Chapter Twenty-Five
Riccardo
W e’re up at the crack of dawn, thanks to Toni and Sergei. The former showed up at the house at five-thirty, about fifteen minutes after a call from Sergei woke us up. Now, the three of us are in the office. The noises of Mrs. Batton messing around in the kitchen promise freshly brewed coffee.
Toni leans back against the counter, his coffee cup balanced in one hand as he speaks. “Body’s gone. Cleaned up the mess in the parking lot, too. Your club’s security cameras got the blackout treatment, Mrs. Angelo. Heard one of your guys talking to Sergei about it, so I let them cover that.”
Anya nods, standing across from him, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s still wearing the loose pajama pants and tank top she threw on before coming downstairs, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Even now, half-dressed and barefoot, she radiates that power hunger that drew me to her from the start. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now, but after last night I finally get it.
And of course there is the barefoot thing. Good thing I made her birth control pills disappear. Not that she’s noticed yet. Even if I didn’t mess with anything, my chances would be good to get her knocked up. Considering she’s such a go-getter, Anya is enjoyably scatterbrained.
Something that’ll come in handy in other ways, I’m sure.
“And Dmitri’s men?” she asks Toni, forcing me to focus back on the conversation.
“They’re clueless as far as we can tell,” Toni says. “Nobody has asked any questions, and we doubt anyone is going to raise an alarm before they had their morning coffee. That should buy you some time. The only reason we’re all up so early is the fact that the... um... well, that your people have been active at the Downsview Park club all night and I wanted to swing by to check in before you head that way.” He gives a quick side-look in my direction. We’re not in the habit of letting the Russians just do their thing without keeping an eye on them, and even though Toni seems to like Anya just fine, this new alliance isn’t going to just take off without some skepticism. Probably on both sides.
Anya nods. “Good. That buys me time to spin the story.”
I watch her from where I sit at the table, my coffee untouched in front of me. Today, Anya sounds like she has her shit together. No more signs of the erratic need to act that I noticed after she got that anonymous note. As if last night’s bloodshed didn’t so much as nick her armor. As if it wasn’t luck more than anything that worked in her favor. But I still know she’s running on fumes and adrenaline, and it makes me want to haul her upstairs, lock her in our room, and make her rest. I know better than to try, though. Anya doesn’t stop. Which has its benefits.
Toni shifts his weight. “So, what’s next, boss?”
“I’m meeting Sergei at the club,” Anya replies, instead of letting me get a word in. She puts her own mug down and turns as if to leave the room.
My jaw tightens. “You’re meeting Sergei now?”
She pauses, turning to face me. “Didn’t you hear me set that up last night? Sergei has the clean-up handled, but when he called earlier, he mentioned the time difference to Moscow. It’s eight hours later there. If I want to control the story, it’s best if I get started before anyone here decides to be an early bird and talks to his family or Dmitri misses some check-in or something. Plus, it’ll be a good look for me to take the reins first thing today after I let Sergei handle things last night.”
I stand, my chair scraping against the floor. “And you don’t think we have things that need to be discussed before you head out?”
Her brows draw together. “Riccardo—”
“No,” I cut her off, stepping closer. “Every time there’s something to handle, you walk out that door like I’m not part of this.” Like she doesn’t need me. I leave that last part unsaid, but my fists clench as I lean across my desk.
“That’s not true,” she snaps, her voice rising. “You’re the one who went behind my back to make deals with Gianna. I’ve kept you in the loop the entire time.”
“Like when you went off to take care of Dmitri all by yourself last night?” I demand. “You’ve got your men now. Sergei. Vlad. Viktor. Fine. You’re in charge now, great, but where do I fit in, Anya? Don’t you think we need to discuss that before you set up your shop?”
Her eyes narrow, her chin tilting up in defiance. “You’re my husband. It’s separate.”
“Right. Your husband. Convenient, isn’t it?” I say, my voice sounding seriously pissed. Behind Anya, Toni takes a few steps back, then turns and leaves the room. “We got married so you could avoid marrying Dmitri. Well, he’s no longer a problem. We also made a deal that if I support you taking over, you’ll cut me in and we keep the boundaries of our organizations stable. Fine. But right now, we’re still married and you know better than to say it’s separate, so stop treating me like it is.”
“I don’t need a partner to hold my hand,” she fires back, no longer pliable like last night.
“No, you need one to have your back,” I say. “And I’m done letting you pretend you don’t.”
We stare each other down, until, finally, she exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t have time for this right now. Vlad’s already waiting outside to take me to the club.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter, stepping back as she heads to the door.
It’s like the damn woman needs to be close to a fucking orgasm to get that I’m not letting her walk away from this marriage. Considering I never wanted a wife, this one is sure as hell making me work for it now.
Fucking karma.
Toni steps back in and clears his throat once the door closes behind Anya. “Perhaps we should discuss how things will proceed when you get divorced?”
I glance at him, my jaw tightening. “We’re not getting divorced.”
“Does she know that?”
“I told her, she just hasn’t wrapped her head around it yet.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad, boss.”
“Worse than bad,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not letting her walk away from me. Not now. Not ever.”
