Chapter 29 Alison
ALISON
I was still sitting there, processing that, when Gennadiy walked back in, brooding and scowly. As he slipped his phone into his pocket, his shirt drew tight over the hard slab of one pec, and I flashed back to the warm press of him when we’d kissed.
“What?” he asked, frowning at my expression.
I looked down at my coffee, my heart suddenly racing. “Nothing. Any luck getting a meet with the Cantellis?”
“We’re meeting Emanuela Cantelli in an hour.”
I looked up in shock. Emanuela was the most powerful Italian boss in the city.
..but apparently, when the Aristovs spoke, even she listened.
I accidentally met Gennadiy’s eyes, and suddenly I was falling upwards into gray so breathtakingly cold, it made my spine prickle.
But the longer he looked at me, the more the gray ice seemed to change, fracturing and heating until it was like silvery, molten metal.
He tore his eyes away. “We’re meeting her at The Fitzroy,” he said.
The Fitzroy? Crap. I’d heard about it, but I’d never been.
The restaurant was a Chicago institution, ivy-clad stone and snow-white tablecloths, with eye-watering prices and a six-month waiting list. Gennadiy’s gaze flicked back to me and this time raked over my blouse and jeans.
“Wear something...appropriate,” he told me.
“Appropriate?”
His eyes seemed to gleam for a second. “A dress.”
I shook my head. “I don’t do dresses.”
His eyes heated even more. “You do today.” Then he seemed to catch himself, and he marched off.
A dress. Because I needed to fit in with the billionaires at The Fitzroy or because he wanted to see more of me? I looked down at my denim-clad leg. Boy, would you be disappointed, I thought bitterly.
I glugged the rest of my coffee and stalked upstairs to change.
I checked through all the clothes Gennadiy had given me: maybe there were some smart pants or even a pant suit I could make work.
But no. Three pairs of jeans and a selection of beautiful designer dresses that would have looked amazing on anyone normal.
I paced back and forth for a few minutes, the shame and hurt heating to scarlet at my core and turning to anger when it reached the surface. How dare he? How dare he ask me to wear—
His voice, startlingly close. “Alison? We need to leave. Soon.”
I stared at the door in panic. He was right outside. “Coming!” I caught my flustered face in the mirror. Fuck. Maybe I should just march out there in jeans and tell him this was what I was wearing. But Gennadiy would dig his heels in and demand an explanation. He was as stubborn as I was.
I could feel myself breathing faster and faster. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so vulnerable and exposed, like I’d shattered on the floor and he was about to sift through all my glittering, private workings. I wanted my gun. I wanted this to be something I could fight my way out of.
Fuck it. I pulled off my blouse, then wriggled out of my jeans.
Picking a dress at random, I pulled it over my head.
Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Get it over with.
It was blue and probably very stylishly cut, but I didn’t pay any attention: all I knew was that it put my legs on show, up to just above the knee.
I slipped on some heels and grabbed the door handle. And it was only as the door swung wide to reveal Gennadiy that I realized, too late, why I was so upset.
It had been a long time since anyone had seen my leg, but I remembered in perfect, gut-wrenching detail the look of horror and disappointment on a man’s face when he saw. And even though he’d already pushed me away, I couldn’t bear to see that look of disgust on Gennadiy’s face.
I started to swing the door shut again, but Gennadiy frowned and caught it with one huge, powerful hand, thinking I was playing some game. And then his eyes licked hungrily down my body: over the delicate shoulder straps and the tight bodice, down over the flowing skirt, down to—
My soul shrank down to a tiny fetal ball.
I summoned up all my layers of armor, but it didn’t matter, he was too close, he was going to see me break, he was going to see that his fearsome opponent was actually pathetically weak.
Gennadiy blurred behind sudden, traitorous tears.
Goddamnit! I blinked furiously and glared up at him—
He was staring right at the hellish, ruined landscape the Molotov cocktail had left. His eyes tracked all the way down to my ankle, then up towards my face—
My chest closed up. I couldn’t breathe.
He looked me in the eye and...he didn’t look disgusted, or disappointed. He looked angry. I watched his shoulders rise, and his hands curl into darkly tattooed fists.
“Who?” he whispered.
I blinked, thrown. But my chest had eased enough for me to speak. “The Torrisis. A long time ago. Mistaken identity.”
He closed his eyes, his face twisted in pain. Then he nodded. “Come on.”
I stared up at him in dismay. “I can’t go out like this! I’m—” I looked down at my leg. Hideous.
He turned away for a second. I heard him huff his breath out angrily, as if he was fighting with himself.
Then he turned back to me, took hold of my chin, and lifted it, making me look at him.
The scowling mask was gone: for a second, he was open, exposed.
“Alison...you’re beautiful. Scars don’t make you less, they make you more because something happened to you, something bad enough to hurt you.
..but you were strong enough to stay a good person.
The ugly ones…they’re the ones who get twisted and scarred inside.
What happened to them made them monsters, and you wouldn’t even know it to look at them. ”
It felt like something enormous was lifting from my chest. I gave a quick little nod, unable to speak. A single tear broke free and trickled down my cheek, and I saw his eyes follow it down. His hand tensed on my chin. His eyes flicked to my lips—
And then he turned and stalked away. “Come on,” he said tightly. “We’ll be late.”
I stood frozen for a second. Beautiful. The word melted into my mind, and icy, Russian-accented rivulets of water ran deep, finding the little girl who hadn’t felt beautiful in twenty years, and I had to bite my lip hard.
