THIRTY-SIX
Benito
“ R omulus,” Arseni scoffs, dumping his second helping of scotch into a tumbler. “I wonder how long it took him to come up with that name?”
You should know. I glare at the fuck from my position near the unlit fire, elbow on the mantle. The scrap of charred timber between my fingertips halves with each rough scratch I make along its surface.
Papa frowns, instructing me to drop the fucking thing and stop fidgeting.
I flick it into the hearth.
“How many workers were laid off last year?” My father tilts his head, watching Arseni.
The pakhan slows his movements, returning the bottle of scotch with a measured hand. “Thirty-five when two of the major contracts moved north.”
“Thirty-five.” Papa nods. “And you never heard of any of these men taking up the jobs our new friend speaks of? No whispers about unfamiliar faces hawking the parking lot, looking for weak men to target?”
“Nothing like that.” Arseni turns, lifting the drink to mask the lower half of his face. He barely wets his lips.
“Interesting.”
The echoing thud of the front door, as it closes, saves the Russian fuck from coming up with more lies.
Petey’s husky voice cuts through the foyer. “Every time,” he barks. “Every fucking time I come here, it goddamn rains. I’m sick of this weather.” He emerges at the door and stalls. “Shit. Sorry, Boss.”
Papa waves him in and gestures for a seat. “I didn’t warn you.”
Our consigliere eyes the older man as he passes Arseni, suspicion in his furrowed brow. I let Petey settle and then cross the room, patting him on the shoulder on my way to the liquor cabinet. He’ll need to be half-drunk to tolerate this as well.
“What’s this about?”
Papa leans forward and sets his elbows to his knees, hands clasped together. “We pulled in one of those street-level fucks, and Benito was able to make him sing.”
“Okay.” Petey raises his eyebrows, casting a cautionary glance at Arseni.
The pakhan continues to make love to the lip of his drink, assessing the potential threats in the room.
What a luxury it must be to see it coming. To know what you’re up against when you look evil in the eye.
How fucking unprepared was I when the blade lifted to my mouth.
“The boss’s name is Romulus,” my father explains. “I’m not expecting you to remember, or even know, Roman mythology. So, in summary, it’s the name of the guy who built Rome after killing his brother for the honor.”
“Fuck,” Pietro breathes. “Are you saying?—“
“Yes.” It’s all my father needs to say.
The men stare at one another, silent conversation being held while Arseni considers taking a seat.
I pass Petey a whiskey.
“Where to next?” He gives me a nod in thanks as I return to my spot by the fire.
“We lay it all out and see what picture the pieces make for us,” Papa answers.
Pietro’s gaze shifts to the pakhan . “Why’s he here?”
“Because,” my father says, rising from his seat. “He’s going to give us some of those pesky edge pieces. The ones that help pull it all together.”
“You love talking about puzzles, don’t you?” Arseni bitches, shoulders stiffening as my father approaches.
Papa slaps his palms to the man’s upper arms, caging him in his hold. “Why not, when you’re the most intriguing one of all?”
The door to the foyer clicks shut.
Arseni’s head swings around, his throat bobbing when Manny assumes his position guarding the exit.
“Tell me, friend, ” Papa sneers. “Why do you need your daughter in my house? Huh? What’s the real reason you needed this union to happen?”
Arseni sets the drink down on a nearby table and draws a deep breath. “I told you the truth when I said it was for her protection.” He pats his breast pocket and then frowns. “Don’t suppose I could ask for a cigarette?”
Petey rises and moves to the liquor cabinet, pulling open a slim drawer. He throws an unopened packet across the room, swiftly followed by a box of matches.
Arseni catches both and then nods. “Appreciated.” His hands tremble. Barely. But enough that he takes three goes at tearing the pack open.
“If you could smoke beside the fireplace,” Papa instructs. “Saves getting ash through the carpet.”
“Of course.” The pakhan stands beside me, a cautious glance sweeping over me before he focuses on lighting a stick. Eyes closed with relief, he faces the unlit fire, free hand on the mantle.
His stance makes him look like the rough gangster he would have been in his youth. I see it, cloaked by the weary lines of age across his face—the self-conscious boy that hides in every man’s heart. Even those most revered and feared. Any person who claims no man ever doubts himself is a liar.
