Chapter 13 - Aleksei
The past few days have been a whirlwind, spent meticulously reorganizing our operations around receiving shipments, and weeding through the personnel. It’s been a long overdue task, one that has grown to be more important than ever to prevent the leak of sensitive information regarding our dealings. Culling the weak links isn’t anything new to me, but it does grow more necessary now with Bianca’s arrival. Dmitri’s work as Bianca’s designated bodyguard means I have to take on some of his workload, leading to days spent in meetings with Grigor and Akim, the two proving to wear my patience very thin.
Most days, I find myself waking before dawn—long before the unforgiving ring of my alarm manages to rouse me. The mornings are the longest, spent sitting behind the heavy, thick oak in our meeting room, breathing in the old, musty cigar air while the minor pinheads we pay off chip in once or twice during the daily debrief, pretending to hold at least some power in the room. It’s intel, I know already, usually a few days ahead, but my presence there is required to keep these men on their leashes, if only as a reminder to never forget to fear. I am always present. On my end, though, I now have a newfound and very welcome distraction, thinking of Bianca whenever the constant droning of the men around me lulls me into the web of my fantasy. Her trusting gaze. Then travelling between our casinos, growing more and more accustomed to the leather seats in my limousine. Her plump curves. The way she clenched around me.
I know from Dmitri that she’s been exploring the grounds around the mansion. She goes for walks often, and I like to imagine her strolling around the garden while I’m in meetings. Sometimes I allow myself to fantasize about taking her through the maze and fucking her there. How she’d sound, her bated breath and big eyes, plump lips raw from kissing.
Currently, though, we are far from that. She is avoiding me like the plague, something I try to understand and give her space for. The few times I do meet her are for few minutes intervals in the kitchen, or in the evening after work. Her eyes follow my form, averting her gaze when I look at her. She probably feels my eyes on her just like I feel hers when she doesn’t know I notice her looking.
My thoughts are mostly consumed by Maksim, no new information about him making its way to me. It always worries me—even when he did disappear during his previous benders—but over time I learned to come to almost expect it. A few weeks every now and then, his time to escape from the responsibility and pressure of the life we lead. But it’s been too long now. Dmitri always brings disappointing news, and the time is slowly growing nigh to when we’ll have to reach for more drastic measures to find him.
The pressure of the slow cooker is growing, several of our smaller allies are sending messages to alert us of their discontent with our strategy regarding the Rossis. They haven’t made a move yet—a disconcerting fact knowing that word has already spread of Bianca’s relocation to our compound, of her marriage to me, and the alliance she now has with the Barkov clan. She is one of us now. I know it is making the old Rossi go mad with fury, but the fact that he didn’t make any public statement, or at least a threat of retaliation, is disturbing. It means something is brewing—something I don’t have foreknowledge of and therefore can’t prepare for. It makes me feel like my control is slipping.
I know other small clans are talking, too. Whispers in the darkness that they believe are unknown to me. Little do they know that I know everything within my realm of influence. They are swift to cease their endless talking when I send my men to them, though, ending all chatter during the past week when they found out Bianca was with us. They know me as the ruthless Barkov, and I find reminding them of this is a good practice—especially now.
There is an important event scheduled for today, one that legitimizes and claims Bianca as one of our own for all our allies to see. It’s not the company of no name leaders of crime syndicates that I’m looking forward to, though, but rather the time I’ll spend with her . The past few days I find myself itching for her, both her touch and her attention. It’s a meeting with our distant relatives and the heads of smaller clans allied with us, an evening where they’d meet me and Bianca together. Despite all the prying eyes we are going to encounter, I’ll be looking forward to seeing how she carries herself—if, as I suspect will be the case, she will have the poise of a Barkov.
There is a misconception amongst many that in our line of work, hard power is what it takes to be successful, and while it is necessary, the person in a position such as mine or hers needs to have a presence. A charisma. They need to be able to step into a room and command its attention to be able to garner the respect and fear that is necessary for what we need to do.
Getting ready is fast, with years of practice now. I slip on a fine-tailored navy suit that was prepared for me. The devil is in the details, my mother used to say, and I repeat that as a reminder to myself when placing on the cuffs with Barkov insignia.
I‘m surprised to notice that I go breathless when waiting downstairs, spotting Bianca turning from the hall onto the staircase and beginning her descent. She’s donning a beige cream gown that accentuates her curves beautifully, the color emphasizing her rich hair color. The makeup she went for is minimal but highlights her natural beauty well while also accentuating the sharpness of her cheekbones and green eyes. She looks regal. She looks mine.
