Chapter 1
MELANI
I glare down at my phone, willing it to ring.
It’s been three days since my interview at Zvezda, and they promised I’d hear back within forty-eight hours.
I scoff, shaking my head at my own naivety.
What was I thinking, expecting a nightclub run by one of the Petrovs to stick to their word? These people traffic weapons, and God knows what else, through their establishments. Being punctual is probably the most innocent crime on their lengthy rap sheet.
As if my thoughts are a direct challenge to the universe, my phone starts ringing, and I jerk so hard I nearly fall off my bed.
I clear my throat, then force myself to wait through several rings before answering. I don’t want to seem too eager.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Melani Monti?” a mechanical female voice asks from the other end of the line.
“Yes. Who’s asking?” As if I don’t already know. I recognize the voice from my interview, and besides, the people at Zvezda are the only ones who know me as Melani Monti. We changed our last names when we moved to New York—cycled through a few, actually—anything to stay off the Cosa Nostra’s radar.
“This is Nadia from Zvezda,” the woman confirms. “Congratulations. You’ve been hired as a server. When will you be available to start?” Her voice remains devoid of emotion, but my lips curve into a victorious grin and I do a quiet fist pump into the air. Step one complete!
“I’m free to start right away,” I say, keeping my voice calm even as adrenaline surges through my veins.
There’s a brief pause, and for one paranoid second, I wonder if she somehow heard my celebration through the phone. But then she continues in that same monotone.
“Perfect. The club opens at ten. Come in at 8:30 for orientation. You’ll shadow one of our experienced servers for your first few shifts.” Her tone goes even flatter, if that’s possible. “Because here at Zvezda mistakes are not tolerated. Understood?”
My grin vanishes. “Of course. I understand.”
The call ends, and the second the line goes dead, I leap off my bed and spin a ridiculous victory lap around my room.
Being successful in my first step towards finding out what happened to Luciano bolsters my confidence, making this whole insane plan feel possible.
I couldn’t care less about the actual serving job.
The plan is to only work there for a week.
Maybe less. Because I don’t want to mess around too long in a Bratva nightclub—you play with fire in a place like that, you end up with more than singed fingers.
So this is a surgical strike. Get in, find information about Luciano, get out.
Hell, if I can find what I need tonight, I’m quitting tonight.
At 7:30, I leave my room, eager to get this mission started.
The subway will get me to Zvezda in thirty minutes, but I’m hoping that showing up earlier than our scheduled time will earn me some brownie points with the manager and more leeway to move around unquestioned.
I stop short when I see Mamma sitting on the sofa, staring blankly out the window. She’s changed so much over the two years since we fled Sicily. What’s left feels like a shell—a thinner, more broken shell of the vibrant woman she used to be.
My heart aches as I approach her, my throat tightening with every step.
I told her about my plan, and she hated it. That’s why part of me wants to lie and let her believe I’m going to some safe, normal job. But I can’t do that to her. If anything happens to me, she needs to know where things went wrong.
I hope it doesn’t get to that, though. I’m not sure she’ll survive losing me, too.
“I got the job at Zvezda, Mamma,” I start softly, coming to a stop in front of her. “I’m leaving for my first shift now. I’ll try to get into Petrov’s office to see if I can find anything.”
Her eyes drift to me, but they’re unfocused, like she’s looking through me instead of at me. “Is this really necessary, Melani?” she asks, her voice hoarse. “All of this danger.”
I sigh, realizing at last how Luciano must have felt during our argument. That bone-deep conviction that you need to do this and nothing can stop you, even when the people you love are begging you to reconsider.
“What other choice do I have? I can’t just sit here and do nothing. Luciano’s been gone three weeks without a single word. That’s not like him.” He’d call. At the very least, he’d text. Even when he was pissed at me, he’d check in and let us know he was alive. Silence is not like my brother.
She finally focuses on me, and I almost flinch at what I see in there. The warmth that once lived in her beautiful brown eyes is gone, replaced by a hollow, glassy stare dulled by tears and drugs. “I’m not going to lose another child to this godforsaken city. We can take it to the authorities and—”
“And what, Mamma?” I cut her off, frustration spilling over.
We’ve had this argument before, and I am so tired of it.
