1. Simone #2
I take a deep breath. “I know,” I say softly, appreciating her concern, the maternal instinct that makes her want to protect me even when there's nothing she can do.
"But I have to face them. There's no other choice." There’s so much more that I could say. That my father left me in an untenable position. That he pissed off the most powerful man in Miami. That even though I’m the heiress, I have none of the passwords, none of the bank information, no knowledge of his contacts.
I have a debit card that he reloaded with my allowance every month, a credit card that he paid monthly without question, and nothing else to my name except my designer dresses, and shoes, and jewelry, all the fine things I surrounded myself with.
I never thought about the fact that one day my father could leave me adrift, in need of a man to take the reins, because I was never given access to any of the knowledge that could let me run it myself.
Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to, but because it was made very clear to me, from a young age, that I would never be allowed to. That there was no point in thinking about it, because it was an impossibility, a ridiculous thought.
Nora nods again, reluctantly, and leaves me alone in the office. “I will get them all drinks,” she says, before stepping out and closing the door behind her. “That should keep them busy long enough.”
Long enough for me to compose myself, to get my head in the right place.
I look composed, my slim black pants and black silk blouse smooth and pressed and spotless, my high heels angling my figure to its best advantage and adding four inches to my height, my long dark hair swept up in a high, flawless chignon.
My makeup is simple, my jewelry understated—every inch of me is meant to look expensive and pampered, the heiress deep in the throes of grief but not allowing it to show.
I look like what I am—a mafia princess. Polished, refined, untouchable. It's armor, this appearance, and I need every piece of protection I can get.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk out of the office.
The formal living room of our mansion is spacious enough to host parties, with high ceilings, gleaming wooden floors dotted with expensive rugs, and furniture that costs more than most people make in a year.
It's designed to impress, to intimidate, to remind visitors of the wealth and power of the Russo family, and it’s always been the place where guests are received.
Today, it feels like a stage where I'm about to perform the most important role of my life.
Four men and their entourages are waiting for me, scattered across the plush couches arranged in front of the rarely used fireplace—we are in Florida, after all—and overlooked by the large portrait of my father, my mother, and me as a baby that hangs above it.
It’s a photograph, actually, but it was blown up and treated to look like an oil painting.
My father said it made him feel like a king, having it overlooking the formal gatherings in this room.
It makes me uncomfortable, feeling as if his eyes are on me when I know now what he did. What he was a part of. The position that he left me in.
The four men are all small-time players, and I recognize most of them immediately.
Tony Marcelli, head of a smaller Italian family that operates primarily in the drug trade, who answered to my father and no doubt now thinks he can marry me off to his smirking son—the man who is barely a boy sitting next to him—and take everything that my father had.
There’s also Marco Benedetti, another small Italian family head who handles the dock workers, and was also under my father’s umbrella.
There’s Riko Sato, who heads up a small Yakuza faction, who I know only because I heard my father mention him as someone who owed him favors, and who no doubt now hopes to evade that by taking my father’s empire.
The fourth man, I believe, is the head of the Cuban mob here, but I don’t know his name.
Tony and Marco I know because they had dinners with us, business dinners under the guise of family .
They’re all here now to see if they can claim what was my father’s, up until a few days ago.
They all stand when I enter the room, a show of respect that feels hollow given the circumstances.
The bosses and their right-hands—or their sons, sometimes the same thing, but I’m unsure who is who—have all taken seats on the couches, while their security mills in the background.
They all look at me at once, even their security.
If one of these men claimed me for his own, the men who work for them wouldn’t be allowed to look at me the way their guards are now—hungry, assessing, curious.
But right now, I’m untethered, a woman without a husband or a father in a world of mob bosses and criminals, and everyone takes an eyeful without hesitating.
I can see it in their eyes—the calculation, the assessment. They're looking at me like I'm a prize to be won, a commodity to be acquired. It makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. Regal, even, if I can manage it.
“Gentlemen.” I pause at the threshold, forcing a pleasant smile onto my face. “Thank you for coming to pay your respects. You didn’t need to; your presence at the funeral was appreciation enough.”
It’s a hint, the only one I can show, that I don’t want them here. I wonder if they realize it, or if they’re all too arrogant to pick up on that fact.
"Miss Russo," Tony Marcelli says, stepping forward slightly. He's a heavyset man in his late fifties, with graying hair and small, calculating eyes. "Please accept our condolences on your father's passing. He was a great man."
A great man. I wonder if he knew anything regarding what I know about my father's final weeks, about the women he trafficked, about the betrayal that led to his death.
Maybe the women. I doubt he knew that my father tried to go up against Konstantin Abramov.
I wonder if he cares. I doubt that, too.
Women are a commodity in this world. If a woman like me, an heiress, the daughter of a boss, can be treated like this, then I doubt he would care the slightest bit about the fate of the kind of women my father tried to steal.
But I simply nod, accepting the lie because it's what's expected. Arguing it here would do nothing but undermine my position.
"Thank you," I reply instead, smooth and calm. "I appreciate your kind words."
The conversation that follows is stilted and formal, full of the kind of coded language that men in this world use when they're dancing around what they really want to say.
They ask about my plans, about the future of my father's businesses, about whether I've given thought to my own security in these uncertain times.
Each question is a probe, an attempt to gauge my vulnerability, my willingness to be absorbed into one of their organizations, to lift any one of them up by virtue of giving my hand in marriage away.
I answer as carefully as I can. That I’m still trying to determine what my father’s plans for me were, that I’m talking with my father’s lawyers about his businesses, that I will, of course, make careful and well-thought-out decisions about the future.
I answer as if I have power, as if I have agency, when any one of these men could put a gun to my head and drag me in front of a priest, subsuming everything my father built.
The only reason that no one has acted yet is because they’re afraid of Konstantin.
They’re waiting to see his move, if he makes one at all.
If he arrives today—because he undoubtedly knows that they’re all here.
But if he doesn’t appear, if he doesn’t seem to care what happens to me, then one of them will make a move.
There will be another visit. Someone will be bold enough to make an offer for my hand and my inheritance. And if I say no…
If I say no, then I need to have someone else in mind, or there will be a gun to my head, sooner rather than later.
The tension in the room is thick, oppressive, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait for someone to show their cards. But before any of them can, before anyone gives away his intentions, Nora appears in the doorway again.
"Miss Russo," she says, her voice carefully neutral. Not Simone any longer—not in front of our somewhat-esteemed guests. "Mr. Abramov has arrived."
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. The other men exchange glances, and I can see the fear in their eyes. Konstantin Abramov's presence changes everything. He's not here to compete with these smaller fish—he's here to decide their fate, and mine.
If he’s here, then that means he doesn’t intend to have killed my father and left me hanging out to dry, waiting for someone to swoop in and make a claim. It means he intends to see it all through until the end—including what happens to the empire that he’s brought down.
"Show him in," I manage, head held high, proud that my voice doesn't shake. I sound like the mistress of this house, like the woman in charge. For this brief moment in time, I am, and I need to make the most of it.
When Konstantin enters the room, it’s with the kind of presence that commands immediate attention.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair and ice-blue eyes that seem to take in everything around him without effort.
He's wearing a perfectly tailored suit, tattoos creeping at the edges of it at his neck and hands, and behind him are four guards, led by his enforcer, Damian Kutnezsov—another man who inspires terror.
He looks cold, his face expressionless, his bearing that of a killer.