And then they found adult me: obsessive, flat-chested, man-scaring me, and my breath went shaky.
Gennadiy was already halfway down the stairs. I ran to catch up. He thinks I’m beautiful. But for some reason, he kept pulling away.
We crossed the immense hallway, passing beneath a servant dusting the chandelier.
I reran his words in my head. He was talking about himself.
He thinks he’s a monster. A deep swell of sympathy rolled through me.
Then I caught myself. What’s the matter with me?
He was a monster. I’d known that from the start.
So why did hearing him say it feel so wrong?
Because something happened to make him like this? Because he didn’t want to be like this?
Outside, we climbed into Gennadiy’s BMW.
He gave the steering wheel an affectionate stroke as he started the engine.
Meanwhile, I glanced around, frowning. I’d spent months following this car, knew every inch of the exterior.
Being inside felt weird, like walking onto the set of your favorite TV show.
Gennadiy turned to me. “What do you know about Emanuela Cantelli?”
“Only what’s in the FBI files. Runs a lot of the west side of the city. Daughter of Franco Cantelli, inherited his empire when he died. She’s really young, for a boss...thirty?”
“Twenty-nine. Have you met her?”
“No.”
His lips tightened. If it hadn’t been Gennadiy, I almost would have said he looked nervous. “Emanuela is...she can be...difficult.”
“Difficult?”
Gennadiy sighed. “You’ll see.”
Storms were forecast for later in the day, but when we arrived at the restaurant, the sky was still a glorious deep blue.
I climbed out of the car and, as the door closed, I caught my first glimpse of the dress in the side mirror.
I hadn’t really looked at it before but.
..wow. It hugged me just right, and the way the front was structured, it almost looked like I had boobs.
Then I stepped back, and my legs came into view. My stomach knotted.
I looked up and found Gennadiy watching me. He didn’t say anything, just gave me a little nod. Some curt, Russian version of you got this. And somehow, it meant more, coming from my arch enemy. I took a deep breath and straightened my back, standing tall.
“Gennadiy, you smooth bastard!” The voice came from behind us: male, Russian-accented, and deeply affectionate.
We turned just in time for Gennadiy to be pulled into a hug by Yakov Beletski, his friend who ran the docks.
I’d seen him plenty of times, but only ever through a camera lens or a pair of binoculars, never up close.
Yakov thumped Gennadiy on the back and then turned towards me. “And who is the new lady you’re—”
His jaw dropped as he recognized me.
“We’re working together,” Gennadiy told him.
Yakov grabbed his arm and steered him away from me, then spoke urgently to him in Russian. I picked out the words for FBI and also, weirdly, spell. He glanced at me and seemed to ask a question. Gennadiy shook his head firmly but his cheeks reddened.
“And speak English,” Gennadiy told Yakov firmly, and towed him back to me.
Yakov stared at Gennadiy as if he’d gone mad. Then he sighed, softened, and gave me a warm, honest smile. “Yakov Beletski,” he told me. “At your service.” And he took my hand and gently kissed it. I felt myself smile. I liked him immediately.
“You old charmer,” Gennadiy told him.
“Thank you for the tip on the cesium,” I told Yakov solemnly.
Yakov waved it away. “Anything for a friend.” He looked sideways at Gennadiy, and a smile touched his lips. “And his favorite enemy.”
“Come on,” said Gennadiy tightly. “You can prop up the bar and be our backup, if Emanuela is…” He and Yakov exchanged knowing looks. Is what? Why were they so wary of this woman?
Gennadiy led the way inside. Two men in maroon waistcoats pulled open the big double doors, and suddenly we were in a world of hushed voices, softly clinking tableware, and gentle piano music from a pianist in the corner.
Gennadiy had been right about the clothes: I’m not sure they even would have let me in, in jeans.
A woman jumped to her feet on the other side of the room. About my height, in a spotless white suit with black details. She had long, richly golden hair that fell in a broad fan down her back and a perfect hourglass figure. “Gennadiy!” she called, loud enough to make heads turn.
Yakov split off from us and went to keep watch from the bar. As Gennadiy and I approached Emanuela, he murmured in my ear. “We need to do this carefully.”
I nodded. I was trying to focus, but the combination of icy Russian accent and hot breath in my ear rippled all the way down to my groin. “I get it. She’s got the entire mob behind her. You don’t want to start a war.”
Gennadiy winced. “Yes. But also…” He huffed and scowled. “Look, just let me do the talking. She needs careful handling. She’s...fragile.”
Fragile? She was standing there confidently, beaming at us, ignoring everyone else in the restaurant, with her power suit and perfect, pouting lips. She didn’t look very fragile. But he knew her best. “Fine.”
We arrived in front of Emanuela. She’d stepped away from her table to greet us, and her three bodyguards had stepped back, too, which awkwardly crowded the family at the next table.
But she didn’t seem to notice. “Gennadiy!” She gave him a million-dollar smile.
“It’s been too long.” Her accent was American with just a hint of sultry Italian.
But there was something else about the way she spoke, something I couldn’t put my finger on. “Did you know it’s my birthday?”
Gennadiy looked—I did a double take—he looked worried. First nervous, now worried. What the fuck is going on? “I’m sorry, Emanuela. I thought it was next week. I would have brought a gift.”
Emanuela rolled her eyes. “It is next week, but close enough. And you’re my gift!” She sprang forward, wrapped one arm around his back, and pulled him into a kiss.