Chapter 21
Luciano
“I still say this is a bad idea,” Enzo mutters from the back seat, eyeing the run-down buildings as if they were about to reach out and drag him inside.
“Really? I thought you idiots were supposed to be geniuses who don’t have bad ideas,” Stella taunts from the passenger seat, lazily filing her nails as if we were parked outside a salon instead of being deep inside Little Russia.
Enzo leans forward between the headrests, giving me a look. “It’s not Lucky’s head doing the thinking here. Hence why it’s a bad fucking idea.”
“If you say it’s his dick, I’m going to barf,” Stella says, screwing up her whole face in disgust.
“Worse,” Enzo sighs. “It’s his heart.”
“Will you two just shut up?” I snap. “I could’ve done this on my own if you were going to be assholes about it.”
“Yeah, like hell I was letting you come to Little Russia alone,” Enzo says, sinking back into the seat.
“Fine, whatever. But did you really have to bring her? ”
“Hey!” Stella shrieks so loudly it nearly blows out my eardrum.
“I had to,” Enzo says with a shrug I catch in the rearview mirror. “She’s the muscle if things go sideways.”
“You hear that, Lucky? I’m the muscle.” Stella grins ear to ear, then ruffles my hair as if I were five. “Don’t worry, little brother. I won’t let those mean Bratva bastards lay a hand on your pretty little head.” I swat her hand away while she laughs at my expense.
“You should’ve asked Marcello to come instead,” I grumble. “At least he knows how to stay quiet.”
“Marcello would be the last person I’d ask,” Enzo says, dipping his voice a little. “You want answers about your girl, not to start a war with the Russians.”
“He’s right,” Stella agrees. “Mar would lose his shit if he thought you were in danger. With me, at least, you’ll get your answers without anyone ending up in a body bag.”
“I fucking hope so,” I mutter, my gaze focused on the road ahead while my brain splits into a million different scenarios on how this could all go terribly wrong.
“You really think the Bratva might know who Frankie’s birth parents are?” Stella asks, one brow raised in quiet curiosity.
“I do,” I say. “Remus fucking flipped when he saw her bracelet. So much so that he caught a jet with Rolo and bailed to the UK that same morning.”
“I thought your BFF wasn’t scared of anything,” she says, more intrigued than mocking.
“He isn’t. But we all know the Firm and the Bratva have a history. Bad history. Half of London’s been carved up because of them. They’ve been at each other’s throats for years. It makes sense it spooked him.” It also made sense why he warned me to leave Frankie alone, but I don’t say that part out loud.
Ever since Enzo and I found the inscription on Frankie’s locket, we knew her family had roots in either the Russian motherland or the sovereign nation of Ukraine. But Remus going nuclear that morning? That told me it was the first option. Not just that. His rage told me Frankie’s parents didn’t just have Russian ties. They must have had ties with Bratva, too. Maybe her dad was a foot soldier. Or worse. Who the hell knows?
Well… the Bratva might. Hence why we’re driving through West Town, fondly—or not so fondly—known as Little Russia by the people who call it home. The flash of neon lights around this part of Chicago cuts through the dusk like a warning flare. We’re getting close. Closer to answers.
“Ugh. Gross,” Stella mutters, pretending to gag. “Please don’t tell me this is where the Bratva conduct their oh-so-serious business meetings?”
“You’ll have to ask Enzo,” I say, pulling into the cracked asphalt lot in front of the strip club. “He’s the one who got me the intel.”
“They’re here, alright,” Enzo confirms. “I overheard Dad say the new underboss likes to run operations out of this place. Keeps things quiet and off the radar.”
“New underboss?” Stella perks up. “What happened to the last one?”
“Rumor is, the Pakhan sent his brother to take over a few months back,” Enzo says, casually as if reciting the weather. “Word has it that Petrov has become paranoid with his underbosses lately and only trusts his own blood to conduct business on foreign ground now.”
In other words, the previous Chicago Underboss for the Bratva got his walking papers by a slit of the throat from the Pakhan ’s own kin.
I have to hand it to my twin, though. He keeps his ear to the ground, juggling Outfit politics and expansion as if he were born for it.
