Chapter 5
BANE
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
It’s a far more complex question than my father might realize. What was I thinking?
Several things. I’ve spent years considering what I would do or say or how I would act if I came face to face with her again. I suppose “revenge” would be in the mix. Retribution. But that barely scratches the surface of what I feel when I’m around her.
Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all.
Nikolai Antonov pours himself a vodka at the bar cart in his office. He doesn’t ask me if I want one too.
Nothing my father does is accidental, or a misstep.
He doesn’t make those, which is how he’s successfully built our family into the empire it is today: a powerful force in the bratva world, one of the most feared and respected families in New York.
Dad even sits at the Iron Table, with some of the other strongest bratva families in the world.
And yet somehow, even with all this weight on his shoulders, and even when he has every reason to be a cold, ruthless, miserable bastard of a father…he’s not.
He’s the opposite, actually. We’ve been among each other's best friends since Mom died. Even right now, after I’ve royally shit all over our plans, he’s not angry, per se.
Pissed off, maybe, which is fair. Annoyed…
also fair. But I think “what the fuck were you thinking” in this case might truly be based in curiosity.
He turns, his flinty gray eyes stabbing into me as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip. He drops the glass again, fingers clawed over the rim as he rakes the fingers of his other hand through his dark hair that is only slightly silvering at the temples.
“We had this worked out, Bane,” he growls. “We had a plan—your goddamn plan, actually! And it was not this!”
He jabs his finger at the TV on the office wall. The volume is off, but the same paparazzi bullshit that’s been on all day is still playing across the screen.
The paparazzi bullshit involving me.
And her.
It's a video of what looks like us making out against a wall. She’s even gripping my shirt, like she can’t get enough of me as I devour her mouth.
She tasted like cinnamon.
Even though the volume’s off, the news ticker is repeating the same crap they were babbling about earlier: how the “shock revelation” of the heirs of two of New York’s most powerful mafia families found “canoodling” is “breaking the internet!!!”…whatever the fuck that means.
They’re all over the map with their info. Some reports are claiming we’ve been madly in love for years. Others call it a drunk hookup caught on camera.
Result: chaotic white noise.
…Which is exactly "what I was thinking" when I paid the two NYU media studies majors to follow me up onto the roof and film the two of us kissing.
The Antonov family, like most bratva families, works in shadowy, often ruthless ways. When there’s something we want, we take it, in any way possible, whether that be lying, or stealing, or outright war.
The Marchetti family has recently come into possession of a dock and shipping facility on the New York waterfront. Prime space, complete with warehouses, a container crane, the works.
Dad was prepared to pay top dollar for it, but then the previous owner sold it to Cesare Marchetti for a fucking song, because they eat pasta with too much garlic together. Birds of a fucking Italian feather and all that.
So I came up with another way in.
My original plan involved seducing the younger half-sister, Chiara Marchetti. Yes, she’s married, but it's an arranged situation and I know she is wildly unhappy.
And oh-so-lonely.
That's where I’d come in. Charm the panties off Chiara, arrange for the paparazzi to get some photos mid-fuck, thereby forcing a divorce, and furthermore, forcing Cesare to marry her off to me to save face.
We get access to the shipping facility. Cesare gets the muscle he doesn’t currently have in order to hold said shipping facility.
Win-win for everyone.
Well, mostly everyone. Not that Chiara is hard on the eyes. But trust me, she doesn’t want to be married to me.
Nobody does.
But that was before the other night, on the roof of the Empire State Building.
Two lost souls, ready to throw it all away.
Except I’m not ready to do that anymore. Not when I know what she did to take Lark away from me.
She took away someone I cared about. She took that life from me.
She fucking owes me one in return. And this is how I’m going to get it. That video of her and me is everywhere by now, and I know it’s forcing Cesare’s hand.
He doesn’t have many options. Either he does nothing, and it becomes even more impossible to arrange a marriage for Dove that is worth anything to him. Or…
My lips curl into a dark smile.
Or he saves face by making a public statement about his daughter and I being a couple and tells everyone he can’t wait for the wedding. The Antonov and Marchetti families become bound by marriage, and we get access to that fucking shipping port.
