Chapter 28 Valentino
Tomorrow did come soon enough, but I had the chance to make love to my wife again during the night. No saintly virgin, she proved once again she could be a slutty mistress as she took me for all I had.
I’m still smiling softly in the Levante as Marco takes us back to Morris County. I texted everyone this morning before we left Short Hills, letting them know Naomi and I are married, and I’m bringing my wife home today. Franco and Victor haven’t replied yet, on account of the time difference—one is in Australia doing some hiking, the others on a retreat in some monastery or something in Cambodia, or is it Laos? Francesca won’t be awake yet this early on a Saturday morning.
Luciano hasn’t replied, and I find out why when we stop in front of my house and his Jaguar E-Pace is in the driveway. How quickly did he drive over, beating traffic, too?
Naomi’s hand tightens around mine in the small space between us on the back seat, and I squeeze it back to reassure her. We’re not just coming home—we’re also coming back next door to her father’s house.
One of my crews has been watching the dwelling. Joel Smith hasn’t been back here since the night I broke Naomi out of Pineridge. He’s on his campaign trail as if nothing’s happened. The bastard. I have something planned for him, but not now. There are other matters for me to attend to. First of them being to settle Naomi into her new home.
It feels strange when we alight from the car, and both stop to look at the house ahead of us. Did we ever think we’d end up like this, end up with each other? I for sure never did. The age difference between us, for starters, and the fact she is her father’s daughter, ultimately killed that idea. It had all seemed like impregnable obstacles, though look where we are today. Time works its wonders, eleven years between us when she’s a teenager meaning something and then as an adult, its meaning almost pointless.
As for her being her father’s daughter… I’m pretty sure if someone offered to scratch out all of Joel Smith’s DNA from Naomi’s system, she’d take them up on the offer. There’s no love lost between them now, and as much as I’m glad she knows what a bastard he is, a part of me hurts. For her. Because her love for him had been genuine, and she’d had that flung back into her face so carelessly.
The front door opens, a tall silhouette dominating the space. Tall but lean—Luciano. My brother is waiting for us. He’s also awaiting an explanation from me. No one but Marco, Renata, and Roberto knew Naomi and I were getting married. It killed me to keep my siblings out of the loop, but I first and foremost had to protect Naomi.
I take my wife’s hand, and we start toward the steps leading to the front porch. I give Luciano a chin nod when I get to the door, but he won’t move and let us in. I frown at him, my eyes thunderous.
“Uh-huh,” he says, shaking his head.
“What the fu—”
“Kids here,” he hisses.
I catch a glimpse of a little towhead near his knees. Of course, Luka is here. No swearing, then.
“Seriously, Luciano,” I start.
“Door tax,” he says solemnly.
I blink and stare at him, then a laugh roars out of me. “We’re seriously doing this?”
He opens his eyes wide. “Of course we are. Payback, brother.”
Naomi’s eyes are darting from me to Luciano, an expression of confusion on her features.
I pull out my wallet and take out a hundred-dollar bill, which I hand to her. Drawing close, I dip my head to her ear and explain what’s going on. She seems incredulous at first, then a giggle escapes. She takes the bill from my hand, folds it into a small square, then she steps up to Luciano and places the bill into the front pocket of his shirt. Next, she kisses him four times on the cheeks, then lowers her head waiting for him to clasp her head on both sides with his hands as he drops a kiss onto her forehead.
“Welcome home, Naomi Andretti,” he says and steps back from the doorway.
The door tax is an old tradition Mamma said they used to have in the old country. I’d enacted it fully on Eliza when she came back to the family home after her wedding to Luciano. My brother was just returning the favor today. Or it was payback. Either way, it genuinely warms my heart to see him welcoming Naomi so easily into our family.
“Hello, Luciano,” she’s saying as she reaches out to him for a hug.
“It’s good to see you,” he replies. “You’re okay?”
She nods, the long look they exchange speaking volumes.
“And who do we have here?” she asks as she peers down toward Luka. “Aren’t you a handsome young man.”
Luka gives her a shy smile and then hides behind his father’s legs.
“I’m Naomi,” she tells him.
“Luka, say hello to Zia Naomi. She’s Zio Val’s wife.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten Aunt is Zia in Italian,” she’s saying.
I’m suddenly here warring with the expansive sensation taking over my chest. Zia Naomi. Not only is she my wife, but she’s well and truly a member of this family now.