The ride to the venue is fast and quiet. I don’t feel nervous, but I itch to touch her. I know Bianca needs time, but I yearn for her—her words, her lips, her stare, her curves. Now that I’ve had a taste of her, my tongue seeks nothing else. I wonder if she feels the same. I know she’s mine now in every way, but I want her to choose to come to me. To be mine fully, body and soul, whenever she feels ready.
When we enter the lobby of the opulent hotel we rented out for this event, the chandeliers above cast a warm, fractured glow; path broken by the crystal pieces lavishly piled over one another on the metal body. The atmosphere is one of refined elegance and understated luxury, and I find myself appreciating the venue Akim had chosen for this gathering. Plush velvet curtains frame the tall windows lining the wall, allowing glimpses of the New York skyline beyond. The location was chosen well, giving a view of our territory below. The air is thick with the scent of expensive, musky perfume and the soft murmur of conversation, punctuated by the clinking of champagne glasses and the occasional bursts of polite laughter.
That’s what this is—a meeting of polite society—which we are trying to emulate, knowing all too well most of us here have blood on our hands. The men are dressed in their impeccably tailored suits, while the women don designer gowns tailored to perfection. Despite the attention to detail and beauty, though, Bianca still garners most of the attention, and not just because she is the subject of today’s event. She is draped in the flowing beige silk, her silhouette a full and elegant shape that moves across the floor with sophistication.
The watching eyes belong to men in tailored suits with faces half cast in shadows due to the dim lighting, and women in their flowing gowns, the entire crowd intermingling. The laughter and soft conversation blends with the soft music in the background, and I reached for Bianca’s arm, her own expertly wrapping around mine, portraying the united front we want to seem. We navigate through the crowd, which parts much like the red sea, and though heads do turn as we pass, the conversation never ceases.
I can feel the weight of their gazes, a sensation I’ve grown to be comfortable in, reveling in their scrutiny that I inevitably quench. They assess both me and Bianca—I can tell they look to her more, unaccustomed to the Rossi being present in any of our previous events. Bianca, with her fiery hair cascading down her shoulders, exudes a confidence that draws the attention of almost everyone in the lobby. It’s a bravado I haven’t seen her in once, but I feel a swell of pride inside at her strength. She may be the daughter of the old Rossi bastard, but tonight, she’s mine.
I guide her through the throng, my hand sliding to grasp her small palm in mine, squeezing gently. I’m here for you. She’s my little bird. As we approach Dmitri and Akim, standing by our cousins, I straighten my spine, readying myself to introduce Bianca to the outside world.
“Bianca,” I smile, turning to smile at her. “Allow me to formally introduce you to my family.” I turn back to the small group, feeling Bianca stand tall beside me. She steps forward, completely in my field of vision now, her gray eyes meeting each gaze with a silent determination. She may be new to this world, but she holds herself with the poise of someone who’s been doing this for years.
“She outdoes all the whispers about her, that’s for sure.” Anastasia, my younger cousin, around Bianca’s age, eyes her up and down. The stare doesn’t sit right with me, but so does the rest of Anastasia’s countenance, which is why I make sure to keep her far from the family business. Bianca responds to her cheap jabs before I do.
“I can assure you she can and will outdo all the whispers,” Bianca states with confidence, smiling a cold smile at the petite brunette. Anastasia huffs, finishing her champagne and sidestepping to her feet.
“If you’ll excuse me,” She raises her glass. “I need to get a refill. The staff here is lousy, and I won’t get it if I don’t ask for it.”
Once she heads out and towards a waiter with a plate full of filled champagne glasses, I look at Bianca. Piotr—Anastasia’s much more likable older brother—decides to break the silence.
“What my sister was trying to say,” he starts, eyes glinting with what appears to be excitement. “Is that you’ve caused quite the storm with your arrival.” His eyes don’t travel below her shoulders, gazing at her face, but I can still sense his appreciation for her beauty. His want. It pisses me off.
I’m annoyed at the sudden fascination Piotr seems to have developed for my wife, finding Dmitri’s calm eyes focused on my own as I watch the interaction unfold before me. I untangle my fingers from Bianca’s small hand, moving my arm to place on her shoulder to rub small circles into her arm.
