NINETEEN
Nastasya
I barely slept a wink because of that motherfucker. My eyes burn, begging me to rub closed fists into the sockets. I roll to my back and stare at the daylight that creeps into the room around my blinds. Ivan arrives today to take over my watch from Marcus. I used that detail to motivate me to sneak out last night—one last hurrah before the king of emotionless assholes arrives. I knew stepping foot outside these walls would be dangerous without protection.
I didn’t count on Benito being the one I needed protection from.
My fingertips ghost across my lips, and I sigh. I don’t know how I thought it would feel to kiss Benito now that he has no tongue. I suppose the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. How fickle would I be if I let a deformity dictate how I feel toward him? I got more apprehension from the glint of desire in his eye when he told me what he’d do to Caroline’s assassins.
I’ve been around career criminals long enough to recognize the sick fascination that blooms when they discuss topics that would shock the general public: murder, torture, sexual extortion. There’s a certain disassociation that occurs. It’s as though their soul pulls the shutters closed, and base instinct takes over. If I needed to name the emotion that lingers after the conversations have ended, it would be remorse. A kind of regret that these are the things they must do to maintain order in the chaos.
But with Benito… I fist my hands in my messy hair and cross the floor to my bathroom. The look in his eye showed satisfaction. That lack of moral compass should scare me. But when I know the depth of the love that he’s able to show, it garnered curiosity.
How can he be such a dedicated and passionate lover and still disassociate himself from the pain he inflicts on others? Could be. Perhaps that passion died off when our teenage tryst did? How do I truly know he’s the same man underneath it all?
The black clothing to match his raven locks. The heavy brow over eyes that never rest. The stoic grit to his jaw he maintains throughout it all—even when he smiles.
How do I know I haven’t set myself up for heartache all over again? Perhaps Benito and I are destined to repeat our past mistakes—only on a public scale this time.
“Fuck.” I utter the single word into the ether and reach for my toothbrush.
Benito never said what he’d do with the nugget of information I revealed last night, an easy feat for him. I don’t know if he plans to look into why the men would travel into the estate or if he wanted me placated. Maybe that’s all he did: take me to the crash site so that I feel as though they’re doing what they can to track down the killers.
“Don’t be such a pessimist, you dork.” I slam the used brush back into the holder and pull a deep breath into my tight lungs, relishing the prickle of fresh mint.
He’s already done more for me than my damn father. Both Benito and Dion have. And, if I want to be honest, nothing happens within the De Santis family without the don’s approval —Gennaro knows about this. He’s given his blessing for his sons to get involved.
While on the other hand, my father stays locked away behind closed doors, avoiding the fact his heartbroken daughter struggles to reconcile her new position within the family.
He dismissed me at the De Santis home. By announcing out loud that Benito gets no say in the running of the Bratva world, my flesh and blood threw me to the wolves. Papa says that he doesn’t want our influence compromised, for our enemies to see us weakened by having me at the head of the table. And yet, he was happy to announce to our greatest adversaries that he feels I’m incapable of taking over the family business.
I’ve never felt so invalidated in my life.
Is that how Benito felt when he lost his right to the throne?
I stride across my vast bedroom toward the walk-in, questions jumping around my mind like popping corn. The thoughts collide, sending my musings off on new tangents, and I sort through the facts and opinions I’ve received these past few days.
I knew losing Caroline would change my life, but I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams that this was where her death would lead. A week ago, I was a sheltered princess in the vory world. No more than a placeholder for a scared old man who had yet to find his successor. That part is still true, but now I hold a much more interesting role: bridging the gap between ourselves and our Italian counterparts.
There has never been such a union of the houses.
My breath leaves my lungs on a heavy exhale, the power of that simple fact stalling my thoughts in their tracks. Rows of clothing hang before me, organized by style and color, yet I have no preference for what I should wear. My heart craves the comfort of a plush sweatsuit, but I need something more for what I have planned.
Something that incites confidence.
I run my fingers over the fine materials, trying to remember where each dress, blouse, and skirt came from. Some, I bought myself on various out-of-town shopping trips to fill the time while Papa met with our associates. The rest Mimi purchased for me—staples of a socialite. I’ve always had the illusion of free will, but when I take the time to examine my years within these walls, I quickly find that a lot of who I am was manipulated and directed from a very early stage.
Who I see, where I go, what I do? It was all vetted and approved by my father. Sometimes, it was by my mother when she was still with us.
Fuck, I miss her.
I slide a long garment from its soft hanger and lower the zipper. The black one-piece has loose, flowing sleeves that split from the wrist to the bicep, allowing the cape created to move freely over my arm, secured by a diamante studded cuff. When standing idle, it’s a delicate drape that gives me a feminine edge, but when I move, the skirt parts to show that the design is a loose pantsuit. Matching splits from ankle to hip reveal my legs when I walk, my modesty kept by the tight hotpants built in beneath. I love how it can catch a man off guard; I seem demure and modest when at my father’s side. But give me the floor, and I’ll show you how a real woman wields the power of her supple curves and lines.