Me? Not so much. I’d rather stick to my code, my keyboard, and stay the hell out of the power plays and mafia politics. I’ll leave that crap to the adults who care.
“I hate that I’m always the last to know everything,” Stella snaps, stabbing her nail file straight into the leather console.
“Jesus, Stella!” I yank it from her hand before she decides to gouge anything else. “Cool the hell down. I can’t have you going full banshee right now.”
“Easy for you to say,” she fires back. “You and Enzo are getting inducted next year. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for our father to decide whether I’m even worth the ink. I swear, I can’t wait until Marcello becomes Capo dei Capi. At least then, I won’t have to keep proving myself every damn day that I was born for the life. That I’m not just some defenseless principessa who is only good for making babies and playing house. I deserve more than that.”
Enzo meets my eyes in the rearview, then reaches forward to gently place a hand on her shoulder and says softly, “Hey, sooner or later, Dad will do the right thing. I know he will.”
“He better,” she mutters, turning to stare out the window so we won’t see the sadness swimming in her green eyes.
We let her have the moment.
Enzo was right. We do need the muscle. Sure, if it came to it, Enzo and I could probably take down a few Bratva goons on our own. But Stella? With her blades and her barely suppressed rage? She could take down a fucking army if she wanted to. But not if she’s stuck drowning in her own self-doubt and pity.
Thankfully, our sister’s never one to sulk for long. Within moments, she’s squaring her shoulders, turning back toward us with fire in her eyes and a smirk that shows she’s ready to raise hell.
“So, are we doing this or what?” Stella says, already swinging her door open as if she’d been waiting to throw hands all night.
“Yeah, we’re ready. Just make sure we don’t get ourselves killed,” Enzo mutters as he slides out behind her. “I’ve got a hot date with you-know-who in a couple of hours.” He winks at me, my chest tightening at the glint in his eyes.
Shit. He and his priest are still going strong. That has disaster and heartbreak written all over it. But then again, I fell for a girl still set on becoming a nun, so who am I to judge?
I climb out of the car, falling into step between my twin and my sister, and say in a low voice, “Remember, we’re here for information. No one breathes a word about Frankie. Not until I know who her parents are. Understood?”
Enzo and Stella nod as we cross the cracked pavement toward the front entrance. The bouncer steps forward before we even reach the door—broad, grim-faced, and exactly the kind of asshole who thinks he owns the sidewalk.
“Leave,” he growls. “Your kind doesn’t belong here.”
“I’m sorry…” Stella tilts her head with a sugary smile. “Did you just say our kind? ”
“Yeah. I can smell the Sicilian stench from here.”
“Oh,” she drawls, letting the word stretch as she shrugs. “You really shouldn’t have said that. I was going to do this the nice way.”
Before he has time to react, she drives her knee straight into his crotch. He grunts and folds forward, just in time for her elbow to crack down on the back of his neck. The guy collapses face-first onto the pavement with a dull thud.
Stella leans down and whispers sweetly in his ear, “Next time, remember your manners, m’kay?” And just for good measure, she kicks him in the jaw with the heel of her boot, knocking him out cold. “Shall we?” she chirps, stepping daintily over his unconscious body.
“I wanted us to be discreet,” I mutter, chuckling. “But sure, let’s go ahead and make a grand entrance.” Enzo just sighs and follows us in.
The club hits us like a punch. With its dim lights, cigarette smoke, and throbbing bass reverberating the sticky floors, it looks like a scene out of a John Wick movie, right before mayhem ensues. Half-naked girls swing from poles like Olympic gymnasts, though most of the men around them couldn’t care less. Sure, there are a few throwing twenties as if it were confetti, but most of the men here are hunched in booths whispering something in Russian, while keeping their eyes sharp to outside danger.
“Now what?” I ask, scanning the room.
There are too many Bratva soldiers to tell who’s actually running the show.
“Now,” Enzo says, flashing a grin and sliding a hundred-dollar bill into a dancer’s garter, “we find Petrov’s brother and hope he has better manners than his bouncer.”
“I’m not sticking around here all night just to play ‘Where’s Waldo—Bratva Edition,’” Stella mutters, brushing invisible glitter off her sleeve. “This place is where hope comes to die. I swear, if body glitter touches me, I’m burning these clothes.”
