Chapter 7 #2
“I did mean it. He’s tired after a day, and—” Marie stops her boyfriend with a hand on his arm and he pauses, glances back at me in the rearview mirror.
His frown tells me he doesn’t get why his pure honesty could be constructed as painful.
And I like him enough to offer a small, vulnerable part of me.
He’ll never divulge it to my best friend.
I trust them both with my secrets and my past.
“Igor and I wanted to have children. It won’t happen, now.”
Silence falls between us, but it’s not tense.
“Petrov won’t hold your boyfriend, forever, Julian. We will destroy his empire.”
I drop my gaze down to my hands. Under the tan permanently gracing my skin, a faint line mocks me on one of my fingers.
I toy with the invisible ring. I only wear it at night and it’s too tight, always leaving a small mark.
It’s like I can’t sleep without it, but can’t bear to see it in the light of day.
“He’s gone,” I whisper. “I better accept it.”
“Until you read an obituary, I wouldn’t give up hope,” the laconic man says, like his word is law.
I appreciate the sentiment, but three years is a long time to lose hope.
Before long, we reach the mansion and park under the shades of the fig trees.
Our feet carry sand from the beach, and I can already hear Mammona Moretti complain about her marble floors, making me smile.
That woman runs the household with an iron fist but there’s nothing baby Ember can do wrong.
And I’m just an accessory to her great grand-daughter’s mayhem, after all.
I’m not below using my niece as a shield.
“Madonna! Ciuciarella! Where have you been? Look at you, you’re dragging sand everywhere.”
As predicted, the eighty-eight year-old woman stands from her seat on the sofa and waltzes to us when we enter the living room, signing for Christ on her chest and raising her eyes to the ceiling like God can help her.
Everyone in the room knows God has stopped listening to the Moretti family long ago.
We’re left to our own devices, just how we like it.
Ember embraces the Moretti matriarch, a smile full of mischief on her face. The old woman stands and hugs Marie, and Nico. She’s the only one who can. No one refuses a hug from Mammona. Then it’s my turn to get the warmest hug. I’ve always loved them.
Keen, all-seeing green eyes scan my face. For what, I’m not sure, but Mammona nods once, smiling sadly. “I miss him, too, baby,” she says so low only I can hear.
Before I have time to process it, she claps her hands.
“Come on, Ciucciarella, let’s get all that sand off of you.
” The girl jumps up and races up the stairs to the room she and her parents are staying in.
Before I can follow, Mammona’s voice calls out.
“The others have something to share with you three, in the office. I’ll take care of the little one. ”
That doesn’t sound ominous as fuck.
Marie and I exchange a look, but she shakes her head and shrugs. As always, we’re the last ones to know everything.
We make our way to the office at the back of the house, on the first floor. The door is ajar, waiting for us to push it open and step in. The door creaks as Nico, Marie and I file in, in tense silence, drawing the attention of both patriarchs, Lana and Lisandru.
Nico takes what’s his usual post when we have meetings here.
He stands by the window, eyeing both the gardens behind and the door for enemies.
There aren’t any. As Head of Security for the family, Lisandru makes sure that this house is impenetrable.
Marie sits next to her dad on the cognac Chesterfield sofa, legs primly in front of her, as though she’s aware she’s still carrying sand in the house and her body remembers Mammona’s lessons from when we were young.
My dad remains standing behind the sofa, leaning his weight on the back, facing Lana and Lisandru. He eyes me warily.
Ah, shame. My old companion. It spreads through me almost like a lover’s caress now. I haven’t talked to my dad in weeks, finding excuses not to join him and my mum, usually at the bottom of a bottle.
I remain at the threshold, arms crossed, trying to stave off all these emotions coming up, failing to stay in control.
I’m not involved in our illegal business so much anymore. I do what I do best, make goddamn good wine when I remember to show up and brood. I have no interest in petty crimes and expanding our empire. My brother does it best, anyway. Lana, too. She’s the head of the Kalliste Mafia for a reason.
I peruse my best friend now, seated casually on the side of her desk.
Everyone in this room knows her enough to realise she hasn’t slept in days, a grey shadow permanently staining her under-eye.
Her burgundy shirt is slightly rumpled. It’s the end of the day but still.
This is The Alana Moretti we’re talking about.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Lana straightens up and faces me. “We have news from Croatia.”