I slip into the outfit, careful not to catch my hair in the matching choker that buckles at my nape. My locks’ natural wave makes styling them quick, which I’m incredibly thankful for when a smoky eye and the proper contour can take me half an hour to apply.
I check myself in the wide floor-to-ceiling mirror in my walk-in and then slide on my heels before heading for the door. I barely recognize myself when I’m this made up; I become somebody new. Jekyll and Hyde. More like Nastasya and the Bratva Princess.
Marcus straightens his spine when he spots me at the threshold, my hand still on the door handle. “Miss Kuznetsov.”
“Come, now, Marcus,” I tease, aware his heated stare drags the length of me. “We’re on first-name terms after these past few days.”
He nods, falling into step behind me as I walk down the hallway toward the grand foyer. I can’t deny the thrill that runs through me when I feel it—power. After mourning Caroline’s passing and the loss of my freedom with this sham marriage, I’m finally able to become my ballbreaker self again.
I feel every inch the underworld goddess I am.
“Any specific plans today, Nastasya?” Marcus matches my stride, half a step behind me to my right.
“An audience with my father, first. Do you know where he is?” I reach the entrance and turn to face him, poised and refined—exactly as the matron drilled into me.
“I believe he’s outside, on the range.”
Better believe our estate has its own shooting range. “Thank you.” Papa insists everyone practice daily to keep their skills tight and flawless.
At least, he does if you have a dick between your legs.
I turn sharply toward the rear of the house and head for the double doors that lead outside. Unlike the De Santis residence, we haven’t lived here for several generations. However, the house is still old, the Civil War era, if I remember correctly. Everything is built with grandeur in mind. High ceilings that seem as out of reach as the heavens, narrow and darkened corridors that serve no purpose other than to ferry bodies from one expansive room to another.
My heels are muted on the thick Persian runner, sunlight a slap in the face when I reach the glass-walled conservatory that extends the entire rear of the house. My heels click across the slate pavers, Marcus ducking around me to open one of the French doors that lead to the garden first.
I hear Papa’s frustration before I lay eyes on him.
Round after round echoes across the property, indistinguishable while I was inside, thanks to the reinforced glass and insulated walls. From the depth of the boom each time he fires, I’d say he has his Desert Eagle. Not in a good mood, then. Not that it dissuades me.
Perhaps I should have brought my gun down, too? Shown him that I’m equally as mad.
“Papa!” I wait until he pauses his firing to load another clip.
Dmitry hears me first, sliding his hearing protection down to his thick neck. “Miss Stasya.”
My father only notices when his favorite spy turns away from the table displaying Papa’s cache. He drops his weapon to his side and crooks an eyebrow as though to ask, “What?”
Lest he be interrupted… “We need to talk.” I gesture to the black mounds covering his ears.
He reluctantly drops them to his neck, the same as Dmitry. “Can this wait, my love? I’m a little busy.”
“No.” I boldly move forward and reach out to remove the earmuffs from Papa. “It can’t.” He watches me while I set the barriers down on the table. “I’d like to discuss it now.”
His gaze flicks to meet Dmitry’s, and he sighs. “I need everything cleaned before I head out,” he instructs the taller man. “I want to take a couple with me.”
My attention shifts to the display of weapons on the table. “Where are you going?”
“Business.” Papa sets the Desert Eagle with the other guns, tugging his handkerchief out to wipe his hands. “What is it, Nastasya?”
“I need to leave the property.”
He snorts in disdain. “What the fuck for?”
“I’ve taken a week away from my charity duties. I need to be present with my team.” There’s only so much a person can do via email and video call. Sometimes, you need the influence physical presence brings.
“Your hobby can wait.” Papa folds his arms, tipping his head to one side while he studies me. “You want anything else?”
“Yeah.” I match his stance. “My free will. Have you seen it anywhere?”
The curl to my father’s lip spells trouble. “You won’t need to work once you’re married. What does it matter if the business folds?”
Flames lick at the sides of my neck, rage a roaring ocean in my ears. “I may not need to, but I want to.” My work is who I am; I don’t know how to function without it.
Papa shakes his head tightly, rolling icy eyes back into his head. “You’re as dramatic as your mother was.” My father gives me his profile while he looks toward the house as though he’s mentally over this conversation already. “The world won’t miss your little parties.”
I tug the full flesh of my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down, using the pain as a distraction while I calm my breaths. He’s never once told me he’s proud of what I achieved. When I started my legal studies, I knew they’d take years to complete. During that time, I found myself at countless parties, galas, or events run by the big boys club of the city. Men with power and influence who seemed content only to use it for themselves.
So, I did what any woman would—I found a solution.
I took my natural skill as a socialite raised amongst the powerful and influential, and I turned their eyes toward the people and causes that truly needed help. I could have made a decent side hustle as an event planner for bored housewives and spoilt daughters. But why limit my potential when organizing fundraisers and showcases for non-profits brought so much more joy?
No, my parties won’t change the world. But they help me to tolerate my own.
I spare Marcus a glance while he waits at a respectable distance, figuring I need to change tact to something Papa gives a shit about. “Did Gennaro tell you why Benito doesn’t speak?” I figure it best to find out how much Papa knows before I put a foot in it.