“Don’t be so judgmental,” Enzo counters, handing another girl a few more hundreds. “Everyone’s entitled to make a living anyway they can.”
“Where you see a living, I see exploitation,” Stella says, snatching Enzo’s wallet and pulling out the rest of his cash. She beckons one of the dancers closer, a redhead with dead eyes and nonexistent curves. “Mind showing me where the prick who pays you minimum wage is hiding?” The dancer glances discreetly toward the back corner of the club, then nods. “Thanks, doll,” Stella says, handing her the wad of bills and turning on her heel. “Follow me.”
We trail behind her, cutting through groups of hard-faced men who glare at us as if they were already imagining how to bury our bodies.
“We better hurry,” Enzo mutters under his breath. “Before someone picks a fight.”
“Or before Stella does, you mean,” I smirk, dodging a particularly aggressive puff of cigar smoke.
We maneuver through the haze of cigarette smog and the cheap, pungent cologne of men dripping in oversized gold chains and rings that look more like brass knuckles than jewelry. By the time we reach the booth in question, I become skeptical. Sitting there is a guy who looks to be a little older than Marcello, head down, tapping away at his phone as if he’d nothing better to do than scrolling through it just to pass the time. Not exactly someone who conveys the image of a Bratva underboss.
Wait … is he playing Candy Crush?
I glance at Enzo and Stella, about to whisper that maybe the dancer got it wrong, when the guy—still focused on his game—says lazily, “Little past your curfew, isn’t it? Isn’t it a school night?”
Is this guy for real? I mean, I’ve heard stories about Mikhail Petrov. Nightmarish stories. This guy… can’t be his brother. He looks more like the punchline of a bad joke.
“We’re not here to make trouble,” I say cautiously. “We just need to ask you a few questions, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
He finally sets the phone down, picks up a cigarette, and lights it with a gold Zippo. The flash of the flame catches the jagged scar that slices through his left eyebrow.
Okay … maybe this is the guy.
“Questions, huh?” he smirks, leaning back in the black leather seat of his booth, arms sprawled along the top like a king on his throne. “And what kind of questions would the Romanos possibly have for little old me, I wonder?” He exhales a ribbon of smoke through his nose like a damn dragon.
Yep. Definitely the guy.
I step forward, but he flicks his cigarette at me slightly, halting me in place. “Not you. Her. ” He points at Stella.
Without missing a beat, she saunters forward, placing her palms on the table as she leans in, all sharp edges and fire, and asks in annoyance, “How do I know you’re even the man I’m looking for?”
“Ah, milaya, ” he purrs. “For you, I can be whoever you want me to be.”
“Cute,” she snaps, straightening her back and folding her arms. “Cut the games. Are you Misha’s brother or not?”
His smile fades just enough to chill the air between us. “The Pakhan ’s name is Mikhail Petrov,” he corrects, his voice as cold as steel. “Only family calls him that. And you are not family.”
Shit. We just stepped on a landmine. I’m pretty sure it will end up blowing us in the face if left unchecked.
“My sister didn’t mean any disrespect,” Enzo jumps in, quick to de-escalate.
“Yes, she did,” he replies, eyes still locked on Stella. “Didn’t you, milaya? ”
“My name’s Stella, not whatever you’re calling me,” she says through clenched teeth, her jaw clenching as if imagining how hard she could punch him.
“Stella,” he repeats slowly, rolling her name over his tongue as if tasting it. “Suits you.”
“And yours?” she fires back, one brow arched.
“Kirill Petrov. But everyone calls me Kill.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t quite touch his dark eyes. “The name suits me just fine, too.”
“Let me guess,” she scoffs. “Because you’re so good at it?”
“Smart and beautiful.” His grin widens. “Would you like a demonstration?”
“Spare me. I didn’t come for a show. I came for answers.”
“Can’t we do both?” His black eyes gleam with something feral.
“Doubtful. Men aren’t exactly known for multitasking.”
“Ah, milaya, but I’m not like most men. I can assure you of that.”