Toni arches a brow. “You got a plan?”
I smirk, taking a sip of my now lukewarm coffee. “I do.”
Because I’m done letting Anya dictate the terms of this marriage. She’s mine, and I’ll make damn sure she knows it.
Anya
Vlad’s SUV rumbles to a stop outside the club, the tires crunching as he pulls up to the curb. Vlad gets out first, circling around to open my door. “Mrs. Tsepov,” he says formally, his tone respectful. I nod my thanks, stepping out onto the pavement.
Mrs. Tsepov . It’s what Sergei called me yesterday, too. It’s not that different from Ms. Tsepov, but hearing the married title with my name is strange. Weirder than being called Mrs. Angelo, that’s for sure.
Married, but still a Tsepov.
If only that were possible.
But this isn’t the time to worry about what will happen with Riccardo. The fact that I don’t like thinking about our marriage agreement coming to an end is something I’ll have to deal with. But for right now, it has to wait. It’s time I claim everything that comes with my maiden name.
Inside, Sergei is already waiting, leaning against the bar. He’s nursing a coffee, his expression unreadable as I approach. Viktor stands a few feet away, arms crossed and wearing his usual scowl, while another of my father’s former men, Grigory, sits at a corner table, swirling a glass of water like it’s vodka. He wasn’t at the last meeting, but he gives me an enthusiastic wave when he looks up.
“Mrs. Tsepov,” Sergei greets me, the same as last night and Vlad this morning. No longer just Anya.
“What’s the situation?” I ask, taking a position at the bar and pouring myself the second cup of the day.
It’s no caramel macchiato, but it’ll have to do.
Viktor speaks first, his tone as blunt as always. “The situation is that Dmitri’s corpse is gone, but his father will come sniffing around sooner rather than later. I’ll give you that, Mrs. Tsepov, you didn’t fuck around.”
“Viktor,” Sergei warns, but I wave him off.
“No, let him speak.”
Viktor’s eyes fix on me. “I don’t blame you for taking the asshole out. Sure as fuck deserved it. I’m cool with you inheriting, too. I liked your brother, but he doesn’t give a shit about the operation and we all depend on it, if you know what I mean. But what happens when Dmitri’s father finds out his son is dead? Do you have a plan to keep the shit from hitting the fan, boss?”
It’s the first time Viktor is addressing me as ‘boss’ without sneering, but the challenge in his tone makes it clear he’s still not convinced I deserve the title.
“I’m calling Solntsev myself,” I say, my voice calm but firm. “I’ll handle it. What I need from you is that the men who sided with him get back in line or get a clear message that no one talks to the Brotherhood.”
Grigory raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Just like that? You think you can sweet-talk the old Solntsev into accepting his son’s death? He’s got a reputation that’s nothing to sneeze at. And how are we gonna keep ‘em all from talking?”
I glance around at them. This is what I’m actually good at. Making deals. I got Mikhail to let me run the Flemingdon Park club against our father’s wishes. I got Riccardo to marry me. I could handle this.
“This isn’t about sweet-talking. It’s about mind-games. Dmitri was an embarrassment to his father. That’s why he came here in the first place. A second chance not to be a fuckup far enough away from the Brotherhood’s home turf that it doesn’t reflect too badly on the family should he fuck up. Well, he fucked up. What I’ll do is remind Solntsev senior that Dmitri’s death is a clean break for him, a chance to save face.”
Sergei chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got guts, my girl. I’ll give you that. It might blow up in our faces, but your father should have seen this. You’re more like him and Mikhail than he ever recognized, I think.”
“Guts won’t stop him from coming after us if you slip up,” Viktor mutters, his tone dark.
I take a step closer to him, meeting his gaze head-on. “That’s why I won’t slip up. I’m not my father, Viktor, but I know how to deal with men like Solntsev. But, be my guest. If you have a better idea, feel free to share.”
The room falls silent. Viktor’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“Good,” I say, turning to Sergei. “I’ll be in my office, making the call now.”
As I head upstairs, I take a deep breath. Then I walk to my new office.
It might be my office now, but my father’s presence lingers here. Besides the heavy mahogany desk that’s much bulkier than any piece of furniture I would have ever picked for myself, there are also the faint scratch marks on the floor from his chair and where his oxygen tank used to stand under his desk. And of course the gold-plated phone resting on the polished surface that was a present sent to him from an old friend in Russia.
I sit in his rickety chair, spinning the phone toward me, and exhale slowly. I’ve rehearsed this call in my head a dozen times since last night, but it still feels like I’m about to walk into an exam and haven’t studied enough.
My hand hovers over the keypad. Just make the damn call, Anya. You’ve done worse.
Punching in the number, I press the phone to my ear and listen to it ring. Once. Twice. A gruff voice answers on the third ring, deep and tinged with suspicion. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Ivanov,” I say, keeping my voice calm but firm. “It’s Anya Tsepov. I’m calling to speak to Mr. Solntsev.”
“Wait a moment.”
