Chapter 15 Adriana
ADRIANA
Dante leaves me at the edge of the dance floor, the heat of his hand still lingering at my waist. I watch him disappear into the crowd, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared.
Part of me wants to believe I was just playing him, keeping close for safety, making nice so he lowers his guard.
But that’s not all of it. Not even close.
Because when he looked at me just now, I felt something loosen, something hungry and alive.
Maksim appears, the music shifting bright around us. “May I?” he asks, hand out, polite like always.
I take it. He draws me into the slow turn of the room. For a few beats we move without speaking.
“I’m sorry about not picking up your call,” he says at last, voice low. “I had no idea…” He lets his voice trail off.
“So you knew it was me calling.” I keep my eyes on his.
He almost smiles. “I have my ways.”
“I thought you hated this life,” I say.
He exhales through his nose. “Can we ever get out of it?”
In my head the answer is no. I don’t say it.
“I wouldn’t be in this place if you had just helped me,” I tell him.
He meets my look. “Do you want to get out?” He waits a beat. “Of this marriage.”
I don’t answer. The silence sits between us like a plate we both pretend not to see.
He shifts, lighter again. “You look well,” he says.
“I heard you and Dante are tight,” I say. “He killed that man in the garden. You didn’t do anything.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What is it then?”
Maksim’s jaw goes tight. “That man was a traitor, Adriana. He’d been selling information—dangerous information—about both our families. He knew the rules and he broke them. He got caught.”
I study Maksim’s face, the tired lines around his eyes, the way he glances toward the corners of the room. He isn’t proud, but he’s not apologizing either.
“I didn’t pull the trigger, but I didn’t stop Dante,” he says, voice low. “If I had, it would have made things worse. There are times when the best I can do is keep things quiet, keep more blood from being spilled.”
I look away, the music too loud.
His words settle in my mind, heavy and ugly.
Maksim isn’t lying, but there’s no comfort in the truth.
The man in the garden was a traitor. There are rules in this world, and I’m starting to learn they’re not just stories told to keep daughters safe—they’re warnings. They’re threats, and promises too.
We dance another slow turn. Maksim keeps his hand gentle at my waist, steering me past gold and candlelight. I find my voice.
“I never wanted any of this,” I say. “Not this family, not this marriage. I wanted to choose.”
He looks at me, really looks, and for a moment I see the friend I remember. “None of us got to choose, Adi. Some of us just learned how to survive it.”
“Do you regret it?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Every day. But I regret what happens when people run more.”
His honesty stings. I glance at Dante across the room. He’s watching, eyes hard and unreadable.
Maksim’s apology lingers in the space between us. His guilt is so plain I can almost taste it, and I let him hold me a little closer as the music shifts.
“I’m sorry, Adi. I really am. About all of it.”
“You don’t owe me an apology,” I say quietly, but I don’t pull away.
For a moment we just move with the music, the conversation and lights fading around us. Then I find my opening—something Bella mentioned about Maksim’s newest club by the river.
“I heard your club is the place to be now,” I say, like it’s nothing. “Bella couldn’t stop talking about the new VIP section last time she was in town. Sounds like you’ve made it exclusive.”
He almost smiles, some of his usual charm returning. “She likes to exaggerate.”
“So it’s not true? No velvet ropes, no special bands at the door?”
Maksim shrugs. “There are bands, but it’s mostly for crowd control. And to make people feel important, you know how it is.”
I nod, as if I’ve seen it a hundred times. “Different faces at the door now too? Bella said the bouncers look like they came off a wrestling team.”
He cocks his head. “Bella was at the club?”
I bite my lip. Shit, shouldn’t have pushed my luck like that.
“Yeah, she was there with a couple of friends, she said she didn’t see you. Did you get a new partner?” I make a venture.
He laughs quietly, but there’s a flicker of something cautious. “Yeah, we hired a new company this year. Safer that way. Less family, more professionals. Besides, my partner Remik is great.”
“Probably for the best,” I say, letting him think I’m just making conversation, but mentally I’m making a note to find out more about Remik.
“You should come by sometime,” he says suddenly.
I look at him. Now this is the opening I’ve been looking for.
“Really?
He looks down, his guilt showing again. “If I could’ve helped…if I’d known—”
I shake my head, letting the topic slip away. “It’s done now.”
He watches me a moment longer, almost searching for something else he should say, then just gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
“Just be careful,” he says, voice dropping. “Not everyone’s as happy to see you back as I am.”
