t alive anymore. Bruno Salvatore. Viktor Adamski. Kolya Kristoff.”
I cast a quick glance over at her. We never talk to Greta about our business—or at least, I thought we never did. The fact that she knows those names means that my father has been telling her things. Maybe a lot of things.
I study her face, wondering if she’d rather not know. Of course she’s always been aware of who my father is and what he does. But that’s different from hearing details. If Papa is losing his inhibitions, he might be spilling all kinds of secrets.
Seeing my concern, Greta says, “It’s alright, Seb. You know that anything your father says will die with me.”
“Of course,” I say. “I just don’t want you to be . . . upset.”
Greta snorts, stacking the dishes in the sink and running hot, soapy water over them. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I’m no wide-eyed girl. I’m a lot older than you, boy! I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl.” She reaches up to touch my cheek, smiling a little. “More than it already does.”
I relax a little. Greta is family. She’ll take care of Papa no matter what happens. No matter what he says.
She dishes lemon sorbet into three small bowls, and I help her carry it back up to the roof. In our absence, Papa has gotten out the chessboard. I’m no match for him at chess—only Nero can beat him. Still, I take my place opposite, playing black.
Papa taught us all how to play, from Dante down to Aida. Dante is a competent player, Nero is near unbeatable. Aida has flashes of brilliance, undermined by her impatience. She either wins or loses spectacularly.
I was always too fidgety to want to play much. I’d rather be doing something physical versus sitting and thinking. But I learned the rules and the basic strategies, just like my siblings.
Papa starts with The King’s Gambit, one of his favorite opening moves. It’s a risky opening move for white, but it was fashionable in the romantic era of chess, which my father believes was the best era—full of dramatic and aggressive forays, before the time of computer analysis, which favors a more defensive technique.
I accept the gambit, and Papa develops his bishop to an active square.
I put him in check, forcing him to move his king, so that he won’t be able to castle later.
Papa nods, glad to see I haven’t entirely forgotten what I’m doing.
“Chess makes men wiser and clear-sighted,” he says. “Do you know who said that?”
I shake my head. “Some grand master?” I guess.
“No,” Papa chuckles. “Vladimir Putin.”
Papa moves his king, menacing mine in turn. I try to drive away his bishop so he can’t attack me diagonally.
We each take several pawns from each other as we skirmish, but no major pieces yet.
Papa sets up a tricky offensive where he simultaneously traps my queen and tries to attack my knight. I defend by moving my knight back to a square that protects my queen, but I’ve lost positioning on the board, and Papa is advancing.
I manage to take one of his rooks, and then his bishop. For a moment I think Papa was only sacrificing his pieces—I must have missed a threat coming from another direction. But then I see that Papa is flustered, and I realize he made a mistake.
I don’t usually last this long against my father. I’m struck by the uncomfortable thought that I might actually beat him. I don’t want that to happen. It would be embarrassing for us both. It would mean something that I don’t want to admit.
On the other hand, if I let him win, he’ll know. And that would be even more insulting.
Papa has to scramble to recover. He attacks hard, taking a knight and a bishop in return. In the end he wins, but only at the expense of sacrificing his queen. It was close—much closer than usual.
“Got me again,” I say.
I think we’re both relieved.
It’s a beautiful evening. The stars are coming out in a pale violet sky. The air is warm, with a hint of breeze up here on the rooftop. The scent of the fox grapes is rich and sweet.
I ought to be happy. But my stomach twists as I think that some night like this, I’ll play my last game of chess with my father. And I won’t know at the time that it’s the last game.
“I would like to play like Rudolf Spielmann,” Papa says. “He always said, ‘Play the opening like a book, the middlegame like a magician, and the endgame like a machine.’ ”
I puzzle that over in my head, thinking about what it means.
“That’s true of any strategy,” Papa says, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Remember that, Seb. Follow the rules at first. Confound your opponent in the middle. And in the end, finish him without hesitation, without mercy, and without thought.”
“Sure, Papa,” I say.
Papa’s face looks drawn, shadows carving deep lines across his skin. Papa has always been like this, teaching and training us at any opportunity. But tonight it seems particularly intense. There’s something almost spooky about his glittering eyes in the fading light.
Whatever has prompted this, I tell myself that it’s a good reminder that I shouldn’t call Yelena. She may be gorgeous, but she’s also the epitome of forbidden fruit. I couldn’t pick a more dangerous target if I searched the whole city. I should leave things exactly as they are—with me doing the Russians a favor, and nothing more.
The thought of never seeing her again leaves me dull and disappointed.
But that’s how it will have to be. I’ll have to find something else to fill this black pit in the center of my chest.
