Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Kristen
Two weeks later, I'm sitting at a dinner table surrounded by criminals, and the strangest part? It feels like home.
Giulia returned from Sicily three days ago, tanned and rested and immediately horrified by the state of the spice cabinet. She and Aria have been cooking since dawn, filling the compound with smells that make my stomach growl.
Everyone is here. Everyone.
Pietro sits at the head of the table with Nora beside him.
Lorenzo and Sophia arrived an hour ago. Vittoria keeps stealing bread rolls when she thinks no one's looking.
Valentino and Carmela flew in from Sicily specifically for this dinner, which Aria insisted was "just family time" but feels more like a celebration.
And Bruno.
Bruno is here.
He's positioned his wheelchair at the corner of the table, as far from the center of attention as possible without actually leaving the room.
His jaw is tight, his eyes hard, but he's here.
Aria practically dragged him out of his wing, invoking guilt and maternal obligation and probably some threats I didn't hear.
"Only because you insisted," he'd growled at her when he arrived.
"Of course I insisted," Aria had replied, kissing his cheek. "You're my son. You belong at this table."
He hasn't spoken since. But he hasn't left, either.
Lily sits beside me in a booster seat, wearing the purple star dress we bought on our shopping trip. She's explaining to Valentino—very seriously—why Sir Floppington needs his own chair at the table.
"He helped Nico feel better," she says, as if this explains everything. "He's a hero bunny."
Valentino, to his credit, nods solemnly. "A hero bunny deserves a seat of honor."
Nico's hand finds my thigh under the table. His grip is warm, possessive, grounding. The wound on his chest is healing—he'll have another scar to add to his collection—but he's alive.
After the hospital, after he woke up and I told him I loved him and he said it back in that gruff, awkward way of his, I knew what I had to do. I went home to our cramped apartment and sat Lily down on our couch.
"Baby girl," I said, "how would you feel about living somewhere else?"
Her eyes went wide. "The castle?"
I laughed despite myself. "Yeah. The castle."
She didn't even hesitate. "With Nico? And Vittoria? And the bunnies?"
"All of them."
"Forever?"
The hope in her voice cracked something open in my chest. "Forever."
She threw her arms around my neck so hard she almost knocked me over. And that was that.
Sometimes I wonder why she doesn't ask about Jack. Her father. The man who was supposed to love her unconditionally but couldn't even bother to fight for her when it mattered.
I brought it up to Nico once, late at night, when we were tangled together in his bed and I couldn't shut off my brain.
"She never mentions him," I whispered. "Doesn't she miss him? Shouldn't she miss him?"
Nico was quiet for a long moment. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
"Kids know," he finally said. "They know who shows up and who doesn't. Who makes them feel safe and who makes them feel small." His voice was rough, matter-of-fact. "She's not asking because there's nothing to ask about. He made his choice. She gets it."
I wanted to insist that a four-year-old couldn't possibly understand the complexities of adult relationships and abandonment.
But then I thought about how Lily gravitates toward Nico. How she climbs into his lap without asking. How she showed him her drawings and told him secrets and trusted him immediately, instinctively, in a way she never trusted Jack.
Kids know.
Yeah. Maybe they do.
"Pass the bread," Vittoria demands, snapping me back to the present.
Lorenzo hands it over with an eye roll. "You've had three already."
"I'm a growing girl."
"You're twenty-three."
"Still growing. Emotionally." She tears off a chunk and grins at him. "Unlike some people at this table."
Sophia snorts into her wine.
The food is incredible. Giulia's lasagna, Aria's roasted vegetables, fresh bread that's still warm from the oven. Conversation flows around me, loud and overlapping and occasionally in Italian when someone forgets I'm still learning.
I watch Bruno from the corner of my eye. He's eating, at least. Slowly.
It's something.
Nico leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Stop worrying about everyone else."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His thumb strokes my thigh. "You've checked on Bruno four times. Counted how much Lily's eaten twice. Made sure my mother's wine glass is full."
Damn him for noticing everything.
"Old habits," I murmur.
"New life." He presses a kiss to my temple, brief and possessive. "Relax. Eat."
I want to argue, but Lily chooses that moment to announce, very loudly, that she wants to show everyone her new bunny drawings after dinner.
"All of them?" Lorenzo asks, looking slightly alarmed.
"All of them," Lily confirms. "There's twenty-seven."
Pietro catches my eye across the table and smiles and I realize this is my family now. These people. This table. This loud, complicated, dangerous, loving mess.
They're criminals. I know that. I've accepted it, even if I haven't fully processed it. They run guns and launder money and do things I don't ask about because I'm not sure I want the answers.