I finally make it into my own house and close the door behind me. Ina and Carlito step out of the kitchen. I barely have time for introductions. Carlito is grinning like a fool and has cradled Naomi’s face in his big, rough hands to then kiss her cheeks soundly.
“Welcome, figlia,” he says as he releases her, still smiling.
Ina, not to be undone, pulls Naomi to her ample bosom in an effusive hug, none of us really gathering what she’s saying in her rapid Romanian. It sounds like a blessing, though, the kind Mamma and Zia Renata delivered to all of us kids at milestones in our lives.
When another man steps into the foyer, my happiness subsides a little. His presence means there’s business afoot, even though he is part of this family despite us not sharing blood.
“Signora Andretti,” he says with a curt nod. “Antonio Bravi, at your service.”
Okay, he’s laying it on a bit thick. Then again, I’ve never brought a wife home before.
“Pleasure to meet you, Signore Bravi,” Naomi replies.
“Antonio, please.”
“Then you must call me Naomi.”
“Signora Naomi,” he concedes, then lifts her hand to drop a fleeting kiss on her knuckles.
Naomi is blushing now, and I step over to put her out of her misery with this too-charming Lothario.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. “Antonio is my consigliere.”
“A glorified advisor,” he says with a wink.
Naomi laughs, and this seems to be the cue for Ina to announce breakfast is served. We all head to the dining room at the side of the house, to find a table laden with pastries, ham, sandwiches, and carafes of strong coffee and orange juice. The meal is a lively affair as Naomi gets to know everyone.
It’s over an hour later when we’re pushing our chairs back and stepping into the foyer. I lead Naomi to our room—my bedroom—upstairs.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “They can be a lot.”
“That’s okay.”
When she tries to stifle a yawn, I pull her into my arms and drop a kiss on top of her head.
“You’re tired. You should get some rest.” I sneak in a deep breath. “I have some business to attend to today, and I’ll be out for a few hours. You’ll be okay?”
She looks up into my face. “Is it dangerous?”
I smile at her. “Not really.”
She sneaks in a breath. “Which means it is.”
“This is my life, Naomi.”
She gulps, hard. “I know. Does it have anything to do with…”
She refuses to say his name or use his former title, and I don’t press nor make her hear the sound, either.
“Indirectly, yes.”
Naomi reaches up and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Then go.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She nods. I kiss her again, then release her and head downstairs. Antonio, Luciano, and Marco are in my study. I close the door behind me, and Antonio doesn’t waste a second.
“You’re sure about this?”
My jaw tenses, and I force in a long inhale. “It’s time they all know who they are dealing with.”
Silence blankets my statement, then all three men nod. They’ll be accompanying me today, a show of power and strength, even though I’ll be going in alone with Marco as my bodyguard.
We get into the Range Rover this time, and it takes us over an hour and a half with the traffic to get to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. Marco stops the SUV a little past the pier, taking a turn down a side street. It’s early spring and the beaches are dotted here and there with a handful of hardy locals out for the day. Come summer, you’d be hard pressed to find a square foot of sand free of people.
We’re still visible from the main road, but again, Marco and I getting out and strolling as if without a care toward a Russian restaurant on the corner is a lot about appearances and projection. We’re here of our own volition, not afraid, not cowering, fully invested in our power and authority. I can feel more than a few pairs of eyes perusing us as we get to the eatery that’s the informal headquarters of the d’yavol of Little Odessa.
Marco pushes the door open and steps in first. He holds the panel for me, and I walk into the relative gloom inside without letting the sudden dip in brightness affect my stance. We both stop and let the two men who appear check us for weapons. Marco’s allowed to keep his gun provided he doesn’t step one more inch into the place. We’d known this would happen, and he quietly stays put.
Since I’ve got no weapon on me, the men let me proceed inside.
Far into the gloom, at the back of the room, is the only occupied table. A big man, almost as wide as the round surface that could seat six itself, is sitting there, eyes on the front of the restaurant so he can’t miss anything going on up front. He’s cracking walnuts and eating them leisurely, one by one, as if he has all the time in the world.
When I reach him, one of his men pulls a chair out for me.
I tip my head to the big guy. “Yevgeni.”
He doesn’t like being addressed as Mr.
“Tovarishch Andretti,” he returns.
Comrade. I’ll take that.
“Valentino,” I tell him.
He cracks another walnut, eats it, then waves a meaty hand at the pulled-out chair. I take my cue to sit down and keep my eyes on him.
“I have something for you,” I say.
