I have no idea how to find my brother. And no idea how to find Sebastian.
But there’s one person I can locate quite easily: Aida Gallo.
I suppose I should call her Aida Griffin now.
From what Sebastian told me, she rarely leaves her husband’s side.
And Callum Griffin spends most of his time downtown in his Alderman’s office.
So that’s where I go, driving Enzo Gallo’s BMW. I park it a few blocks away from City Hall, not wanting Aida to have the nasty shock of seeing her father’s car parked out front.
Sebastian told me that Aida works part-time in Callum’s office, ostensibly as his assistant, but actually brokering some of his most crucial deals via her connections with the other influential Italian families.
I’m expecting to meet her inside, probably dressed in chic business wear, like she had on at the charity auction. So I barely pay any attention to a woman pushing a fancy stroller up to the steps of City Hall. I almost plow right into her in my hurry.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say.
The woman looks me up and down with a puzzled expression. “Is that my shirt?”
“Oh my god, Aida!”
“In the flesh,” she says. “I wondered where you went . . . Sebastian was being strangely evasive on the topic.”
“That’s because he locked me up under the garage.”
“Hm. Kinky,” Aida says.
It’s hard to read her expression. A range of emotions seems to flit across those gray eyes, like storm clouds fleeing before the wind. She certainly doesn’t have the same boundless mirth that I witnessed at the date auction. There’s no hint of a smile on her lips.
“Aida . . .” I say. “I’m so, so sorry about your father.”
Her chin trembles, but she shakes her expression clear again with one ruthless toss of her head.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.
“It . . . what?”
“I saw you the night of the auction. Unless you’re Meryl Streep . . . I’m pretty sure you’re head over heels for my brother.”
My mouth is hanging open. Everything I’ve heard about Aida is that she’s pure fire. The last thing I expected from her is forgiveness.
“I’m a mafia daughter, too,” she says. “I know how little power you have in your own life . . . until you rip it out of a man’s hands.”
The baby in the stroller gives a loud and angry squawk.
I peer in at him, startled by his shock of black curls and his furious expression. His gray eyes are every bit as fierce as Aida’s—startling in comparison to his smooth, chubby face.
“He looks just like you,” I say, in wonder.
“I think he’s got a worse temper, if that’s possible,” Aida laughs. “Poor Cal.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Miles.”
As I look down on the baby, I feel the strangest rush of emotion. I never particularly wanted a child. I felt like I’d barely lived my own life yet. But the thought of having a baby like this, with soft dark curls like Sebastian’s, and maybe his autumn-brown eyes, too . . .
I didn’t know you could want something so suddenly, and so hard.
“Aida,” I say in a rush. “Sebastian left this morning. I’m pretty sure he’s on some kind of revenge rampage. I don’t know where he is . . . but I’m worried.”
Aida frowns, looking for a moment just as ferocious as her baby.
“From my last conversation with Sebastian, I was under the impression he was going to chill the fuck out so Nero could recover, and we could bury my father . . . Then we’d reevaluate.”
I shake my head helplessly.
“I don’t think that’s what he’s doing,” I say.
Aida pulls her phone out of her purse and hits a number—presumably Sebastian’s. She waits, the phone ringing several times. Then, right when she’s about to hang up, someone answers.
“It’s not a great time right now, Aida.”
I go limp with relief. I can barely hear the words, since Aida doesn’t have the call on speaker, but I’d recognize Seb’s voice anywhere. He’s alive, and he sounds in relatively good condition.
“Oh, it isn’t?” Aida says, sharply. “Is that because you’re trying to launch a full-scale war on your own?”
A pause, then Sebastian says, “I’m handling it. And I’m not on my own—Miko’s with me.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Seb sighs. “You’re about to be the First Lady of the city. This was my mistake. I’m the one who’s going to clean it up.”
My stomach lurches. Was the agreement with my father the mistake? Or was it just . . . me?
“Where are you?” Aida demands.
“I’m at the house,” Sebastian says. “But don’t come here, Aida. If you want to help, go take care of Nero. He’s having another surgery tonight, you could give Camille a break . . .”
“Seb, I’m not—”
“I’ve gotta go,” he interrupts. And he ends the call.
“Goddamn it,” Aida hisses, shoving her phone back in her bag.
“He’s at the house?” I say, making sure I heard right.
“Yeah,” Aida nods.
“That’s where I’m going, then,” I say, turning around to leave.
“Wait,” Aida says. “Let’s get Cal, too.”
I feel tense and anxious, wanting to get back to Sebastian as quickly as possible, but I see the utility in having Callum Griffin with us as well. Even though he’s set his sights on the mayorship, he’s still the scion of the Irish mafia. He’s no pencil-pushing politician. He’s a force to be reckoned with.