We all wonder if we could have done better— been better—in the midnight hours.
“Nastasya has never shown an interest in marrying,” Arseni starts, opening his eyes to stare at the antique oil painting above the fire. “And it didn’t matter what I said; she never saw that as a liability. A hazard.” He frowns at the scene depicting hunting hounds tearing a rabbit to pieces while stone-faced hunters watch on from horseback. “And perhaps that’s my fault.” He takes a long drag. “I kept her out of the business to keep her innocence. So her heart wouldn’t be corrupted by the things that have broken mine.”
My father slings his hands in his pockets, head hung. He gets it. As do I. Even Petey nods.
“But problems that have lain dormant reared their ugly heads, and there’s no time left to fuck around.” Arseni pulls hard enough at the cigarette that a third crackles down the stick. “If I placed her at the head of the business, unmarried, they’d devour her in months. Weeks. Torn apart by power-hungry men looking for an easy way in, citing tradition as a reason for their vulgar behavior. My legacy would be in ruins, and those desperate for a meal would pick through the bones. She stands a chance at survival with a strong husband at her side.”
“Why us?” Papa asks the question lodged in my throat. “Why not one of your brethren?”
“Our brethren laugh at us.” Arseni flicks the remnants into the fireplace. “I’ve lost most of my wealth this past decade, suffering from the consequences of my poor choices. I owe money. I’ve made deals to survive. I embarrassed the brotherhood in doing so.” He spins, holding my father’s eye with a firm jaw. “They would do nothing to help us. They’d rather watch us burn.”
“Sounds to me as though you thought marrying her into our Family would save your name, not hers,” Petey states. He lifts his drink, one leg casually slung atop the other.
“It was either risk her hand being forced by someone with ill intent or have her marry a good, strong man who’ll make her happy. I’ve made mistakes with my daughter, Pietro; I admit so. But do not doubt that I love her enough to want to see her happy.” He bites his bottom lip, shaking his downturned head. “She’s my malen’kaya roza.”
His little rose.
“You knew about these men working together on the street to undermine us, didn’t you?”
Arseni cringes at Papa’s question. “Yes.”
My father looks away, rolling his jaw to compose himself.
“How long?” Petey asks for him.
Arseni glances his way, then settles his focus on me. “Eleven, maybe twelve years.”
Papa’s chest rises and falls sharply, the muscle in his jaw flexing. I cast a look at his gun, strapped against his ribs, and then toward Nastasya’s father. I want to say the possibility is unlikely, but my father’s already shot a man to prove a point today.
Arseni shifts slightly, putting me between him and Papa as I cross the room and disarm my father. My gaze locks with his, and my sire, my boss, nods as though to agree it’s probably for the best.
“I had good reason to stay quiet,” Arseni argues. “The same fucking reason why I put my daughter in your hands, Gennaro. Because I can’t promise my family’s safety,” he laments, voice broken as he adds, “Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Papa frowns, leaning to see around me.
“Nastasya’s accident was no mystery,” her father admits. He points toward me. “He knows this. I know this.” Arseni swallows, brow tugging tight. “Her mother’s wasn’t, either.”
Papa glances at me before asking. “Nobody knows who forced Irina off the road.”
“Yes. Somebody does.” Arseni retrieves the abandoned drink, downing it in one swallow. “Your brother.”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Petey exclaims, hands out before him. “Now you’re talking some serious shit, there. Before you go any further, ask yourself if you’re speaking the facts, friend. Because the consequences are severe if this is mere suspicion.”
“I speak the truth,” Arseni growls, stepping toward our consigliere . He redirects focus to my father. “Your fucking brother killed my wife, and he tried to take my daughter too.”
“You have no proof,” Papa grits through a stiff jaw. I sigh, drawing his attention. “What? Do you know otherwise?”
I cross the room to retrieve my phone from where I left it atop the mantle and flick to the notes app.
Ignazio paid the triggermen to kill Nastasya.
My father’s nostrils flare as he reads the words distorted by the cracks in the screen, gaze flicking up to mine. “Are you sure?”
