CHAPTER TWO
If she is hell, I am the devil dancing in her flames.
Maxsim
The Maserati hums to a stop and I cut the ignition. Silence settles around me like a heavy weight as I study the capos lingering outside the Bianchi mansion.
“The new normal,” I mumble bitterly as I step out and hear the crunch of gravel under my shoes. The crisp night air sharpens my senses, and I take a long breath.
The Bratva and Cosa Nostra are holding hands like snakes, waiting for the other to strike first, so staying sharp isn’t an option.
I approach the door, and a Mafia soldier tips his head, a reluctant gesture of respect tinged with the wariness that follows me into rooms. The low murmur of conversation greets me as I move into the ballroom, accompanied by the clink of glasses and the soft strains of jazz from a hidden orchestra.
The Bianchi estate is a Sicilian marvel—frescoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and Renaissance art worth more than some countries.
The old guard and their wives watch over everything with hawk-like eyes. The tension is subtle, but it’s there. The Bratva may be an ally, but old habits die hard, and I can’t help but notice a capo’s hand tighten on his glass as I pass.
A servant glides by, offering a tray of champagne. I wave it off, not interested in dulling my senses. This isn’t a celebration—it’s a chess game, and I must be prepared for the next move.
Positioning myself in a quiet corner, half-hidden in the shadows, I have a clear view of the entrance as well as the entire room. Nearby, a group of men laugh confidently. Idiots. They don’t realize how transparent they are—jockeying for positions like clumsy schoolboys. Tipping glasses of whisky like water, I listen to them gossip.
“Did you hear about Santoro?” One lieutenant whispers to another, his voice barely audible over the din. “Word is Sal’s pulling strings to get his son betrothed to Ari.”
“Makes sense since he’s not content just running New York. He’s consolidating power. I’ve heard whispers that he’s meeting with people outside the family. Could be dangerous for all of us,” the second replies, shaking his head. “Sal’s always been ambitious. And Giovanni is just a pawn in his father’s game.”
Before I can dissect what it means, another voice cuts in. “Moretti’s also getting restless,” this from a man standing in a group by the bar. “He’s itching for a bigger slice of the pie, and rumor is Santoro’s giving him permission to take it.”
Sal Santoro. Cunning, ambitious, and dangerous. His resentment toward André and his ascension to the throne isn’t exactly a secret, but hearing it whispered openly is new.
As I contemplate the ramifications of what I’ve just heard, I see Ari Bianchi move through the room.
How does she do it?
In a room full of predators, she is the most intriguing.
Dressed in a sleek, dark gown that clings to her figure, the fabric catches the light with every step. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the strong lines of her face, one that is both beautiful and cold.
My pulse quickens uncomfortably, and I would bet one of my billions that most men in the room focus on her beauty.
I don’t. Physically attractive women are a dime a dozen and rarely catch my attention. What intrigues me is strength, something she has in spades.
My eyes follow her as she moves through the room, greeting guests with a smile that never reaches her eyes. The men react with both admiration and concealed envy. They don’t know how to handle her, and she uses that to her advantage, keeping them at arm’s length while making them think they have a chance.
I consider the rumors about her impending match. Would Franco really condemn Ari to a future with a man like Giovanni?
My brother, Alexey, approaches from across the room, his expression as unreadable as ever. He’s dressed in a tailored suit, his presence commanding respect as the crowd instinctively parts for him. The nearby group of lieutenants falls silent as Alexey passes, their conversation dying mid-sentence as they steal cautious glances at the Bratva Pakhan .
Alexey stops beside me, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. There’s a silent understanding between us as we exchange a brief nod.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks, his voice low, meant for my ears only.
I don’t bother with a response. Alexey isn’t looking for one. “The alliance is holding,” he states quietly. “But there’s tension. Not everyone’s happy with the arrangement.”
I glance at him, then back at the crowd. It’s not surprising. An alliance of this scale is never easy to maintain—too many moving parts and egos at play. If even one person in this room decides they’d rather see the alliance fall apart, it could spell disaster.
“And the Bianchis?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“They’re committed,” Alexey replies, though there’s a slight edge to his tone. “But they’re watching us as closely as we’re watching them. No one’s taking anything for granted.”
I nod, absorbing the information. “So where does that leave you and your beautiful wife, Gianna? Are you two feeling the tension between the families?”
“Nothing will shake us,” Alexey states firmly. “We married for just this reason. To solidify the Volkovs and the Bianchis. And our daughter is the link that can never be broken.”
I let out a low laugh. “You married Gianna because she bewitched you. Not because she’s the daughter of the capo di tutti capi and the sister of the Don .”