He smiles, the jowls on his face hardly moving even though he’s grinning wide. His small, beady eyes narrow some more. I’m treading in dangerous waters here. The Bratva have no code of conduct like our Borgatas do. Thieves among thieves, they’re often described as, so of course, no honor among them. Still, their ruthlessness has been causing troubles for our syndicate lately. They tend to barge in and encroach, and fuck the consequences.
“I’m listening,” he says, finally.
“I hear you’re expanding in the New York Metropolitan area up north.”
“Da?”
I lift my hands up. “Not my area, so this doesn’t concern me.”
“So, what do you want?”
I lower my hands, slowly point to my jacket, and retrieve my phone from the interior pocket. “I have something for you. Should you want it.”
I start a video, then turn the screen toward Yevgeni. He watches it, tries to appear unconcerned, though I can see the interest building in his eyes, the salivating that makes him gulp almost imperceptibly thanks to all the rolls of flesh on his neck.
“What is this?” he asks, looking up.
I smile. “He’s yours. If you want him.”
He glances at the screen again, then at me. “What do you get in this?”
“Nothing. But maybe one day, when you’re expanding farther north and let’s say west, you’ll have some mercy for my territory.”
He laughs, then, says something in Russian which I construe must be an insult but like you’d throw out at a brother or good friend.
“He’s mine?” he asks.
“All yours.”
He stays silent for long moments. “What did he do to you?”
My jaw clenches. “He tried to rape my wife.”
“Mudak,” he mutters. “That not cool.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Let me take him off your hands, tovarishch.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” I nod at the phone. “May I?”
He nods, and I place a call to Pesci, who’s waiting a few minutes away in one of our cars that drove to meet us here from Newark.
“Back door safe?” I ask Yevgeni, who nods.
It’s only a few minutes before one of his men steps in from the back and whispers in his ear. Yevgeni pushes back his chair and steps away, motioning for me to join him. For such a gigantic fellow—he must be six-foot-seven and weigh at least three hundred pounds—he is remarkably fast on his feet, and I follow him into the kitchens, then a back room that opens onto the alleyway outside.
Pesci sees me, and at my nod, opens the trunk and retrieves the man stashed inside. He wastes no time handing him over to Yevgeni’s men. As they pass by him, Yevgeni makes them stop. He cocks his head and smiles as he runs a tender hand on Thad Billings’ head. Then he gives the go-ahead to take him in, and he’s turning to me.
“My friend, we celebrate!”
I dismiss Pesci with another nod—he knows to join the others around the corner—and follow Yevgeni back inside. He’s breaking out the vodka, and I down the shot he pours for me.
“Za znakomstvo!!” he cheers, and I follow suit, before he refills our glasses again. This time, he clinks glasses with me, then starts talking. “Tovarishch Andretti, Valentino. Today, you become brother of Yevgeni.” He then downs the shot, and I do the same.
I remember hearing somewhere that you always return a Russian’s toast, so I refill our glasses, clink with his, then raise the glass. “Welcome to our Borgata, Yevgeni Mikhailovich.”
We down the shots, then he is hugging me before kissing me on both cheeks.
“You, my friend, make me very happy man.”
I laugh. “My pleasure. But you must forgive me. I have to get back to my wife.”
Russians worship their wives. No matter how many mistresses they keep, the wife is sacred.
He says something in Russian while waving his hands at the door. One beefy palm lands on my back as he escorts me across the restaurant, and at the door, he kisses me on my cheeks again.
“Do svidaniya, tovarishch.”
I bid him farewell, then Marco is walking beside me as we make our way back to the car. Once we’re inside, Antonio turns to me.
“It is done?”
I nod. “It is done.”
The first move I made as the head of my Borgata, and it won’t be one anyone is soon to forget once they hear about it. The Bratva in general have cornered the market in prostitution rings and strip clubs. However, one rule they do have is they are never to sample the merchandise themselves.
Yevgeni Sokolov, the d’yavol of Little Odessa, has very specific tastes. Male, young, but not children or teenagers—no, he’s not that dirty. But twenty-something men he can throw around, kick around, bruise and fuck without a care? That’s his jam. Gay men are frowned upon in Russian society, but he doesn’t care. Anyone who has a problem with that and him end up quartered and pickled in barrels of vodka. That’s how he earned his nickname of ‘devil’ of Little Odessa.
My jaw clenches as I stare out the window.
Thad Billings thought he could take from a woman without her consent. Wait until he finds the tables turned on him. He’ll know never to cross me then. And soon, the rest of the East Coast will hear about it, too.