SEVEN
Nastasya
T here aren’t a lot of times that I find myself wishing for the comfort of my mother’s warm embrace. But when they arise, the intensity leaves me breathless, gasping for clarity while I remind myself how strong I can be.
How strong I am.
Warm water cascades over my back, the droplets swirling down the tapered tile floor toward the drain while I hug my legs to my chest and pray. I figured a hot shower would ease the muscles and undo the knots caused by the jerking and rolling of the car. All the water did was provide the perfect white noise for my thoughts to descend into despair.
Caroline died last night.
I don’t know where she is. Dmitry threw his coat over my shoulders and bundled me in the back of the SUV before I could ask. Was the sheriff called? Has she been taken to the city morgue? Or does my best friend lie alone and cold somewhere beneath an unmarked safe house in the city, awaiting processing by a doctor on our payroll?
Do I even want to know?
I push my closed eyes against my bent knees, urging the pressure in my skull to snap me out of this stupor. Grief is a natural response but can also be a weakness in a cutthroat world like ours. With one hand on the shower wall, I rise and finish washing off, focusing on the lathered suds against my body and scalp to force myself to stay rooted in the here and now.
Papa didn’t say a thing on the ride home about what made him so mad. He stared out the side window in contemplation, fingers slowly moving against the scruff on his chin. Whatever the don said, it gave my father pause to think. And that’s never a good sign. Arseni Kuznetsov is known for his quick temper—his decisions made in the heat of the moment. He’s not reckless—far from it—but he doesn’t usually deliberate over anything for long.
I wrap the thick towel around my body and move into my bedroom, pale light from the mid-morning sun filtering through sheer curtains. Exhausted and spun raw, I collapsed on top of my bed last night, sleeping through the dawn in the same clothes I wore to the De Santis residence. The pantsuit lies where I shed it halfway between the bed and bathroom, my phone discarded on the nightstand. Habit has me walking toward it, but fear forces me to pull back.
Does anyone else know what happened last night? Do any of our other friends even realize Caroline is missing?
What would I say if they asked? Could I lie to them? I guess there’s only one way to find out. Dressed in a clean pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, I slide under the heavy comforter and reluctantly reach across to the nightstand for my phone. There’s nothing to do today, no reason to get up. I may as well indulge in my craving for quiet and solitude, even if I avoid our friends and spend wasted hours playing some mindless game. I’ve barely unlocked the device in my hand when a gentle knock at the door captures my attention.
“ Moya malen’kaya roza ,” Papa greets. “We need to talk, my girl.”
I prop myself against the headboard and sigh as I pat the bed at my side.
Papa crosses the room, still in the clothes he wore to the meeting with the De Santis family; he hasn’t slept either. His black slacks remain crisply pressed, the gray button-down undone to his chest, showing the thick gold chain he wears around his neck every day.
The last gift from my mother before she died.
“I need to tell you what I discussed with Don Gennaro.” He settles himself on the edge of my mattress, reaching out and positioning my comforter higher around my waist. “It concerns you, my love.”
I don’t know what to say; I’ve never been privy to the family’s dealings. Women aren’t welcome at the table. Too emotional, the men say. Too prone to thinking with heart over head.
“I asked Gennaro for a promise,” Papa explains. He watches me with shrewd brown eyes. “Assurance that our families will never again be on opposing sides.” He sighs, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “They outnumber us, my love. A war with the Italians would never end with us as the victor—not on American soil.”
“I know.” I might not understand much about the family business, but I know plenty about our organization.
Bratva tried to take power in the U.S. decades ago. They almost succeeded until several Italian Families banded together with a common cause: us. The killings were discreet, and many, our numbers quickly declining until we were no more than a pesky playground bully to ignore. We lost many blood relatives during that time.
My grandparents were among them.
“Gennaro offered a solution.” Papa meets my gaze. “A promise that they hold no ill intent toward us.” He lifts his chin before continuing. “Marriage to one of his sons.”
“Excuse me?” Pressure ravages my temples. He did not just say what I thought he did.
“He offered a way to unite the families. With this kind of connection, they have an unbreakable and traditional bond with us.”
“And you agreed to sell me off like a goddamn peace treaty?” I pull my legs in, folding them before me. “Are you serious? Gennaro suggested this?” I never took the don for one who would barter such an archaic agreement.
“He has his reasons for why this would benefit them.”
“Which are?” I want to know why the fuck our fathers would think arranging marriage between two grown-ass adults is a good idea. “Wait. Which son did he offer?” Dion . It would have to be Dion. As the second born, he has no other prospects in the business than to shadow his big brother, Benito. Unless … “Not Alessio.” Please, God, have mercy. “He’s barely a man.”
“No.” Papa chuckles. “I have some standards, my love. That boy is a loose cannon who’ll soon find his place with the fish. If I’m to do this, you need stability.”
Thank Heavens for some rationale in this madness. “Who?” The thought flutters in my subconscious, yet I refuse to give it light.
Gennaro wouldn’t have offered such power.
“Benito.”
I fist the comforter in my lap, the sudden rush of blood to my head dizzying. “Benito?” No way. Papa never knew. He doesn’t have insight into the history, but Gennaro… he knew. “Are you sure? Would he not want a better suitor for his heir?”
Papa frowns. “Benito will never head the table. I thought you knew that?”
I know fuck all about the man who broke my heart for that very reason. “No. Why won’t he become don?”
“He is…” Papa flinches. “Compromised.”
I sit higher. “How?” I mentally sort through the snippets of him from last night. He seemed perfect—too perfect. As he always was.
With dark eyes that promise wicked things, a solid physique, and a commanding presence, he’s every part the intimidator that springs to mind when I picture a mafia don. Why would he not be promised the role?
“It had been a while since we’d seen their family, I know.” Papa twists his hips to face me, lifting a bent knee to my bed. “Something happened to Benito. I don’t know what.” He raises his hand, pre-empting my question. “They keep it quiet, but he was sidelined in the family business some time ago.”
“Which means?—”
“Dion is the heir.” Papa nods. “That is why Gennaro offered Benito. He has limited prospects, and the don needs him married if he wants the family to appear as strong as possible.”
“And you need me married to someone suitable for the same reason,” I whisper, piecing the puzzle together.
“You cannot head the organization, Nastasya,” he says sweetly, the condescension undeniable. “Nobody would take your role seriously, and you’d forever fight against who you are.”
“A woman.” I scowl at him. “You can say it, you know.”
“It’s how it is.” He shrugs, dropping his leg to face the door again.
“Who will take over from you?” If not me, then surely, he won’t allow the son of an enemy to have the position.
“That’s for me to worry about.” Papa pats my leg and then stands. “Rest. We’ll have Ian come look at you this afternoon.”
The family doctor. If he treats me off the radar, then that almost definitely confirms the worst. My best friend lies on a cool table, alone, awaiting a private burial.
I clamp my lips tight, hands to my stomach, while Papa leaves my room, gently clicking the door shut behind him. His footsteps barely recede out of earshot before I’m off the bed and running for the bathroom.
The digested remnants of dinner erupt from my throat—a last meal, unbeknown to me and my best friend.
The thought makes me vomit again.
My father forcing me to marry the boy who broke my heart the least of my worries.