Jesus Christ. This is not how I pictured this going. I should’ve brought Marcello instead of Stella. Kirill—or Kill, or whatever the fuck he wants to call himself—looks like the kind of guy who enjoys playing with matches just to watch things burn. And judging by the flicker in his eyes, there’s nothing he’d love more than to provoke Stella until she explodes.
To her credit, she doesn’t take the bait. She doesn’t so much as flinch. And that, maybe more than anything else, seems to only encourage him more.
“Funny,” Kirill drawls, taking another drag of his cigarette. “I’ve heard all about your Red Queen. But not much about her fiery daughter. Tell me, Stella… do you favor your mother or your father more? If you even know who your father is, I mean.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I see the flicker in Stella’s eyes—the one she gets every time she’s out for blood—and watch her fingers instinctively reach for the dagger in her boot, forcing me to step in fast. I shove her behind me before she kills this asshole in his own club.
We’d never make it out alive.
“Enough with the mind games, Kirill,” I snap. “Like we said, we’re not here to start anything. We don’t want any trouble.”
“No, you’re here for answers,” he replies with a theatrical sigh, bored now that Stella is out of his reach. “But how am I supposed to help if I don’t even know the question?”
I pull out my phone, scroll to the photos of Frankie’s bracelet and the medallion, and then slide it across the table.
“Ever seen this before?” I ask. “The inscription’s in Russian. We figured someone in your crew might recognize it.”
Kirill barely glances at the screen before flicking the phone back toward me as if he were offended by it.
“This? This is why you’re here?” he scoffs, smoke curling from his nostrils. “For a trinket? If you need a translator, try Google Translate next time. My schedule is full.” He stands and snuffs out his cigarette with the kind of finality that ends conversations.
“So you’ve never seen it?” Enzo presses, undeterred. “Can we ask your men if—?”
“My men,” Kirill cuts in coldly, “aren’t here to help little children with their school projects. You’ve already wasted enough of my time as it is.” He steps out of the booth and takes two deliberate strides toward us, eyes locked on Stella. “Maybe our paths will cross again, milaya, ” he murmurs, his voice like velvet over a blade. “Preferably when you’re not stuck babysitting your brothers. Until then,” he continues, turning his eyes to Enzo and me, “get the fuck out of my club.”
Fuck. Every threat, every breath we held. All that for nothing. Damn it.
“Let’s go,” I mutter defeatedly, more to myself than my siblings.
Enzo and I start heading for the door, but Stella doesn’t move. She stands her ground, eye to eye with Kirill, ready to go to war.
“If you ever disrespect me, my mother, or anyone in my family again,” she says, voice low and sharp like the blades she loves, “I’ll cut out your tongue and make sure it’s the last thing you ever say.”
Instead of taking her threat to heart, Kirill acts like she just wrote him a sonnet. He lets out a grin, and then leans in, his breath brushing her ear. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, milaya … or I might just keep you here.”
“Please,” she spits, nostrils flaring. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like me.”
His smile widens. “Ah, but how fun it would be to try.”
And then—because apparently, this night wasn’t deranged enough—he lifts her hand and presses a tender kiss on her knuckles as if he were some kind of twisted, unhinged gentleman.
Even Stella freezes in place, stunned in silence.
“Till we meet again,” he says with a wink, then turns his back on us without a care in the world, vanishing into the thick smoke as if we were never here at all.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before that asshole changes his mind,” I growl, already halfway to the door.
Stella finally moves, breaking her haze and storming after us without a word. When we reach outside, we’re faced with the bouncer still lying on the pavement, groaning in pain. No one helped him in all the time we were inside. Either because they didn’t notice or just didn’t care to.
Stella pauses over him, glancing back at the club, then down again. Without warning, she gives him a few more solid kicks, more punishment than purpose, just raw nerves looking for an outlet.
“Are you done?” I ask when the poor bastard starts coughing out blood onto the sidewalk.
“No,” she huffs. “But it’ll have to do.”
We head for the car and drive home, each one of us with our own pensive thoughts.
Enzo is just thankful he didn’t die and can still make his date.
Stella’s pissed she didn’t get to kick Kirill’s head in like she did his bouncer.
And me? No closer to finding Frankie’s birth parents.
All in all, a shitty way to end the night.