Game. Set. Match.
“Bane…” Dad sighs and shakes his head. “I agreed to this when it was Chiara.”
“Who’s already married,” I remind him. “This is an easier—”
Dad barks a cold laugh. “Exactly how is Lark's best friend—”
“Dad.”
There’s an edge to my tone. He eyes me, his mouth closing as he nods.
“I’m sorry, son,” he says quietly. His brows knit. “The other night was…”
“Seven years, yeah,” I mutter out.
Dad nods somberly. His eyes drop to the glass in his hands before they lift to me. “You want one of these?”
“I think I’d like two of them.”
He smiles quietly as he goes back to the bar cart and pours me a heavy splash. When he hands it to me, he subtly touches his glass to mine.
“To Lark,” he murmurs.
I just nod and then slug half my glass back at once.
To Lark.
The girl I loved.
The girl I sometimes hated.
The girl I was ready to entwine my life with, before it all blew away like dust.
Dad exhales. “Chiara is a cleaner execution of the plan. Dove is…”
“She works just as well,” I grunt. “I’d argue that she works even better.”
My father cocks a brow. “Really,” he says dryly. “Then why didn’t you mention her before, when we were creating this plan?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you met her? The gothy emo bullshit? The mopey ‘I write sad poetry’ vibe? Way too much eyeliner? I didn’t suggest her because I had no interest in marrying her, and I doubt she’s the marrying type. Chiara is.”
Dad frowns. I think sometimes even he’s a little put off by my capacity for ruthlessness.
“Also, let’s be real. Cesare chose Chiara first for an arranged marriage even though she's younger than Dove for a reason. It's the same reason Dove has been away from New York for years and no one knows where. The same reason she lives in the carriage house and not one of the ten—ten—available bedrooms in her father’s home.”
Dad looks amused as he sips his drink. “Which is to say?”
“She’s fucking weird.”
He chuckles. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“I'm not weird,” I say peevishly. “I’m…reserved.”
But the fucked-up thing is, she and I might have more in common than I care to admit, especially to Dad, who might wonder why I was up on that roof to begin with.
Dad smiles a little as his eyes pry into me.
“You’re okay these days?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, as usual. It’s not that I enjoy lying to him. But lying to those you love in order to protect them is another thing.
“You’re still talking to Dr. Turov?”
I nod. “Every Wednesday.”
“And you’re still—”
“Taking all the pills, yeah.”
He smiles wryly. “I don’t like to ask—”
“I know it comes from a place of love.” I flash him a tight smile. “I’m good, Dad.”
Another lie, to protect him.
I glance back at the TV, still playing the clip of us on a loop: her pressing her hands against my chest, trying to shove me away. But damn, if it doesn’t look like she’s trying to pull me tighter to her, like she just can’t get enough.
“You’ve spoken to Cesare already?”
Dad snorts. “What the fuck do you think?” he grunts. “He either wants your head on a platter with your severed balls in your mouth by breakfast tomorrow. Or…” He shrugs. “He wants you to marry Dove, like, yesterday.”
My lips curl darkly at the corners. “Then it’s settled.”
My father says nothing for a second, just looks at me like he’s trying to see through my armor.
“You don’t have to do this, son.”
“Of course I do.”
“Bane,” he sighs. “You’re my son first, my heir second. And no, those two are not the same.”
I smile at him. “I’m doing it, Dad. For the family.”
For the family, yes…but also for revenge.
She took a life. She owes me hers.
I knock back the rest of my drink and set the glass down. “Gotta run.”
“Bane—”
I stop mid-turn, glancing back at my father. His brows are furrowed, his mouth tight.
“You are still seeing Dr. Turov, right?”
“Already told you, Dad,” I nod. “I am. And I’m all good.”
Lies.
Lies lies motherfucking lies.
I turn again to head for the door.
“Why the Empire State Building?”
My shoulders tense as I pause.
“What were you both doing up there?” Dad asks quietly, like he’s afraid of the answer.
Honestly, he should be. But I’m not going to tell him the truth.
“Romantic views, dad,” I smile at him. “Really romantic views.”