“How is this any issue of mine?” Hard, cool eyes study me. “If you’re done here, I have things to attend to.” Papa starts toward the house.
I hustle to catch up. Like fuck he’ll lead me indoors as though he’s in charge of this conversation. It’s a simple power play he probably doesn’t know he engages in. But it’s a sign of dominance all the same.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He fixes his glare on the rear of the house. “Yes. Gennaro told me.”
I wait for Papa to say more. I’m not so na?ve as to fall into the trap of sharing details the other person doesn’t know.
“He has no tongue.” Papa sneers. The bastard finds this amusing. “That was all Gennaro would say.”
“Did we do it?” I fail to hide the emotion in my voice.
“What would it matter if we had?” Papa narrows his shrewd gaze on me. “The man is our enemy.”
And yet, he’ll happily marry me off to the guy.
“If there is anything we did to spite the De Santis family—anything like that—I need to know.” I frown. “I don’t want to be caught off guard with topics I should be versed in.”
Papa stops walking, forcing me to do the same when he turns to face me. “How important do you mistake yourself to be, moya malen’kaya roza ?” He chuckles, snide mirth fading as he looks me head to toe. “There aren’t any topics you need to be versed in.”
A father shouldn’t speak to his daughter this way.
A father also shouldn’t take such pleasure in belittling his child.
“I’ll need to go to the city for my dress fitting.” I start to walk and hope like fuck he follows. “It would be easier if you lifted this ridiculous house arrest.”
It takes a beat, but he does, trailing me at a respectable distance. “The dresses can be brought here.”
“It’s far easier to be in the designer’s studio,” I press. “Much less work.” I swallow, already hating the name before I’ve said it. “Ivan can accompany me.”
Papa scoffs. “As though he wouldn’t anyway.” He passes me to reach the French doors first. Asshole.
“And then there’s the job of finding a marital home for me and Benito.” I lift one eyebrow before I pass through the opening. “I’ll need to attend viewings to ensure they’re suitable.”
Papa closes the door and stands before it, scowling at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “Why on earth would you think you’re the one who ensures the property suits?”
I flatten my features. “Because I’m the one who’ll live there.”
“And I’m the one who’ll pay for half of it.” He glowers and moves beyond where I stand. “I’ll decide what house you buy.”
I trail him to his office, angered that he keeps taking back control. “Didn’t you say you have more important things to attend to?”
“I don’t think so.” He stops behind his desk and idly opens the laptop.
“Are you sure?” Arms folded over my chest, I wait for the penny to drop.
The only thing that falls is his ass into the seat. “Very sure.”
“You don’t need to—I don’t know—find a fucking murderer?” I toss my hands out as I raise my voice.
He freezes, hard eyes on me. “Are you done?”
“Done with what?”
“Throwing a tantrum like a child.”
“My best friend was shot because they thought it was me,” I growl. “And that doesn’t seem like a priority to you?”
Something flickers behind his gaze before he turns his head to the side. I’m not quick enough to recognize what, only the uneasy feeling it leaves in the pit of my gut. “Of course, it’s a priority. But I have men to deal with the details.” He brings his attention back to me. “Until they have leads to bring me, what else am I to do? Sit here with my thumb up my fucking ass?”
There’s logic in what he says, but I’m still not convinced of his dedication. “When does Ivan get here?” I divert my gaze to the floor to my right.
Papa lifts his arm in my periphery to check his watch. “It should be within the hour.” He smirks. “Excited to see him?”
I meet my father’s eye. “The man traumatized me when he thought entertaining a four-year-old with knife tricks was a good idea.” I cock my head to one side. “I can’t say his absence has bothered me much the past decade.”
“He hasn’t been absent,” Papa snaps. “Merely engaged on the side of the business you don’t see.”
“So, that would be all of it, then?”
“I don’t want to hear any more of your pitiful whining,” he roars before leaning back in the chair with a sigh. “I really don’t care, Nastasya. Men have always held the title of pakhan in our organization; it won’t change. Women aren’t biologically capable of managing the stress of the responsibility.”
I have to swallow twice to avoid choking on his bullshit.
“Why do you believe our adversaries would see me as weak?” I push regardless. “A woman at the head of a crime family isn’t unheard of, you know. Look at Caragh,” I say, naming the widow who has held the Irish together for fifteen years after her husband passed. “She’s revered and respected.”
“She also killed two men at the age of thirteen,” Papa states. “I think she has a little more merit to her title, don’t you think?”
My eyelids drop a little, the same as the corners of my mouth. “Seriously? You’re going to measure my worth on how many lives I’ve taken?”
“You really don’t want me to list all the ways you’re inadequate.” Papa frowns, waving me away with a dismissive hand. “Go before you upset yourself.”
“Because heaven forbid I’d do something so quintessentially feminine such as cry.” I roll my eyes and step toward the door. “I’m going to my office when Ivan gets here.”
“I said no, Nastasya.”
“Why?” I throw my hands wide and spin to face him. “You have no idea who shot Caro. What good does it do any of us to keep me locked here? You can’t protect me from the world, Papa.”
“No.” He braces both hands on the desk, head hung between his shoulders. “But I can protect you from yourself.”