I frown, not sure what he’s getting at. What’s that supposed to mean?
I want to ask, but before I can, something catches my eye—Larisa, gliding up to Dante at the edge of the dance floor.
She’s all practiced ease, reaching for his arm, pressing too close.
Dante looks right at me as he lets her. I feel heat crawl up my neck, my stomach twisting tight.
I tell myself to breathe. It doesn’t help.
Maksim follows my line of sight. His voice lowers, easy and kind. “Careful. Jealousy is a poor look on you.”
“I’m not jealous,” I say.
He studies me a beat. “I know the look,” he says quietly. “You used to look at me that way.”
The floor shifts under my feet. “You knew?”
He gives a small, rueful smile. “I had an idea.”
Before I can decide what to do with that, a steward touches his sleeve. “Sir, they are ready for you.”
I hold Maksim’s look a second longer, then let him go when the steward tugs him away.
When I turn back, Dante is still at the gallery rail.
Larisa tilts toward him, pale and polished, saying something that makes other people lean in.
He rests a hand on her arm, casual, almost polite. He doesn’t stop watching me.
Fine.
I refuse to feed it. I drift off the floor, lift a glass of water from a passing tray, and breathe until the heat in my chest cools. Screw him. Let him perform for the room. I have other work to do.
“Adriana.” Dante’s mother appears at my side, light as a whisper. Her fingers graze my elbow. “Come. There are people I would like you to meet.”
The first group is three women, all in understated jewels, sharp eyes glancing from me to each other. “This is Mrs. Petrovsky,” Dante’s mother says. “Her son is on the city council.”
Mrs. Petrovsky shakes my hand. “Your wedding was the event of the season. Everyone wondered how it all happened so quickly.” Her tone is soft, but her gaze is searching. “You’re adjusting well?”
“As well as anyone could,” I reply. “Still finding my way.”
She nods.
I keep my expression soft, but inside I shake my head. Of course the mafia is in bed with the city council, the bar council, anyone who matters. These women don’t even hear themselves.
I let my gaze settle on Mrs. Petrovsky, who’s just finished boasting about her son’s new promotion. “Your son must hear all kinds of things, working with the council. Has he said anything about the girls going missing lately?”
They all laugh—a brittle, practiced sound. “It’s New York,” one trills. “People vanish every week! Most of them are just running off to chase a man or get out of trouble.”
Dante’s mother shifts, the smile on her face a little forced. She doesn’t like this subject, but none of the others notice.
Another woman, with big gold earrings and even bigger opinions, leans in, lowering her voice. “I heard half those girls got mixed up with people they shouldn’t have. Dangerous men, you know.”
Mrs. Petrovsky waves a hand. “My son says the police can barely keep up. No evidence, no patterns, and the papers will print anything. It’s all nonsense.”
I bristle inside, but only nod. “Still, one of them was my sister’s friend,” I say, carefully. “She went to church at Saint Michael’s in Brighton Beach. Maybe you know it?”
I glance around the group, watching for a flicker of recognition—waiting for someone to bite.
The youngest woman, Polina, pipes up. “Oh, Saint Michael’s. My grandmother drags me there every Easter.” She glances at me, a bit uncertain. “Who was your sister’s friend?”
“Anya Kozlova,” I say.
Polina nods slowly. “I remember her. She always had this little gold cross she wore, even when the priest said no jewelry at practice.” Her voice lowers. “She disappeared after Lent. It was like she just evaporated.”
The others trade awkward glances, but it’s clear this hits closer to home than any rumor.
Dante’s mother squeezes my arm, her voice gentle. “I’m so sorry, dear. No mother should have to worry like that. My sisters have daughters. Dante has so many cousins. I shudder to think if anything like that happened in our family…”
The other women all nod, murmuring their agreement, touching their pearls or crosses as if that could ward off the world’s dangers.
But I just listen, my smile polite and distant.
Inside, something cold settles beneath my ribs.
Nothing like that will ever happen to my family, I think—at least not to the ones who matter.
Not to the daughters of old money, not to the golden children with uncles on the city council and fathers in the union halls.
Anya was a nobody. That’s why she was taken.
The women’s gossip swirls around me—church festivals, missing girls, old family scandals—when I catch sight of Bella across the room. She’s standing just inside the doorway, shoulders stiff, eyes darting over the crowd as if she’s searching for an escape.