“Expose ourselves as illegal immigrants and lose any chance of ever finding Luciano after we’re deported?
” As if the authorities would even care about a missing Sicilian teenager.
They barely care about their own. Natural-born American kids vanish daily with little follow-up.
Like they’d give a shit about an illegal alien.
So no. The only way forward is to take matters into my own hands.
Mamma sighs heavily. “Statti accura.” Be careful.
I nod and start to leave but hesitate. “Are you working tonight?”
“Of course,” she replies automatically, turning back to the window.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I mutter, already knowing it’s pointless. Stubbornness runs in this family. “You know I—”
“Vattinni e basta, Melani. Just go. You don’t want to be late for your first day.”
I narrow my eyes but let it go. This argument isn’t worth having tonight. She never listens anyway, no matter how many times Luciano and I beg her to quit her ‘escort’ work.
Before we came to New York—before boarding that nightmarish smuggling ship and being discovered by the ruthless crew members—Mamma would have been horrified at the prospect of doing something like this.
She would rather have starved. But two weeks trapped at sea with men drunk on their own power has a way of breaking something in a person that doesn’t grow back.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and walk out of the apartment, tugging my jacket tighter as the late-March cold bites into my skin.
One thing I can never get behind is the depressing chill of New York winters.
The kind that hangs on well into March and sometimes even April.
At least it’s not snowing anymore—that’s something.
I release a slow breath, letting the frigid air cool my blood and clear my head. By the time I reach the subway station, I’m back to feeling excited about my new job. Not because of the job itself, obviously, but because of what it means.
I’m going to find you, Luciano.
I swear it.
The subway is crowded as usual, and I make myself as small as possible to avoid unwanted attention.
At this point, I’m a pro at dodging altercations with rowdy evening commuters.
The last thing I need is some stupid confrontation that ends with the police getting involved.
Just thinking about it makes me shudder.
They would ask for ID. An ID I don’t have.
Meaning my ass would be shipped back to Sicily faster than I could explain myself—Sicily, where certain death awaits me.
After all, I’m the daughter of a Cosa Nostra traitor. And they don’t take kindly to thieves.
I get off at my stop with ten minutes to spare and break into a brisk jog, my breath misting in the cold air.
Within minutes, Zvezda looms into view, and I slow, once again marveling at the building’s understated exterior.
It’s unlike any other nightclub in Manhattan—hidden behind an unmarked facade, the only clue to what might be inside being a subtle brass star emblem above the front door.
Two suited men with sleek earpieces stand guard by the entrance, monitoring the black SUVs and expensive cars idling nearby.
It’s barely twenty past eight and the club doesn’t open until ten, yet people are already outside waiting for entry?
Then again, this isn’t an ordinary waiting line. It radiates wealth and exclusivity.
I shake my head, my hair swaying as I turn towards the back entrance where I was instructed to enter.
Shit. I need to put my hair up. I left it down to shield my neck from the cold, but during my interview, Nadia made it crystal clear that hair down is not allowed while working.
It’s a ponytail or bun only. I fish my scrunchie out of my pocket and start gathering my hair with one hand as I round the corner and—
“Oof.”
I collide face-first with what feels like a warm, solid wall, the impact knocking the scrunchie from my fingers.
Cool leather presses against my cheek, and suddenly I’m breathing him in: cold night air, leather, the faint bite of gun oil under expensive cologne.
And oh God, this human wall smells incredible.
“Watch where you’re going,” I snap—then look up and forget how to breathe.
Piercing blue eyes hold mine, flecked with slate. My lips part as heat surges through me. Ivan Petrov. Shit. I didn’t expect him to look this good in person.
He studies me with eyes that seem to take in everything, then bends smoothly to pluck my fallen scrunchie from the ground.
“You should watch yourself,” he says mildly, and holy hell, his voice is pitched so low I feel it more than hear it.
I just stare as his large hand closes around my scrunchie, the blood roaring in my ears.
“Come on, Vanya,” someone says behind him.
Only then do I notice the two men standing there. I recognize them from my research—his brothers. Dimitri, the one the streets call the Viper. And Aleksei. The King himself. My gaze accidentally meets his cold, silvery eyes, and I look down fast. You don't stare at the Pakhan.