As we scale the steps to City Hall, I lift the front of the stroller so Aida can bring Miles up without going all the way around to the wheelchair ramp.
Several people nod or wave to Aida, obviously recognizing her. I mostly get side-eyes, because while she’s dressed in a chic pants-suit, I’m still wearing the tattered Converse, pajama pants, and a ripped Van Halen t-shirt. To make matters worse, my shoulder is bleeding again and it’s soaking through the bandage, spotting the front of the shirt.
“You know, those shoes saved my life once,” Aida says, cryptically. “Or at least, one of them did . . .”
“They must be lucky then,” I say. “I had a close scrape myself today.”
“Lucky,” Aida says. “But not your size.”
I’m limping along, my toes crushed together and jammed up against the front of the shoe.
“I’m a size ten,” I admit.
“Eight and a half,” Aida says.
We’ve reached Callum’s office. I hold the door for Aida so she can push the stroller through. The receptionist jumps up saying, “Good afternoon Mrs. Griffin! The Alderman just got back, he’s right in there . . .”
She trails off, catching sight of me. It’s a testament to her training that she only makes a baffled face for a moment, before inquiring, “Can I get a bottle of water for either of you?”
“Yes, please,” I say, eagerly.
In the aftermath of an adrenaline shock, you get intensely thirsty. My mouth feels dry as dust.
The secretary hurries off to get the water.
Meanwhile, Callum Griffin is already striding out of his office, having heard Aida’s voice.
He’s tall, dressed in an austere dark suit, his brown hair meticulously combed, and his cool blue eyes taking in the situation at a glance. He shows no surprise at the sight of me—just a quick, analyzing sweep of his eyes, and then the rapid ticking of his brain as he puts the pieces together at lightning speed.
The only emotion he betrays is a flicker of pleasure at the sight of his wife and son. He bends to kiss Aida on the cheek, then looks down at Miles in the stroller, his jaw tight with pride.
“How has he been today?” he asks Aida.
“An angel, of course,” Aida says.
Callum snorts, not believing that for a second.
“Well, he isn’t screaming now, so that’s something.”
“He likes getting out of the house.”
“Looks like someone else got out of the house, too,” Callum says, cocking an eyebrow at my outfit. “Yelena Yenina, I assume. Recently escaped from your husband?”
“Sort of,” I say. I can feel my face flushing under his cool, direct stare. “I’m not trying to escape—actually, I want to go back. I think Sebastian needs our help . . .”
“Our help?” Callum says, his tone even more frosty.
“Seb is taking on the Russians,” Aida says.
“Without much of a plan, sounds like.”
Aida looks him in the eye, her body tense. “Cal,” she says, quietly. “They killed my father.”
“I know that,” he says. “And I would do anything—ANYTHING—to bring him back to you, Aida. But that isn’t possible. Yenin wants a bloodbath. Sebastian seems determined to give it to him.”
He pauses, looking down at his wife. Now I can see that Callum isn’t as impassive as I thought. In fact, it’s clear that several impulses are fighting inside of him, all at once: his anger at this situation. His desire to give his wife what she wants. And his fear of what will happen if he does.
“Look, Aida,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Dante might be right. Revenge is for people who have only themselves to consider.”
He casts a meaningful look at Miles, who seems oblivious to the tension in the room—he’s finally stopped scowling and has fallen asleep in the stroller.
Aida bites her lip, torn between her loyalty to four different men: her husband and son on the one side, and her father and brother on the other.
For a moment I think she’s going to agree with her husband. Then she shakes her head hard.
“We can’t leave Seb alone in this,” she says. “You owe him Callum, you know you do. And so do I. The night that brought us together fucked him over. He’s never blamed me. He’s never complained. And besides that Cal, Alexei Yenin is a fucking psychopath—no offense, Yelena. He is coming after all of us. If we’re going to join World War Two, let’s do it now, and not after Pearl Harbor.”
Callum frowns. “Don’t use the History Channel against me, Aida.”
“CAL!”
“Alright, alright!” he holds up his hands. “We’ll help him. But we have to take Miles to my parents’ house—”
“Obviously.”
“And you’re wearing a vest. And we’re bringing men along with us.”
“Reasonable,” Aida says, trying to hide the fact that he agreed more quickly than she expected. She has the look of someone who had about eight more arguments ready to go if her first one failed.
The secretary comes hustling back into the room, carrying several different bottles of water.
“Sorry!” she pants. “We only had sparkling left in the fridge, so I ran down the hall to get some Evian as well . . .”
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing a bottle out of her overladen arms. “I’ll take it to go.”