A flick of my hand and a shrug. As sure as I can be. The fucks said so. Asked for the rest of their money. What reason would they have to lie?
I circle the room, first showing Arseni the same words and then Petey.
Silence falls between us. A weighted blanket.
“He speaks the truth,” Arseni says quietly.
“How do you know?” Papa’s guttural words barely rise above a whisper.
“Because Ignazio told me so himself.”
I spin on the pakhan and frown. What the fuck? How? When? Why the fuck would he do nothing if he knew?
“Ignazio told you he paid men to kill your daughter, and you said nothing,” Petey says to clarify, disbelief in his tone.
Arseni huffs a sad laugh and shrugs. “I said nothing. But I did something. I ensured Nastasya’s safety.” He looks toward me.
I draw a steadying breath. This is fucked. Why would Ignazio tell him that? To what end?
“There’s history,” Arseni admits, finally collapsing into the chair. “Your fucking brother has had his boot on my throat for years. Ever since I learned of his new family, the one built under the name of Romulus.” He tips his head. “Although, I never knew that was what he called himself.”
“How?” Papa moves to pour himself a drink. “Tell me how he’s had you, the fucking Iron Jaw, under his control all these years.”
Nastasya’s father sets an elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his head against his hand. “Because, like you,” he says, “I’m just a scared old man underneath it all. I have a weakness, Gennaro, the same as you do: your family. Your blood family. The people I’d wager you’d lay down your life to protect.”
My father’s shoulders rise with his deep breath, back toward us. He pauses and then reaches into a wooden box for a cigar. “You’d be right. They are my weakness.”
“Ignazio came to me all those years ago with an offer.” My father tips his head towards Arseni’s glass. The pakhan nods and then continues. “He knew the Irish were underpricing me, taking dock work from my men. He knew I struggled to keep them employed within the brotherhood. Struggled to keep food on their tables.” Arseni sighs, passing his empty tumbler to my father. “So he promised me they’d be taken care of if I convinced them to swear an oath to the Family. If I sold their souls for a loaf of bread.”
“Why do that?” Petey interjects. “You must have known he was taking advantage of you.”
“I did,” Arseni’s gaze tracks me as I pass to stand behind his chair. “But he cut me a deal. For every hundred men I added to your ranks, he would give me a percent of his take from running protection as the don.”
Papa scoffs. “He made empty promises.”
“I know that now.”
I refuse to look at the man despite the overwhelming awareness that Arseni directed that last comment at me. He knows that because I ran my mouth. I told Nastasya that Ignazio would never be don.
All these years. All these fucking years, I thought my uncle punished me for flouting my loyalty to the family. And to think it was because I cost him a business deal. A racket that would have seen him build the ranks of his rival Family much, much sooner.
My fucking body vibrates with a need for vengeance.
“It seemed easy enough,” Arseni explains. “New families arrive from the motherland every month. Hopeful for a new start. All I had to do was put the thought in their head and let desperation do the rest for me. How much do you make a month from protection, huh?” He throws his head back, directing the question at my father.
“Close to a million.”
“Close to a million,” Arseni repeats, nodding. “If I got him two hundred men, that would have paid me twenty thousand a month. For what? Running my mouth here and there? I saw a steady income that would help guarantee my family’s continuation, and I moved on it. Would you have not done the same?”
Papa sighs.
I stare out the fucking window at the drifts of misty rain that coast by on the breeze. Such a beautiful day for such ugly truths. Arseni not only sold the soul of the men he did swear into Ignazio’s ranks, but he sold his own. He pulled back the fucking sheets and chose to lie with the devil because it was easier to stay on his back and take it than do the necessary work.
“Why Irina?” Petey asks quietly.
“Pardon?”
“Why Irina?” He repeats. “You’ve told us how you knew about Romulus and his Family, but you haven’t explained why you accuse Ignazio of killing your wife.”
“He found out I stopped sending men his way,” Arseni explains. “Once I knew he wouldn’t be Giovi’s successor, I made sure he didn’t get a single fucking foot in the door. Not from my neighborhood and not from anywhere else. I sent rumors down the grapevine that gave him a reputation as unreliable and untrustworthy.” Arseni pulls a flat smile. “He confronted me about it once he figured out what I was doing.”
