Chapter 28
Stella
The only way I’ve been able to survive the summer is by staying busy.
If I stop moving, I think.
If I think, I feel.
And if I feel, I break.
So I don’t stop. I never stop.
And as luck would have it, I have too many things to do in the day to ever catch my breath let alone wallow in my suffering.
Since I’ve been made, I’m now officially working under my father, Dominic, as an enforcer to the syndicate, and getting my orders directly from the Capo Dei Capi himself.
The days of being told that I should go upstairs to my room while business was being conducted are long over. I no longer have to eavesdrop on conversations or stand outside my father’s door just to hear what the syndicate is up to. Now I’m in the room with my dads and Marcello. I’m at the table.
And all this pain and frustration gnawing at my insides?
I pour it out on the poor fuckers stupid enough to disrespect the Outfit.
It’s cleaner that way. Simpler.
Some guys mouth off to the wrong Capo. Others skimp on money owed to the famiglia. Whatever their crime, I just nod and listen and give them a chance to fix their mistake.
If they don’t…
Well… that’s what the room in the basement of The Vault is for.
I don’t think about Kirill when I’m breaking noses.
I don’t think about Kirill when I wedge my heel into someone’s throat and watch the realization dawn in his eyes that he fucked up.
I don’t think about him when I lean over some half-conscious asshole and remind him that this is what happens when you spit on the Outfit.
I absolutely do not think about Kirill at all.
And I try to keep him out of my mind when I have to perform my duties at the Bratva casino too.
The riverboat has become my second home now. It used to be his. His domain. His project. His pride. Now it’s… mine. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m stomping around the decks in heels, clipboard in hand, double-checking numbers on the fly.
Since neither Kostya nor Kirill are here to make everything run smoothly, I had to be the one to step up.
Sure, Kostya had the good sense to put one of Kirill’s most loyal soldiers in charge before they left for Russia, but the second I step on the boat, the soldat knows who the real boss is.
Thankfully, he does what he’s told and never argues with any of the decisions I make.
And there are many to be made to ensure this cash cow never stops giving.
“Miss Stella, we’ve got a guy counting cards at table six.”
“Miss Romano, the VIP in suite three is demanding a private game.”
“Boss, the numbers at the bar aren’t matching. You want us to—”
“I’ll deal with it,” I say, and I always do.
I spend most of my afternoons on the boat going over ledgers, moving people where they need to be, checking in with floor managers, and calming big spenders with the fakest smile I can muster.
When I’m walking the floor, surrounded by glittering lights and chiming machines, with Fox River sliding black and lazy outside the windows, I feel in control.
And when Bratva soldiers start calling you boss, an Outfit enforcer, you know you’re doing the job right.
Their respect and the control I feel here are the only things keeping me from diving into the river to try to swim across an ocean to do something colossally stupid.
When I’m not working under my father or babysitting the riverboat, I’m at Nonno’s gym.
The barn behind my house still stands, quiet and patient, full of old sweat and older memories.
The gym inside it used to be my sanctuary.
Now I go there less and less. It’s too quiet.
Too full of ghosts. Too easy to imagine Kirill standing there now, arms folded across his chest, watching me with that heavy, hungry gaze from the silhouette I once used for target practice.
So I traded the barn for my grandfather’s gym. I traded silence for noise. For loud grunts and sharp shouts. For the slap of gloves on pads and the metallic rattle of weights. For Nonno yelling in Italian at some poor kid who forgets to keep his guard up.
Nonno nearly cried the first week I started showing up every day. My grandfather, the terrifying old Capo who built his name with his fists, actually got misty-eyed when he caught me wrapping my hands in his office, giddy that I would be the one ending the night in the ring instead of Marcello.
“You finally came to your senses about coming here to train, huh?” he’d said, trying and failing to hide that huge, proud grin. “About damn time.”
He pretends he’s casual about it, but I see the way his chest puffs when the guys whisper that I’m his granddaughter after I drop some meathead twice my size.
Tonight, the air in the gym is thick and humid, smelling like sweat, chalk, and disinfectant. The fans overhead do almost nothing to cool us down, but nobody complains. This is syndicate holy ground and we all respect it as such.
“Hands up, Stella!” Nonno barks from behind the ropes at the edge of the ring. “You drop them again and I’m coming up there myself.”
“You can barely get up the stairs,” I toss back, ducking under another one of Izzie’s jabs aimed at my face.
“Enough sass and show me what you got.”
