FOUR
Benito
N umerous times I've told that fucker, Pietro, not to block the goddamn garage when he visits. I shake my head, raindrops dispersing from the ends of my hair all over the pristine polished timber of the entrance foyer. Perhaps, after tonight, he'll get the message. If he insists on blocking our basement parking entrance, he may as well do it for good. My hand aches from the pressure required to shove the blade into the sidewall of his goddamn tire, but the satisfaction of the air leaving the rubber was well worth the discomfort.
Fucking Petey. His husky words bark over the chaos of my father and youngest brother engaged in a fierce argument. Leaving my wet jacket on the floor by the double doors, I nod at one of Vinny's men and make my way through to the source of the commotion.
"Fuck what they say," my father hollers, one elbow resting on the mantle of the burning fire. "I didn't give the order, and only I can give an order like that."
"They did what they're supposed to," my baby brother Alessio argues from his spot lounged in the leather wingback. "You can't punish the men for somebody else's mistake."
"What men?" Papa roars. "Tell me, boy, if you know so much. Which one of my soldiers did this, huh? Because as far as I'm aware, they were all accounted for." He spins to face my uncle, finger poking the air between them. "This wasn't our men."
I stroll to the corner of the luxury sitting room and turn a clean tumbler right way up. Uncle Naz stands to Papa's left, arms folded, with a shit-eating grin on his weathered face. The fucker will get off on this chaos, always around when there's blood in the water.
"Benito." Papa pushes off the mantle and gives me a curt nod. "Good that you've arrived."
I tip two fingers of whiskey into the glass and then pick a position beside my middle brother, Dion. He stands with his backside perched on the credenza, arms folded to match our Uncle's defensive position. A family weighed heavy by men. My father is one of two sons, and I'm the oldest of three. The bloodline is secure with the propensity for our family to produce many heirs. The part that gets messy is deciding who gets the throne.
"I don't see what the issue is," Naz says dismissively. "She's alive, isn't she?"
I tilt my head and frown.
Papa catches my silent question and sighs. "The Kuznetsov girl was targeted tonight."
Nastasya. I frown. I haven't seen her in years. I assumed her old man had her stashed away somewhere safe, somewhere off the radar after what happened between us—if he even knew.
"In our brief call," Papa continues, "he made it clear that the assailants were Italian. Ours."
"Which may be a lie," Petey points out in his gruff timbre. "He could say that to bait you into admitting fault."
"Why would I?" my father roars. "It's not our fault to own. We didn't order this." He paces the room, finishing off the dark liquid in his glass.
I take a sip of mine.
"How do they know the men spoke Italian for sure?" Dion asks, always the devil's advocate. "Do they know what was said? Can they positively identify it was of our origins and not Spanish from the cartels?"
"What issue would the cartel have with Arseni?" Naz asks, detailing the head of the local Bratva. "They see him as nothing more than a pesky pup yapping at their heels. They wouldn't waste the respect on going after his family."
"Yes. It's all speculation," Papa snaps. "But the message was clear."
"They shot her through the eye," Dion whispers over his shoulder for me.
My heart thunders as I mouth "Who?" with my free palm raised.
"Nastasya's friend. The fucking idiots got the wrong girl," he murmurs. "Shot the woman because she was in the driver's seat of Nastasya's car."
I breathe a sigh of relief. Whoever did this must be new on the scene. I grew up with the Kuznetsovs, as did most of our soldiers. Anybody who's lived around these parts long enough knows which families rule the streets. It wouldn't be hard to identify the Bratva princess positively.
"Boss." Papa's top capo , Vinny, steps into the doorway. "Pardon the interruption, but we have visitors."
"What the fuck?" My father strides out of the room, Petey hot on his heels. "Who the fuck would be here at this hour?" He tugs at the sides of his dark gray vest, adjusting his three-piece suit to appear as put-together and in control as possible as they cross into the foyer.
Naz grins, his gaze lifting to meet mine across the room. I raise my middle finger. I might have looked up to the guy when I was a boy, but the day he used me as a pawn against my father cemented him in the first place on my shit list. If I could pop a family member without repercussion, he'd be my only request.
" Vor Arseni is at the gate." Vinny's explanation drifts back into the room.
Alessio rises from the chair he'd lounged in and strides to join Papa. "He comes here? After accusing us of this?"
"How many?" Papa's question echoes around the entrance, the man already in control.
"Arseni, two guards… and his daughter." Vinny turns his head briefly to look at me as I edge through the door to join them.
"He brought Nastasya here?" Dion bellows behind me, voicing my question as he pushes off the furniture. "Is the guy insane? He thinks we tried to kill her, and now he drags her into the wolf's den?"
I chuckle, shaking my head as I find a suitable vantage point to watch this madness unfold. Arseni was always a crazy motherfucker, one wrong decision away from completely losing respect as a mob boss. Bringing his daughter to confront the family he thinks tried to smite him doesn't surprise me. Nope. My curiosity and reason for following the others out to the front step isn't what Arseni wants to do.
