Chapter 35
The club brings back memories that I neither love nor hate.
As I look around the dark, empty space, I can’t help but recall my younger years that were spent here after I opened it with Ilya. I remember announcing to the families we would be the first club with neutral grounds. Anyone who came here would have to know that they were stepping into a place meant to be fun, not dangerous. That we, Ilya and myself, were looking for a way to step into a better future for us all, not backward.
The uproar it initially caused among The Council made us think that it wouldn’t be granted, and then a fight broke out between two families at a regular nightclub, causing mayhem. Bystanders had been injured that hadn’t been involved, people had died, and costs had been exponential. After that, The Council approved it.
These were men designated to be unbiased decision-makers, the voice of reason among us all, and mentors assigned to see that no outright feuds spilled into the streets.
Only it had happened exactly like that three weeks ago.
Now, The Council is urging Ilya and me to make any necessary repairs and corrections to the security so we can reopen the club. They had even offered assistance from the families.
“I fucking hate this place.”
I turn to see Ilya. The men that are behind him hold the same unimpressed, stoic looks of soldiers. Calmly, he makes his way to me, embracing me in a friendly hug that’s quick before he moves to Gio and Vlad, doing the same thing. He exchanges words in Russia with Vlad, who seems to respond easily before moving over to Ilya’s other men.
Even among his own men, the Giant man towers over them all in an intimidating way. I see why Echo calls him Beary. His frame fills every space that he’s in, making it feel claustrophobic.
My attention turns back to Ilya. “They won’t let us close it now.”
Bright blue eyes stare at me before Ilya pushes his shoulder length hair back on his head. “Yeah.”
Disapproval is evident in his thick accent. “Anya’s not happy about it. Says this place is damned.”
I say nothing for a moment, remembering how Ilya’s wife, Anya, senses vibes. She once described me as broken but loyal, then thanked me for being Ilya’s one true friend.
She might have a point about this place. Neither I nor Ilya have been inside of it other than when it’s closed. We go straight to the office, oversee business, then leave. Ilya lost interest in frequenting the club shortly after he met Anya. It was most likely because he didn’t want other men looking at her, rather than the fact that she disliked the place. I grew bored of the women who thought they could find their way into my pants or good graces by parading around me half-dressed.
Being well into our thirties might have also assisted with those decisions.
“Would the insurance payout be more than we are getting now if an accident occurred?”
I look at Ilya, both of us thinking of scenarios where we would benefit versus the weekly payout we receive from running this place.
It wouldn’t be worth it.
As much as we hate this place, we are making millions a year just by having a neutral environment for the families, their friends, and the general population. It would be foolish to give all of that up simply because we don’t like the territory and what it comes with.
We’ve never been men with morals, so why start now?
“Did you get the invoice from Torres?” I ask.
Ilya, already perturbed, stuffs his hands in his pants pockets and shakes his head. “Yes, his price is fair.”
“It is.”
I agree. Having worked with the families continuously, Torres never tries to overprice things. “I want to make changes.”
“Me, too.”
Agreed that we are making changes due to the demand for our club to be reopened; we both turn when Torres walks into the club. The only thing he’s holding is his laptop, and we know it’s so he won’t be frisked. The man has a thing about being touched and claims that our protocol is the only one he allows such freedom.
Not that he would have a choice.
Without properly greeting us, he places his laptop on the bar counter and then walks over to us, clasping his hands in front of himself. “So, we’re going to do different repairs?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his abrupt behavior. Before Torress became the main contractor for the families, he was in the Marines. When he didn’t re-enlist, he used his veteran benefits to start a construction and repair company, which ultimately yielded little success. It wasn’t until he got Luis Villanueva’s niece pregnant that he found the ugly truth of what he’d fucked his way into. He discovered that his baby’s mother had deep connections to the Cartel– Nothing directly to the head of it, but close enough that we were asked to keep an eye on him.
If watching him was a form of employment, then he’s a lucky man.
He hates our way of living but is aware the majority of the families have legitimate businesses that wash the illegal businesses, and the money is consistent…. Especially since he now has six children with Luis’ niece.
“Hello to you, too, Miguel,”
Ilya says, emphasizing his patronizing tone by greeting Torres with his first name.
Torres regards Ilya with a slight nod, then looks around the club. “What are we thinking?”
Though it takes us roughly four hours to discuss everything that we want and get an estimate for the repairs and renovations, by the time we are done, all of us are exhausted and over the day. Torres estimates that the upgrades will cost us nearly fifteen thousand, and the repairs would be about another ten. With the intent to start work within three days, he claims he can have everything finished in three weeks, but we negotiate for two by throwing in more money.
The families are going to be paying more.
We plan to take the space and elevate it. Where the dance floor is in the middle right now, we plan to move it to the side, allowing more walking space and tables to reserve. Customers who want an elevated experience or who pay for it have always been hosted in the Red or Black Room on the second floor.
Rooms that I have experienced myself but no longer entertain or am interested in. Rooms that are bigger than some people’s houses.
It makes sense why The Council doesn’t want us to close.