I grin and slip to the side, letting Izzie’s punch sail past me. I pivot, hook my arm around her neck, and drag her forward in a mock clinch.
Izzie laughs, breathless, twisting out of my hold. “I forgot that you fight dirty,” she pants, sweat darkening her sports bra and making curls stick to her forehead.
“You’re dating my brother,” I say, circling her. “You should have expected it. We Romanos never fight clean.”
Izzie laughs again, bouncing on the balls of her feet, gloves up.
She’s quick and sharp, all lean lines and stubborn energy.
When we first met, I knew there was a reason I liked her.
And after all the support and love she’s shown Marcello, I can honestly say she’s become one of my closest friends. Even if she was a Fed once.
“Come on,” she taunts. “You’re too slow tonight. When I beat you, I want to make sure you gave it your all.”
“You honestly think you can take me?” I mock, sweat dripping down my temple.
“Keep fucking around and I’ll be taking a victory lap around this ring in… say, five minutes?” She winks.
I hiss through my teeth and lunge. My glove taps her jaw. Not hard enough to hurt, but solid enough to snap her head back a fraction.
“Cheap shot!” she protests, laughing.
“You opened your mouth,” I say. “Not my fault.”
We move together to a rhythm we’ve built over the past few months.
Sparring. Jab. Slip. Counter. Repeat.
Sweat slides down my spine, while my lungs burn and my muscles sing.
This is one of the few places where my brain shuts up entirely.
No riverboat numbers. No assholes to keep in line. No obligations. No Kirill.
Just the ring, Izzie in front of me, and the sound of Nonno’s voice cutting through the noise.
“Use your footwork, Stella! She’s dancing around you like you’re a tree!”
“Hey!” Izzie shouts with a giggle. “Don’t insult the trees. Trees are useful.”
“Trees don’t talk back,” Nonno mutters with a wink. “Again!”
Izzie feints left, goes right, and I follow.
She throws in a hook, forcing me to duck and step in close, chest to chest. We clash, brace, and then I hook my leg around hers and twist just enough to knock her balance off.
She hits the mat with a whoof of air and a burst of laughter, arms spread wide.
“Well, that was rude,” she wheezes, her smile ear to ear.
I stand over her, grinning, breathing hard. “Yield?”
She glares up at me theatrically, then lifts her glove and taps my shin. “Fine, I yield. Marcello is probably going out of his mind with worry anyway. I should really check on him.”
She’s not wrong.
Anytime Izzie and I take to the ring, Marcello locks himself in Nonno’s office, so he doesn’t have to watch us fight each other. One time was enough for him.
I peel off my gloves and offer Izzie a hand. She takes it, and I yank her up in one quick pull.
“One day, Stella,” she mutters, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we duck between the ropes and hop down. “One day I’ll beat you.”
“Keep dreaming,” I laugh.
“Ah, don’t be like that.” She flashes me a sideways smile. “Admit it. You’d be lost without me.”
“Please. I’d be less annoyed.”
We both know it’s bullshit, and it shows in the way both our smiles soften. Truth is, I don’t know what I would have done these last few months without her.
Annamaria has been off lately, so I’m unable to lean on her for emotional support as I usually would. I tell myself it’s because Frankie is in Russia and she misses her, but I’m not sure that’s the reason behind her sour mood lately.
I feel like Anna is keeping secrets from me and that has never happened before.
It’s worrying.
Izzie bumps her shoulder into mine to grab my attention as we walk toward the benches. “Are you okay?” she asks, tone dropping from playful to careful in one breath.
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, grabbing my water bottle from my bag. “Just tired.”
“I bet you are,” she smiles, sympathetically. “I have no idea how you keep up with everything that’s on your plate right now. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”
Since Izzie is now a big part of Marcello’s life, I’m not surprised she has a better insight into how I spend my days.
I’m sure Marcello has told her how I’ve been moving nonstop all summer.
How I’ve been running jobs with Dom, overseeing collections, fixing problems for the Outfit, babysitting the riverboat, only to end my days training here until my knuckles split and my muscles scream.
What Izzie doesn’t know is why I put myself through all of it.
Because if I stop, if I sit still too long, my mind drifts.
It drifts to memories of rough hands cupping my face.
To sweet whispered words in Russian.
To dark eyes and cocky smirks.
To I love yous I will never be able to say.
Yes, if I dare stop for even a second, I’ll crack under the weight of my misery.