FIVE
Nastasya
“ Y ou motherfucker.” The glass in my hand hits the sideboard with a clatter.
I turn to shove the asshole square in the back but freeze as somebody else beats me to it. In a flash, Benito crosses the room and belts his little brother around the back of the head. The action would be comical if it weren’t for the sickening crack of his hand connecting with Alessio’s skull.
“What the fuck, Benny?” Alessio cups the spot as he turns to scowl at his big brother.
Benito takes a fistful of the guy’s shirt and pulls them face-to-face. Their noses are a mere hair apart, rage equally red-hot in their stares.
“Stop it.” Dion places a hand on each man’s shoulder and pushes them apart. “Alessio, that was out of line. Apologize to our guest.”
Ignazio snorts his disdain at the idea from the mantle. I turn my attention to the oldest De Santis man. He was slated to take the throne from his father, but Don Giovi shocked everyone when he announced his youngest son as his successor six years ago. I don’t know if that played a part in who Ignazio is today, but it would explain why the man is such a goddamn jerk.
“Apologies for raising such a sensitive subject,” Alessio snipes. The fucker doesn’t say sorry for what he inferred. No. Only that he said it out loud.
“I don’t need your apology.” I retrieve the alcohol from the sideboard, Mimi’s advice be damned. “I know who I am, and I know what I saw.” The liquid burns on its descent but thank fuck for being able to feel something—anything.
I honestly believed when Dmitry reached me in the undergrowth that I would never feel again. I stared at Caroline’s sole lifeless eye until I threw up and then found myself caught in a catatonic embrace while I replayed the steps to her demise over and over. I could have done so much differently. I could have saved her if I had only been more prepared.
Don Gennaro’s office door opens; our man, Aleksy, stands in the space provided. “Miss Stasya.” He beckons me with a jerk of his head.
I feel the room’s heat on me as I finish my drink and set the glass down—one set of eyes in particular. My gaze meets Benito’s, and the same thrill he elicited nine years ago races down my spine again. Time may have hardened the boy into a man, but those soulless eyes still speak of evils too rich to deny. I’m drawn in by the unanswered questions such vehemence in a young life conjures. What could have happened to him in the time we’ve been apart to turn the outgoing rascal I remember into such a jaded, silent soldier of his father’s empire?
When I enter the home office, my father beckons me to his side with an outstretched arm. “Come in, my girl.” The click of the door behind me sends a jolt through my tired limbs.
“Nastasya,” Don Gennaro greets from behind his massive classically styled desk. “First, may I offer my sincere condolences for your friend’s passing tonight.” He gestures to the only free chair in the room—beside my father’s. “Please sit.”
“Thank you.” I do as I’m asked—respectful to those who’ve earned the accolade. My legs ache, back screaming from the jolt of the car when we hit the final tree.
“Please, tell me in your own words what happened.”
I look around the room at the men waiting for my next word. I’ve never felt pressure like this in my life, as though one tiny slip-up means offering my throat to a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. The collective violent reputation in this room would make even the hardest death row inmate quake.
“It’s okay, my love. You tell them what you told me.” Papa leans across to take my hand.
I stare at the connection, the feel of his palm against mine foreign. He’s kept me close since Mama died, but we’ve never been close.
“Two men,” I recite, distancing myself from the memory by focusing on the facts. “They didn’t butcher the words spoken; they were smooth and quick. That’s why I think they were Italian. A single shot was made. Through Caroline’s left eye.”
“Can you remember any of what they said?” A man I don’t recognize leans forward from my left. His voice is raw, as though he smokes several packs a day, although there isn’t a hint of tobacco on him.
“I’m not sure.”
Papa squeezes my hand. “Take your time. Close your eyes and remember.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to go back there; the memory is too raw, too fresh. I need time to grieve, to let these emotions that create turmoil in my heart free.
“If she doesn’t want to, Arseni, don’t force her.” Don Gennaro leans back in his seat, the leather creaking under his broad frame. The mob boss must be in his mid-fifties, at least, but he has the body of a much younger man. The only indication of his true age is the gray hair at his temples, although that could be attributed to stress in a role such as his.
“The words may be key to showing you who did this, though.” Papa drops my hand and straightens in his seat to order, “Remember, Nastasya.”
Aleksy nods behind my father, a gentle reminder that it’s easier to do as he wishes than push back too hard, especially in a room of his peers.
I stare at my hands, the dirt still stuck in the cuticles and under my painted nails. Caroline’s face flashes into my mind’s eye first, sending my heart into a sprint for safety. I temper my breaths and ease my nerves by gently pressing my nails into my thumbs. “I think one of them said something that sounded like message . The only other word I picked up was chiamata .” Only because it reminded me of chia seeds.