I tap my foot as I wait. Perhaps allowing Sergei to listen in would have been a good idea. He sure as fuck knows more about how old Russian mob bosses think. I might be a mob boss myself now, but I’m neither old, nor a man, and that probably means I’ll never quite match that energy. I certainly wasn’t able to with my father.
Too late now. There is a noise before Dominic Solntsev answers. “My dear. What a pleasure to hear from my daughter-in-law. Tell me, why are you calling me?”
Daughter-in-law? Well, fuck. Of all the things, I did not expect old Solntsev to be completely clueless about what’s going on here in Toronto.
“Mr. Solntsev, I think there is a misunderstanding. I am married to Angelo Riccardo and not engaged to your son.”
A pause. His voice hardens. “Angelo? You’re married to that Italian bastard ? What the fuck is going on over there and why isn’t my son calling to tell me this?”
Well, this is awkward.
“I don’t know why Dmitri didn’t tell you about this. I married Riccardo the day after my father passed away,” I say evenly. “But that is not why I’m calling. I wanted to deliver some unfortunate news personally, out of respect for our... prior connection.”
His silence speaks volumes—a heavy, suffocating thing. Finally, he growls, “Go on.”
I lean back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Your son was found dead last night at my club.”
“What?” The word is sharp, like the crack of a whip.
I don’t flinch. “He was in one of our private rooms with a prostitute. From what we gathered, she had an... unhappy, overly attached customer. The man followed her to the club and shot Dmitri in a fit of jealousy.”
I deliver the lie smoothly, without hesitation. Years of practice hiding my father’s dirty dealings come in handy now. I may never have killed before, but running the Flemingdon Park club and growing up the kid of a mob boss has gathered me plenty of experience lying to cops during their random stop-ins.
Solntsev’s breathing grows heavy on the other end of the line. “You’re telling me my son was with some whore in your filthy club?”
The disdain in his voice is surprising, given the fact that his own family traffics women and children, though I can’t disagree with him. I keep my tone as neutral as possible. “I assure you, the incident was handled discreetly. The man responsible is no longer a problem, and the club has been thoroughly cleaned. There’s no trace of Dmitri’s... involvement.”
“That’s not good enough!” he roars. “I want to know what the fuck is going on over there. I sent Dmitri over there assuming he was getting his shit together and now you’re telling me he’s fucking dead? I want answers!”
I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. “With all due respect, Mr. Solntsev, Dmitri came to my club without proper security. I had no knowledge of him frequenting this, well, employee until it was too late.”
“You think that excuses your negligence?” he snaps. “First you, what? Fuck an Italian instead of upholding the deal your father made with us and now you’re telling me my son stuck around just to whore around in your club? You’re lucky if I don’t hold you personally responsible.”
I take a deep breath. There is no way things aren’t going to get back to Solntsev, so I’ve got to get things sorted as best as possible.
“My father made an agreement with your son that I wasn’t a part of. I’m not for sale and never have been. I’m interested in business, Mr. Solntsev. Marrying Riccardo Angelo was strategically favorable to me. Your son did not appreciate that, and I apologize if my choice has slighted your family. But, none of it has anything to do with your son’s death or the fact that he didn’t share any of this with you prior to his passing. I am calling out of respect for your family. I certainly understand your anger, and I’m prepared to make arrangements for his remains to be returned to you.”
Silence stretches between us. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and menacing. “Tell me something, Mrs. Angelo. Is your city fully controlled by the Italians then? Are you really telling me my son was dumb enough to stick around and even have more men come over when that is the state of things?”
“I am not saying that, Mr. Solntsev. With the marriages between myself and the head of the Angelo syndicate, and the marriage of my brother to Gianna Bruno, head of the Bruno syndicate, I have arranged agreements with the Italian factions to secure my family’s organization and businesses in this section of the city, keeping our turn intact. There are currently new arrangements in place that secure the borders of Russian-controlled territory. Your son did not appreciate these changes and gathered a few men around him, but I am sorry to tell you that his efforts had no chance of succeeding. He did not present a problem to me, my husband, or my sister-in-law, especially since he was additionally distracted with his frequent visits to said club employee whom I understand he met with every other day or so.” Calling Gianna my sister-in-law is about the weirdest part of this entire call, but it’s also essential. I need Solntsev senior to grasp that I couldn’t possibly have needed to resort to murder when dealing with his son since I have the backing of not only my own men but two massive syndicates. Even if that’s not exactly true. It’s all about the image I’m trying to paint.
Solntsev exhales sharply, the sound heavy with fury and grief. “You should pray, girl, that I never find proof otherwise.”
I take the threat in stride, forcing a calm smile he can’t see. “I’ll have my people contact you regarding the arrangements. My condolences for your loss, Mr. Solntsev.”
Before he can respond, I hang up, setting the phone down with a shaky hand.
It’s done.
I bluffed my way out of this mess.
Hopefully.
I lean back in my father’s chair, my chair , staring up at the ceiling as the adrenaline slowly drains from my body. I might have swept Dmitri’s death under the rug for now, but Solntsev’s anger won’t fade so easily. I can only hope that Dmitri was enough of a fuck-up before he arrived here that his father believes that he never made any actual strides toward controlling my territory.
And I need to make sure that’s the only story leaving this city.