“Oh, I can assure you that it caused quite the storm in my life, too.” She smiles sweetly up at me, her meaning not being lost on me. She can play house much better than I anticipated her to be able to, seeing how disconnected she is from the Rossis and their charades. Before any more discussion of her arrival can commence, Grigor speaks up.
“So, how are you settling, sister-in-law?” I can tell he’s putting all his effort into sounding civil, finding his attempt at composure admirable. He must understand just how much is on the line tonight—it may appear to be just any other introduction of my wife to the world, but it is politically so much more than that. Tonight is the night to drive in the point to both family and allies that Bianca is one of us now, and that the Rossis have lost their footing in this age-old tug of war between us.
After Bianca’s brief answer, I whisper to let her know that I’ll break off for a few minutes, Dmitri already pulling me to the side. I don’t tell her I wish to take this moment to observe her from a distance. I want to see what they see. The power and confidence that radiates from her as an outsider, and revel in that feeling. That’s my wife, and she can do it all on her own. My little bird.
The evening speeds up, unfolding faster than I anticipated, but whenever I glance at Bianca, who holds steady in conversation with Akim, I bask in her light. She commands the attention of those around her effortlessly; her radiance is infectious, begging for attention from all those around her. Her steel spine and calm demeanor effortlessly deflect all attempts from the sour-faced individuals approaching her. I know she’s fine with Akim, and seeing their faces either turn and walk away defeated, or warm to her with a genuine smile, reaffirms in my decision to take her in. She’s always been one of us, we just found her late.
Dmitri notices my reactions when a group of men approach Bianca and start a light chitchat. He leans in close, a low growl of warning emanating from him. “Don’t do anything rash, Aleksei. I see you’re considering it. It’s bad for business.” He cautions, and I shoot him an annoyed stare for his jab. He smirks. “She can handle herself.”
I nod curtly, swallowing whatever the hell it is that surfaces within me just then . But I know , not wanting to admit what I’ve felt the past few times and pushing it further into the deep recesses of my mind. She’s mine. I don’t like their eyes on her. I can tell their stares venture far beyond the pleasant mirth displayed on their face into the scope of longing, stealing longer than socially acceptable glances at her when she’s not looking.
Bianca is mine, and I won’t let anyone forget it. It’s been enough, she has more than proven herself worthy of her position not only to me, but most importantly, to my brothers, who have been keen to gauge her reaction today. To decide whether the shotgun approach led to us acquiring a hidden gem, or if we have to reconsider our strategy at undermining the old Rossi.
I already have the route planned in my head, around the crowd, talking to Akim, past the waiter, and I’ll be next to her. Though, just as I’m about to start my trek, a much too familiar honeyed voice speaks from behind me. Rosa.
“Your men have any luck looking for Maksim yet?” It is a rhetorical question. She and I both know there is no news of him. It also means that she does know something, this being the closest she comes to offering up the information. With her, it is always push and pull, both in business and in pleasure. We used to fuck years ago when lack of propriety and responsibility carved out a suitable moment for us, though she proved herself as a more than capable asset in our roster.
I turn toward her. “Now, now, Rosa. Don’t keep me waiting.” I try to goad the answer from her, to which she just shoots me a knowing smile.
“Two days ago, I had my men track him down. He was in East London.” She takes a swig of the champagne in her hand, pursing her wine red lips, pensive. “Didn’t look the best.”
I nod and hum, having expected as much.
“As always, your counsel is invaluable, Rosa. Thank you.” I whisper in her ear, mindful of keeping the conversation just between us. There are more than a few prying ears who would be delighted to hear our exchange.
She looks up at me, features all sharp and feline like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Her eyes narrow, the telltale sign that she is up to something.
“Yes, it is. There is a way in which you can express your gratitude, you know.” She gets closer, too close for a friend but not close enough to arise suspicion from onlookers. “I miss you, Aleksei.”
Rosa’s offer cuts through the noise of the amicable chatter in the background despite being so quiet it almost fades out. We used to be good years ago. Not in a relationship sense—that’s not something either of us were looking for—but more out of convenience. A whirlpool of old memories resurfaces then, but they aren’t as tempting as they used to be in the early mornings when I found myself hard and needing relief. Before Bianca.
It’s Bianca’s steady gaze that summons me back to reality, reminding me of what I have now. A heavy weight is slowly lifting, I can feel it. A reminder of the beauty and complexity of love—an emotion I was convinced died with Anya—and the choices we make to honor it.