“True,” he replies with a small smile. “But it doesn’t make the other facts less relevant.” His gaze drifts across the room, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the people around us. “There’s been talk,” he says, his tone casual, but I know better. When Alexey is casual, it usually means he’s about to drop something significant.
“About what?” I ask, though I already have an idea.
“Ari,” he answers, confirming my suspicion. “The rumors of her match are gaining traction. She’s a crown jewel, and the Bianchis want to solidify power.”
I follow his line of sight and contemplate the rumor I heard a few minutes ago. My eyes land on Ari. She’s talking to another guest, her expression as controlled as ever. I don’t need to hear the conversation to know she’s disengaged—her body language gives her away. She’s doing her duty, nothing more.
“Nothing is decided, though,” Alexey remarks, a hint of humor in his voice. “Would you consider it?”
I don’t answer immediately, taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons. Marrying Ari would be a strategic move, no question. It would further solidify our alliance with the Bianchis and make them think twice before striking.
But Ari is no ordinary woman. She would be a challenge, a constant test of wills. And in our world, challenges can be dangerous. “She’d bring insurance against an impetuous move,” I say, my voice even. “But she would also bring complications.”
Alexey nods as if that’s the answer he expected. “The Bianchis haven’t suggested it, but they could be open to the idea.” He turns and gives me a once-over. “Especially after you pulled the hero act a couple of months ago during the kidnapping.”
I don’t respond, but the question lingers between us. The idea of marrying Ari is both intriguing and unsettling. Every time we’ve been in one another’s company, one of us is flint to the other’s fire.
Volatile doesn’t begin to describe the chemistry that sparks between us.
Alexey leans in as he keeps his gaze moving through the crowd. “There’s something else,” he says, his tone taking on a more serious edge. “We’ve received intel that the Cartels are making moves.”
That gets my attention. “Again? I thought we cleaned out most of their ranks.”
“They have regrouped South of the border,” he replies. “Building their ranks and looking to expand. According to Grigory, there’s been chatter about targeting areas we consider secure. If they’re successful, it could destabilize everything.”
I process this new information quickly. The Cartels are a known threat—ruthless, well-funded, and willing to do whatever it takes to expand their territory. If they’re making moves, it’s only a matter of time before they turn their attention to us.
“And the alliance?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“It could be the key to neutralizing them,” Alexey says, echoing my thoughts. “If we can present a united front, we’ll have the strength to push back. But if there’s even a hint of
weakness—”
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what’s at stake. The alliance with the Bianchis, already valuable, suddenly feels even more crucial. But the thought of relying on them leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“We’ll need to—” The sharp sound of a fist connecting with flesh cuts through the din, followed by a string of furious, muffled voices. Glass shatters. The room freezes. The commotion continues, the noise escalating. My hand tightens around the cool metal of my gun. There’s no telling how quickly this could spiral out of control.
A second crash. Louder this time. Raised voices follow—angry, panicked, muffled by distance. I scan the room, looking for the source of the commotion. A waiter rushes past, shards of glass glittering at his feet, his wide eyes fixed on the ground. Around me, men in suits stiffen, pretending they’re unaffected but too tense to hide it completely.
The Bianchis claim nothing can threaten the Five Families. But tonight, it feels fragile, like one crack could shatter the whole facade.
Alexey pulls out his phone, his face grim. A beat later, he speaks quietly, “Nikolai says it’s handled, but something doesn’t feel right.”
My eyes stay on the doorway. Nikolai steps in a beat later, his smile just a little too tight, his movements too deliberate. “Maxsim. Alexey.” His tone is calm, but there’s something off—something he’s not saying.
“Handled?” I echo, my voice flat.
“Of course,” he replies, brushing off the question with a flick of his wrist. “Just tempers flaring. Nothing to be concerned about.”
That’s the problem. I am concerned.
Movement catches my eye. Sal Santoro strides toward the exit, his jaw set, his hand gripping his phone like it holds secrets too volatile to stay in this room. He doesn’t glance back or acknowledge anyone as he shoves the door open and disappears into the night.
Alexey notices too, his gaze narrowing. “Handled?” he repeats softly, the word dripping with skepticism.
My attention snaps back to Nikolai, who hasn’t stopped smiling, and I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s hiding something.
“Handled,” he repeats.
I exchange glances with Alexey, both of us thinking the same thing.
After he leaves, my brother turns to me with a raised eyebrow, his expression as unreadable as ever. He doesn’t say anything, but the question is clear: What isn’t he telling us?
I shake my head slightly, signaling that it’s too soon to tell but that we should remain vigilant. The interaction leaves me with a lingering sense of unease. Our cousin is trusted, so his reticence, coupled with the growing threats from the Cartels and the delicate balance of the alliance, creates a perfect storm of uncertainty.
Every instinct tells me something is coming, something that could upend everything we’ve worked for.