This place ensures that their men, while they are young and stupid, aren’t entrapped in scenarios that can end their lives or force them into a situation that isn’t agreeable. We have even been graced by our state politicians and have been discreet about it. Privacy and exclusivity are something that their position demands. This is the business that we decided to start. A company that isn’t favorable but washes one hand without the other knowing.
Better to stick with the devil that you know than the one you don’t.
We also want to brighten the space by painting it lighter, which will make it look bigger and more modern. The old dark furniture will be tossed or reupholstered to a more agreeable color.
Though the fight caused damage, it has also given us the time to make the necessary changes that we will need. The changes that we discussed in the past but never got the chance or disregarded simply because the funds coming in disputed that idea.
With business adjourned, we make our way back to the bar of the club, where one of Ilya’s men makes us a drink. “How is your uncle?”
I sit down in the bar seat that is small and uncomfortable, my feet planted on the floor. “Dying.”
Ilya’s face stays unmoved, but his eyes search mine. “I see. So, you are Don now?”
I shake my head. “Soon. We are handling the legalities of it.”
Ilya, whose drink is at his lips, stops and raises an eyebrow at my words. “Politics, huh?” He jokes.
I nod, swirling the ice around in my old-fashioned. “Growing up, we couldn’t imagine that there would be so much that goes into this life. Now look at us– Old, married, forced to tame ourselves.”
“I have always been tame.”
Ilya retorts.
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, but I don’t say anything right away. Ilya Petrov was anything but tame as a young man. The trail of dead bodies he has left behind him rivals my father’s. It wasn’t until Ilya’s father sent him to Russia for a year that he came back calmer.
We joked that it was possibly the freezing temperatures that cooled him off, but Ilya never speaks about it, and I don’t ask. It’s an unspoken truce between friends and a learned habit in this life.
Never give someone power over you.
“War’s coming.”
I look at Ilya. The room seems to have chilled to an uncomfortable degree due to his random cryptic sentence. ”It was bound to happen.”
The truth is that there hasn’t been an outright war between families for at least three decades. There have always been spats or fights, but The Council has always intervened before too much damage was done or the wrong type of attention was brought upon us.
Ilya nods. “I’ve felt the shift.”
I don’t say that I agree with Ilya right away, but we both know that I do. Over the last couple of years, things have gone from docile and calm to turbulent. A storm has been brewing. While the older men, mostly in their fifties to seventies, have been trying to ignore it, the younger generation, a group of self-entitled, egregious shits, have been inciting fights. The generation between them both, mine and Aldo’s age, early forties to mid-thirties, have been sitting back prepared. We weren’t raised fighting but defending ourselves against a breed of men before they grew soft with old age. We don’t want a war, but we’ll be damned if we allow our families to be harmed in one.
And that makes us the worst.
The lengths we will go to will make the blurred lines we live in turn black.
“Has this shift given you any direction in what you have to do?”
There’s a handful of people that Ilya would trust to talk to, and gladly I am one. The feeling is mutual. “I thought about sending Anya and the children back home to Russia, just for a bit, until this all settles.”
I chuckle. “Anya put that to rest?”
“Of course.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “She claimed that she and the children would be safer here with me and more people we know. She has a point. We have drills in case something happens, and I have men and people I trust here. My cousin is in Russia, but I haven’t seen him since I left.”
In other words, Russia isn’t an option because, at any point, Anya and the children could be used against Ilya, and if they left him, he would be distracted worrying about them. Besides, Anya is a tough woman. She used to work in our Black room before Ilya noticed her, so she doesn’t scare easily.
“She still doesn’t talk to her father, right?”
At any other time, I wouldn’t ask about Anya’s family. Similar to us, her complicated past threw her into our establishment, looking for a place to run away to. Her family isn’t connected to any of the families, but that didn’t stop her father from trying to make calculated moves that turned out to be grave mistakes.
The sole reason he’s still breathing is only because Anya begged Ilya not to kill him. Instead, he was exiled from the city and told never to contact them unless Anya reached out to him first.
Ilya swears under his breath. “Thankfully, no. She occasionally checks on him to make sure he’s still alive but won’t talk to him.”
Rightfully so.
“At least you don’t have to worry about him becoming a distraction.”
There’s a silence, which tells me that Ilya agrees. We don’t talk every day, but we are familiar enough with each other that we typically agree without having to say anything.
He sits back, exhaling a deep breath, and looks around the club. “What about you? What are you going to do with your wife if things get worse? From what I recall, she had direct ties with Aldo when she was younger, right?”
The questions put me on edge. If I never hear Aldo Rossi’s fucking name again, I wouldn’t be heartbroken by the idea. “Si, I’m sure you know that they killed her family. Tommaso was having an affair with her mother, and Aldo was with her. She has no living family that I would trust, especially since she’s technically dead.”
“So, she stays with you then?”
I shrug, the action seeming more nonchalant than I feel. “She stays with me.”
I take in more of my drink. “From the way she took down Marco Jr. and some of my other men at the restaurant, I doubt she needs too much of my protection.”