“And that concerns me, how?”
She winces at my tone, and Lisandru glares but I ignore the acid in my stomach reminding me that I’m being a piece of shit.
“The Ventura-Dobrev coalition took on the Bratva monopoly in Split. Their whole operation is being dismantled as we speak, and Aleksei Dobrev is personally taking over the city now.”
It’s hard not to see Lana’s shoulders droop. I unfurl my arms and take a seat in front of them, next to Pietro. It’s a small gesture, a signal that I’m ready to listen. In sync, the lovers move to sit in front of me, glancing at Marie and Nico, but mostly staying focused on me and my reactions.
So, the patriarchs already know the news they have to announce. I brace. I don’t have the heart to hear another bad news. Whatever it is, I don’t think what’s left of my sanity can take it.
When I still don’t ask questions, Lisandru is the one who takes over the conversation.
“The man who owned Split’s Bratva was a close ally to Misha Petrov.”
I perk up. “What does that mean for us?”
“He’s going to retaliate, Jules. You know what that means.”
“War.”
They nod.
“And we’ll be ready,” Pietro says next to me, and my dad hums in agreement.
Marie glances at Nico with a worried look. He’s the best assassin we have on our team. He might not be in the front lines, but he’ll help for sure. He’s not one for staying idle.
“We’re getting him back, Jules,” Lana says to me.
For the first time in months, fire blazes behind her irises. I wish I could summon the same energy.
“You already promised that years ago, remember?”
“I know. But this time, I know where he is.”
“What?”
Shock spreads through my system like poison.
Because behind it is that tiny sliver of hope that refuses to die no matter how I drown it.
If it were only Lana saying something like that, I could dismiss it, but Pietro lands a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I turn my gaze to him. His eyes are misty and he nods.
“We never abandoned him, Julian, whatever you believe. He’s like a son to me. And we’re getting him back. For good, this time.”
Pietro’s hand disappears, replaced promptly by my dad’s, who squeezes my shoulder once.
Something fierce awakens in the pit of my stomach at the small gesture.
My father is not one for grand declarations.
Once again, even if I’ve been an asshole to him like I have to everyone else, he doesn’t give up on me.
My jaw slackens and my brow dips. I turn back to Lana and Lisandru. Their bodies are leaning forward as though their hope is something inside their chest guiding them to me, like a bridge we destroyed a while ago that could be rebuilt.
Lana smiles and turns to take a manilla folder from the desk. When she hands it to me, a sizzle of energy crackles between us. “I’ve been working so hard, Jules. And I found him.”
“Is that why you look like shit?”
“Watch your mouth,” Lisandru exclaims but it lacks the usual seriousness. Lana smiles bashfully.
“Yeah, that’s why I look like shit, you asshole. Open it.”
Inside the light folder are phone bills, all linked to one address in the suburbs of Moscow.
“How did you get this?”
“We rescued a young boy from Petrov's system. He told us that he managed to make three calls. They have a fucking landline, Jules! In the shed at the back of the fucking property. He gave me the number he called. His parents. Then, we traced back all the calls to this address. I’m positive this is Petrov’s main compound. ”
She sits on the edge of her seat now, animated and ready to take on the world.
Hope has her cheeks rosy. When the light from the early evening sun hits her hair, the black shines with health.
It’s like her discovery has blood flowing through her veins again.
But hope is a fleeting mistress. If I hold on, she’ll cut me to pieces.
“How did the boy get the landline?”
Lana and Lisandru exchange another one of their looks. I click my tongue. I have no patience for their silent conversations.
“You know how Petrov is a twisted, sadistic bastard. He often holds hunts to weed out the already weak people he intends to sell. The boy said he always managed to hide. That’s how he was sold despite being only eleven. He survived three hunts. Hidden in the shed.”
“Which holds the landline that no one knows about? Come on, Lana, you’re not that gullible. This is a fucking trap.”
“No, babe. The shed is where their undertaker lives.”
She lets the information settle. My eyes widen and I gasp. “Are you sure?”
She nods and hands me a strange item. A silver metal case for cigarettes. Etched on it is a name.
Igor Petrov.
“The boy gave me this,” Lana whispers, voice thick with optimism.
“Who’s the undertaker?” Nico asks.
The smile that stretches my lips is the first wicked one I give them while sober.
“My husband.”