It's Nastasya. I haven't seen the woman since she was a teenager. She trailed my brothers and me when the families would meet during more amicable times, always one step behind since we were kids. Curiosity got the better of us as we grew up, ruining what could have been a tight alliance between the family heirs.
"Gene," Mama calls from the top of the sweeping staircase. "Why are the Kuznetsovs here?" She hurries down the broad marble steps, silk robe flowing out behind her.
"Nothing for you to worry yourself over, mi amor. " My father takes Mama's face in both hands and kisses her forehead. "You may remain upstairs."
She nods, catching my eye as she turns. "Come join me when you're finished here, Benito. I haven't seen you in so long."
I give her a nod and touch my fingertips to her cheek. She tilts her head and kisses my palm before returning the way she came. My mother is a beauty—one my father and uncle fought over in their heyday. She's mob royalty, a woman raised and versed in the lifestyle from a family who can be traced back to Sicilian roots. I love and respect her, which is why it hurts to stay away unless I'm called home on occasions like tonight.
The blacked-out SUV—blood red as is custom for the Kuznetsov family—stops at the base of our wide entrance steps. The rain has eased to a fine mist as though anticipating their arrival, the lamplights on either side of us shimmering where it strikes the drifts. I pull my shoulders back and run my fingers through my hair to ensure it sits pulled back after the mess the heavier rain made earlier. My knuckles crack as Arseni's man, Dmitry, climbs out of the front passenger and moves to open the rear door. The man they dubbed the Iron Jaw steps out first, his shrewd gaze on our house rather than the host waiting dutifully at the head of the steps.
"As ostentatious as I remember," Arseni says through a grimace. "Always one to show off what you have, Gennaro." He flicks his stern gaze at my father.
"And as always, so gracious with those you envy," Papa quips, arms out to greet Arseni.
Alessio stands to our father's right, Dion to his left. I stay toward the back, hidden in the shadows with my arms folded, while I silently watch the woman of the hour emerge from the car. Dressed in black, she looks barely put together in a plain pantsuit and heeled shoes. Her hair is the same pale blonde I remember—a shade off that of the angels. But it's her face that strikes me hard. My memories are of the soft cheeks of a troublesome girl, the wide eyes of innocence, and the rosy lips of a young woman who always had a sucker in her back pocket. Not anymore. High cheekbones match her hardened jaw, giving her elegant eyes a cutting edge. She would look ready to kill if not for the fear in those sea-green irises.
"Did we not cover everything in our phone call?" Papa asks as Arseni climbs the slick steps.
"I didn't feel that you got my point," the vor states, shaking his hand before him. "That you took me seriously enough."
"Perhaps we could have done this at a better hour." Papa's tone hardens, his shoulders stiff as he fights to keep his hands slung in his slacks pockets.
It's after midnight the same evening Arseni's daughter narrowly avoided an assassination attempt. The man has lost his mind if he thinks this is the best approach to sorting a dispute between the families.
"What better time to address the issue than when everyone's memory is fresh, hey?" Arseni shouts the words, his aggression causing Vinny to rest a hand on the hilt of his gun.
"And what issue would that be?" Naz asks, stepping out of the shadow beside the front doors. "You've made your claims. Gennaro stated the family's position. What more do you need?"
"What do I need?" Arseni's brow peaks. He turns to assess where Nastasya stands before reaching out and taking a fistful of her jacket. "You fuckers thought you killed my daughter," he hollers, shoving her forward toward my father. "And you thought that one dismissive word would have me forget what she saw? That Italians tried to gun her down." He pulls his daughter closer. "I need justice, Gennaro."
Stas's eyes are wide but appear pained more than scared. Like me, she's lived among these men long enough to know what our life entails. Not much scares the woman, I bet, but damn it all, if the way her father manhandles her doesn't make my blood boil. We respect our women here, in the De Santis family. I can't say the same for the Kuznetsovs.
"We should take this inside," Papa suggests, turning his body to indicate our guests can go first.
Arseni's guards rise the steps to follow, yet Vinny holds a hand toward them. "No weapons."
"Is your monkey stupid?" Arseni asks Papa. "Your thugs tried to take my daughter, and you want us to walk into your halls without protection."
"You have my word," Papa states, chin held high. "As you did when I told you that the order didn't come from us. If that isn't enough, I suggest you rethink why you're here, friend. "
The vor looks between each De Santis man and finds the same impassive stare on our faces. We don't fuck around, and when we give our word, it means something—unlike that of most of our enemies. Arseni releases his daughter; Nastasya stumbles on her heels as she rights herself at her father's side. I wait until everyone else has gone first and then follow the family into the foyer.
The enticing scent of Nastasya's perfume hits my nostrils, and I find myself moving closer to her as we walk. She turns her head to the side; no eye contact, but enough of a gesture that she makes it clear she knows I'm there.
Papa leads Arseni toward his home office, turning to stop Alessio and then Dion from following inside. "A chat between old friends first." He signals Vinny and gives Dmitry a nod, indicating the bosses can have one man for protection each.