Ilya nods. “I’ve watched the surveillance video multiple times. She may even be able to take Vlad down.”
Both of our heads turn to look at the humongous man, debating if Echo could take him down. After a moment, we both chuckle and shake our heads. “How is your son?”
The change in topic brings a broad smile out of Ilya. Without being asked, he digs in the back pocket of his pants and fishes out his phone to produce a photo. I look down at the picture of Ilya's two children. His oldest, Anastasia, is holding a newborn baby that has a head full of black hair and the brightest blue eyes. He’s the spitting image of Anya, while their daughter looks exactly like Ilya, inheriting his blonde hair and dark brown eyes.
“They are beautiful,”
I respond in earnest. I haven’t been to their place in months, but usually, when I go, Anastasia stays planted next to me until Anya comes to get her.
Ilya laughs, putting his phone away. “They are devils. I don’t know what we were thinking by having two babies under two.”
He drinks. “It’s diapers, screaming, crying, tantrums, feeding, diapers, and more crying. I don’t think I’ve slept two full hours since Dmitry has come.”
I frown at the realization that I will be in the same boat as him soon. “What about your help?”
Ilya scoffs. “You know Anya. Vibes. Our current nanny is young, so Anya has made it her mission to mother the young woman herself. So, it’s like having three children now, except I pay one of them.”
I can see that all too well. “It works then. Anya mothers the nanny, and the nanny helps with Anastasia and Dmitry.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Then get a new nanny.”
I determine for him.
My friend stares at me like I’ve grown horns. “You will learn soon.”
He finishes his drink, and his man comes forward to make him another one without being asked. “How is your wife? I see she hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Surprisingly not.”
I counter. “She’s okay. Pregnancy has been hard on her body, but her spirit is still intact.”
At that, Ilya chuckles. “It has to be to have survived this long.”
We both know about survival. Somehow, our fathers were monsters cut from different clothes, and the only way we made it through the day was survival.
I nod. “She has my protection.”
Ilya’s blue gaze seems to darken. “You’ve fucked a baby into her, and that makes her protected?”
I stare at my friend, memories from a couple of years ago when we were in opposite scenarios replaying. “Ilya, think before you say too much.”
He bristles, challenged by my words. For a brief moment, I believe that we will be right back where we were when we were younger and fought all the time until one or the other gave in. Eventually, Ilya’s face breaks out in a smile that I want to knock off his fucking face. “Ah, you do care for her? So, it’s more than protection.”
My empty glass is replaced, and I take a drink. I’m obviously beyond merely protecting Echo. Aside from my child that’s growing inside her, she’s damn near all that I live for. “You care for Anya?”
I dare to ask Ilya, though I know the answer. I witnessed the lengths he would go to for her years ago, and he hasn’t stopped showing it.
Ilya chuckles. “Care seems like such a weak emotion compared to what Anya and I have. She’s my essence.”
I roll my eyes. “A bit romantic, old man.”
We both laugh, and he shrugs. “I would demolish the universe and build a new one for her.”
I believe it. After all that we have witnessed and done together, the instant that Ilya met Anya, he was taken by her. The insane part of it is that at one time, I would have helped him with all of that simply because he’s my friend, but now that I feel the same way about someone, I’m hesitant to upend something that we rarely get in our lives.
Is it love? Or just mutual respect and care?
Ilya slaps his hand on the top of the bar, getting my attention. He lifts his drink, which isn’t half as full as mine, but I toast him anyway before we swallow the contents of our glass. This is our signal that the meeting has come to an end. He more than likely has to get home.
When Anya had Anastasia, he worked from home for four months and became known as Ilya, the hermit. Some people considered it to show weakness but didn’t dare say it out loud after Ilya’s fight with Tanaka’s son.
After Anya had been kidnapped, The Council offered retribution for Ilya, but instead of starting a war, he challenged the man who had dared to take away Anya and tried to use her against him. To say that the fight had been bloody is an understatement, but after getting his femur fractured, Tanaka’s son had conceded.
Clearly, trouble runs in the family, though.
I glance around the club that is going to see new and better days. The changes will hopefully make Ilya and myself decide to keep it. We acknowledged years ago that illegal things came with this life but that we wouldn’t enable what we didn’t entertain ourselves. At that time, it had unearthed a good number of truths about ourselves, but nothing that harmed anyone.
We stand, and Ilya claps his hand across my back as we near our men, who are as familiar with each other as we are. “Why not bring your wife to our house for dinner next week?”
“I couldn’t impose.”
It’s a lie.
I have imposed on Ilya plenty of times, and he has never cared. Anya has even invited me over any time, but I haven’t stopped by since before I met Echo.
I guess it’s time I make an appearance.
“Don’t insult me, Damiano,”
Ilya says with the stern voice of a friend. “Besides, Anya would love to see her cousin. Talking to Vlad on the phone is nearly not enough for her.”
I shake my head, and my eyes divert to Vlad, who’s more relaxed than I have ever seen him. “Only for Anya and Vlad.”
I concede.
My friend smiles. “Good. I will call you with the details later today.”