The stupid connections a brain makes when in survival mode.
“Call.” The gruff man sighs. “It could have been about anything.”
“Think, Nastasya,” Papa growls. “What else was there?”
“I told you this would be an unnecessary exercise,” the Don grumbles. “She doesn’t need this, and neither do we.”
“I can’t remember what they said,” I cry, “But I know what they did. They shot my fucking friend through the eye.” I implore each man in the room with a quick sweep of my gaze. “We all know what that means. We all know what type of organizations use that as a message. This attack wasn’t random. It was planned, and it was meant with exact significance.”
“This we can agree on.” The gruff man speaks directly to his boss, the Don. “Regardless of who did it, the girl’s life is in danger until we can find out who wanted her dead.”
I feel sick. Hearing about the bloody side of the business was never an issue because it never involved me. But now that I’m front and center of the threat, I feel a loss of safety like I have never experienced in my life. I was born to a Bratva king. Security was something that came naturally. I’ve been sheltered and watched my entire life, and never once have I felt the efforts of those around me weren’t enough.
Not until now.
“Until you find the rat in your sewers,” my father roars, rising from his seat, “my daughter’s safety is my concern, not yours.”
“I appreciate that this doesn’t affect our business endeavors.” Don Gennaro watches Papa with a steely glare.
My father scoffs. “Don’t give me your passive-aggressive bullshit, Gennaro. Until you find the culprit, you aren’t welcome on my docks.”
Gennaro bursts from his seat. I shrink down, choking back a startled cry.
“You bar us from the shipments, and you may as well declare war between all the factions.” Salt may fleck his pepper hair, but the man still delivers one hell of an intimidating glare.
“War was declared the minute you fuckers tried to kill my daughter!” My father tilts his head back—arrogant as always.
“We didn’t do it!” the Don hollers back. “What will it take to get that through your thick head?”
“Offer me undeniable proof of your word,” Papa leers. “Show me that our bonds mean as much to you as your precious family business.”
Gennaro laughs, turning his back on my father. The man with the gruff voice steps forward to pick up where the Don left off.
“You ask us to offer you reparation for a crime we accept no responsibility for.”
“I ask you to offer goodwill.” Papa bumps into my leg when he takes a step toward the man. “If you harbor no guilt, you’ll have no issue strengthening our ties.”
“You’re insane.” Gennaro spins and leans both palms atop his desk. “Somebody who was allegedly Italian tried to kill your daughter, and now you stand here before me giving me bullshit about strengthening ties? What sort of twisted blackmail is this?”
I wish I’d never said a thing.
“Necessary.” Papa folds his arms. “I’ve spent a decade bowing to your whims, Gennaro. And for what?” He throws his hands high. “To watch your empire grow while mine stagnates? You take more than I can give and then ask for blind allegiance when one of your brothers tries to take all I have left.”
“Your viewpoint of our businesses seems a little skewed, friend. ”
“It seems deathly accurate from where I stand.”
The two men stare each other down for a tense minute; not one other person in the room dares to move. Papa wins, with Gennaro breaking away first.
“Pietro. Take Miss Kuznetsov into the sitting room.” He glares at my father. “I have details to discuss with the pakhan .”
“Boss…”
“Do it, Petey.”
The gruff man sighs and then offers me his hand. I take the calloused palm against mine and rise from the seat, glad to be out of the pressure cooker. The room remains silent while we leave. I don’t take a proper breath until I hear the doors seal shut behind me again.
“What happened in there?” Ignazio corrals Pietro into the foyer for a private conversation. “What did they say?”
I move on shaky legs toward the liquor and retrieve my empty glass. My hand trembles so violently that the whiskey sloshes over the lip of the tumbler, making a mess on the mirrored surface. I knock over a wine stem while searching for a towel to clean up the puddle, catching the glass before it rolls off the cabinet.
A large, tattooed hand covers mine, guiding the wine glass back to its spot. I swallow and step aside, allowing Benito to tidy up and pour me a fresh drink. He catches my eye, offering a dimpled smirk before doubling the contents. I hate the jerk for what he did to me, but at this moment, I could kiss his beautifully handsome face for knowing what I need to settle my nerves. He makes a point of leaving the stopper out of the decanter, indicating I’m welcome to have more.
Our spell breaks when his youngest brother speaks from the far side of the room. “What did you tell them, mutt ?” He uses the crude nickname his uncle gave me as though it gives him power.
As though it makes him a man.
I open my mouth to answer, ready to serve the jackass with something reminding him to mind his business, yet a thick finger across my lips stalls the words in my throat. I lock eyes with Benito, lost in deep blue depths, as he gently shakes his head.
I don’t owe a single person in this room an explanation.
Even him.