A shiver works its way down my spine. The safe house. I glance at my phone to ensure it’s still recording.
“Told me if I didn’t cut the shit, he’d make me regret flipping on the deal. I told the asshole he flipped first when he lied about his ascension. He yelled curses at me, but I never thought.” Arseni pauses, swallowing audibly. “My fucking wife,” he laments. “I didn’t take the fucker seriously, and he took my wife.”
My father crosses the room, lowering himself gently into the seat adjacent to Arseni. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I am sorry for her loss, friend. I truly am.”
The pakhan stiffens, drawing his head back and firming his jaw. “It means something, Gennaro. Thank you.”
Papa looks toward Manny. “You heard all this.”
Our soldier nods.
“I need you to call the school. Bring Alessio home until we’re assured things are stable.”
Manny nods again.
“All we have to go on is the word of two men,” Petey warns. “The council will require more.”
Evidence. Everything is about evidence for Pietro. Arseni’s laid it all out before him, but the adjudicator in him requires undeniable proof that what the pakhan says is true before he takes it to the heads of the families. The accusation against Ignazio is serious. Fucking serious. We have a motive, a method, and a suspect.
But it’s all hearsay.
The evidence of his guilt lies within my fucking mouth. Or doesn’t. He took my goddamn tongue because I was the reason Arseni knew he’d never be don. I was the reason his fucking scam fell through.
I’m the one with undeniable proof. Now is the time.
“We need to agree on how we’ll manage him in the meantime,” Petey states as Manny slips from the room. “Gathering what we need could take weeks. Months, maybe. And Ignazio will remain a liability throughout.”
“I know.” My father leans forward in his seat, head hung between his shoulders.
“Does he know?”
Petey frowns at the pakhan ’s question.
“Does he know that we know?” Arseni clarifies.
I cross the room, drawing my father’s attention when I grab a chair and drag it closer to his. “What are you doing?”
I settle on the edge of the seat and set my phone on my knee.
Papa watches me with a small peak to his brow, his eyes—so fucking pained as he turns his wedding band around and around on his finger. A small tell. I commit him to memory. This moment. The last vestige of innocence the man has when it comes to trust and love for his family.
“Benito?” Petey leans forward in his seat.
Arseni watches on with stoic indifference. As though he suspects what comes next. As though maybe he knows.
I swipe up to wake the screen and then put the volume all the way up before I press play.
My uncle’s voice fills the room.
Pietro rises from his seat to stand closer.
My father stares at the phone at first, his brow stern as Ignazio’s voice fills the silence between us. My heart quickens when the familiar words progress, adrenalin flushing my veins with anticipation. I daren’t blink. Don’t breathe too heavily in case I distract myself and miss it. There. That fucking look right goddamn there.
My father’s eyes lift to mine as he slowly leans back in his seat.
Arseni bows his head.
Pietro leans across me to tap at the phone twice, rewinding thirty seconds to hear it again. Seven times in total, he plays the moment Ignazio admitted to cutting out my tongue.
I can’t stomach the tears threatening to spill from my father’s eyes.
He hasn’t heard the worst of it yet.
“Where is?—”
I lift my hand to silence my father and switch to the second recording made after Ignazio broke my phone. Turns out I only need sixty percent of the screen left working for me to find the record button and seal my goddamn uncle’s fate. His ego grew too large, his complacency too dominant. He became comfortable these past years, precisely as I hoped he would, and given time, he did it—he slipped up and fucking voiced the things I can’t.
Papa’s hands clasp before his mouth, elbows on the chair’s arms while he listens as Ignazio admits his intention to ruin us all.
Pietro doesn’t repeat the second recording.
I could hear a pin drop.
The silence is deafening.
Arseni flinches when one of the double doors clicks open.
“Boss?” Manny leans in the gap. “Aleksy needs to speak with the vor .”
My father raises one hand above his head, waving him in.
Arseni’s guard steps inside, taking stock of the sullen men before him.
“What is it?” Nastasya’s father barks.
“Dmitry called.”
The pakhan lifts his eyebrows as though to say, “And?”
Aleksy swallows, eyeing Papa and me before saying, “Ignazio is at the house.”