Uncle Naz steps forward, shocked when my father stops him with a hand on his chest. "This involves me, Gennaro."
"Not tonight, my brother." Papa nods towards a vacant chair. "I will call for you if I need you."
The look my uncle gives Petey as our adviser joins the exclusive meeting could strip paint. Ignazio has no reason to be there while the men negotiate the issue, but Pietro, our consigliere , does. The dispute requires an adjudicator, and that's precisely what Petey is.
Somebody not biased by blood on either side.
The men disappear behind closed doors, leaving the offspring and remaining payroll scattered around the expansive sitting room. Alessio returns to his leather wingback and sighs. "Guess we wait, huh?"
"Fuck off and sulk somewhere else," Dion snaps, heading for the liquor. "Drink, Nastasya?"
She swallows, shadowed by the remaining Bratva soldier. "Thank you."
Vinny's man taps the soldier on the arm and gestures for him to join our detail at the door. Nastasya freezes, hands laced before her with perfect poise. She'd almost pull off the tough-girl act if it weren't for the way her body shakes where she stands. I cross the room while Dion pours her drink and stands face-to-face with the Bratva brat. Almost ten years have passed since I last gazed into these eyes, touched this face—kissed these lips. It's long enough that we're relative strangers to one another but not so long that she has a right to ignore me the way she does. Her green eyes finally meet mine; she lifts her chin the smallest amount to show she's not intimidated.
I don't stand here to scare her. I find myself in her personal space out of curiosity. Is it still there? The pull we once had?
A fresh cut high on her forehead mars an otherwise flawless complexion. I lift my right hand and push her blonde hair out of her face to inspect the injury better. She flinches, jerking her head back and glaring at me. Her reaction is warranted—I was an asshole the last time we spoke. Regardless, I take my time circling her and noting each swell and curve of her primly dressed body. She seems uncomfortable in the executive-style clothing, as though she doesn't usually wear such things.
"Relax," Dion assures her as he passes a tumbler of scotch. "He only checks you for concealed weapons."
"Shouldn't one of your soldiers do that?" Her voice is huskier than I remember, sultry and sure.
She takes the drink from my brother and comes close to spilling it when I drop to my haunches behind her and pat down her calves in search of a blade. Nothing . Other than the flinch and rush of breath when I touch her right leg. I peer up at her and then meet Dion's calm stare before lifting her pant leg to reveal the source of her discomfort. The skin is red and torn, rubbed raw from a rough impact; a dressing covers the worst.
"Leave the woman alone, Benito," Ignazio snaps, hungry gaze on her. "She's had a hard night. Isn't that right, mutt?"
"I have." She gulps the alcohol, ignoring his slur towards her. "And yet, despite your best efforts, here I stand."
Uncle Naz chuckles, his hands steepled before his face. He sits with pristine arrogance; one leg crossed over the other while he studies her as though she's an exquisite creature offered for his collection. "You must have hit your head hard, hey?" He stands and crosses over to where she still shakes. "So very confused about the details."
I rise at her back and face off with my fucking uncle.
"Relax, Benito." He laughs sardonically and reaches out to touch her chin. "I'll be gentle with your toy."
Nastasya jerks her head back, colliding with my shoulder. "Don't you dare touch me." Interestingly, she keeps contact with me rather than risk my uncle setting a finger on her face.
Naz backs away with a sigh and crosses to the fireplace. He idly picks at a small bark chip on the hearth before tossing it into the flames. "Tell me, mutt. What reason would we have to kill you?" His dark gaze finds her. "What relevance do you have in this world?"
Stas takes a step away, her eyes briefly finding mine before she carefully navigates her way to a less populated area of the room. "I may not be important—because that is what you infer, is it not? But I certainly have more relevance than my friend." Her throat thickens on the last word. She takes a moment to compose herself, swallowing hard. "Tell me what other reason there would be to shoot an innocent woman in the eye if not to send a message to my father."
"We all have many enemies," Dion offers softly. "Perhaps this is a message from somebody else. Someone who wanted it to appear as though we organized the hit?"
"Are you telling me our enemies now learn our language to confuse our families?" She glares at my level-headed brother.
"I'm telling you that the De Santis name had nothing to do with what happened tonight."
"You'll have to pardon me if I find it hard to believe your word after what I saw." Her fingers flex on the tumbler in her hand.
"We're telling you," Alessio snaps. "That what you think you saw and what actually happened is not the same thing."
For fuck's sake. I drag a hand over my face.
"You think I'd lie about this?" Nastasya hollers. "Lie about it and have my father drag me here to swim amongst the sharks?" She scoffs, shaking her head. "I'd have to be crazy to do that."
Alessio stands and moves until they're face-to-face. "Perhaps you are. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it, Nastasya?"
Her brow dives, gaze searching his. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." My shit-stirring little brother turns away. "Your mother was fucked in the head. Perhaps you are, too?"