But here's the thing about learning they were mafia after I got to know them: I saw them as people first.
Maybe that makes me naive. Maybe it makes me complicit.
Or maybe it just makes me human.
Nico's hand tightens on my thigh.
I lean into him. Into this. Into us.
For the first time in years, I'm not just surviving.
I'm living.
Nico
The cigar smoke curls toward the ceiling in Pietro's office like a lazy serpent. I stand near the window, arms crossed, watching my brothers and cousin argue about whether we should climb into bed with the Russians.
"The Baganovs aren't like the other Bratva crews we've dealt with." Lorenzo leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. "They've got a code. Family first. Sound familiar?"
Pietro sits behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He hasn't spoken in ten minutes. Just listening. Calculating.
Bruno wheels himself closer to the conversation, his jaw tight. "Every criminal organization claims to have a code until it's inconvenient."
"Five brothers, two sisters," Lorenzo continues, ignoring Bruno's skepticism. "They protect each other the way we protect each other. Dmitri's the one who reached out. He's offering legitimate business partnerships—construction contracts, shipping routes that don't involve product."
Valentino shifts against the bookshelf. "The European families have worked with Bratva before. When they keep their word, they keep it absolutely. When they don't..." He shrugs. "Well. We know what happens."
Great. So it's either absolute loyalty or absolute betrayal. No pressure.
"They shot me," I say flatly.
Every head turns toward me.
"Those weren't Baganovs." Pietro's voice cuts through the tension. "We confirmed that. Freelancers trying to make a name. The Baganovs actually helped us identify them."
"How convenient." The words taste bitter on my tongue.
Lorenzo sighs. "Nico, I know you have reason to be suspicious—"
"Suspicious?" I push off from the window, ignoring the pull in my healing wound. "They held Kristen's debt. They had surveillance on our compound. And now they want to be friends?"
"They released the debt before the shooting," Pietro reminds me. "And they pulled their surveillance when we asked. That's not nothing."
Bruno laughs, but there's no humor in it. "So we're supposed to trust them because they stopped threatening someone we care about? That's a low bar."
For once, Bruno and I agree on something.
"It's not about trust." Lorenzo stands, pacing the way he does when he's working through a problem. "It's about mutual benefit. The Baganovs control the North Side ports. We control the South. Together, we'd have a stranglehold on shipping that no one could challenge."
"And what do they want in return?" I ask.
"Access to our construction contracts. Clean money laundering through legitimate businesses. And..." Lorenzo hesitates.
Pietro's eyes narrow. "And what?"
"Protection. They've got enemies in New York. They need allies."
Ah. There it is.
"So we'd be fighting their wars," Valentino says, voicing what we're all thinking.
"We'd be fighting together." Lorenzo's emphasis lands heavy. "Look, I'm not saying we should trust them blindly. But we haven't had a Bratva organization this close to our ethical standards in Chicago. Ever. They don't traffic people. They don't deal in kids. They protect their own."
"They're still criminals," Bruno says.
Lorenzo laughs. "So are we."
The room falls silent.
Pietro rises from his desk and walks to the window where I stood moments ago. Chicago sprawls beneath us, all steel and ambition and blood.
"What's your read, Nico?"
I hate that he's asking me. Hate that my judgment might be compromised because of what happened. But Pietro values my analysis, even when—especially when—it conflicts with what he wants to hear.
"I don't like it," I admit. "But Lorenzo's not wrong.
Having the Baganovs as enemies serves no one.
And if they're genuinely offering legitimate partnerships.
.." I pause, choosing my words carefully.
"We should hear them out. But on our terms. Our territory.
And we make damn sure we have leverage before we sign anything. "
Pietro nods slowly. "Valentino?"
"The old families would approve of an alliance built on shared values." Valentino uncrosses his arms. "But they'd also expect us to verify everything. Trust but verify, as the Americans say."
"Bruno?"
My brother's wheelchair creaks as he shifts his weight.
"If we do this," Bruno says quietly, "we do it right. Full vetting. Background on every Baganov sibling. And we keep our most vulnerable assets out of their reach."
"Agreed." Pietro turns back to face us. "Lorenzo, set up a meeting with Dmitri. Neutral ground. I want to look him in the eye when he tells me what his family wants."
Lorenzo nods, already pulling out his phone.
I should feel relieved. We're not rushing into anything. We're being careful.
But as I watch my brothers prepare for an alliance that could change everything, all I can think about is Kristen and Lily.
I have something worth protecting beyond blood and business.
And I'll be damned if I let anyone take that from me.