Epilogue #3
He was gone for a week before his death. I thought he was gone on business. But Konstantin Abramov, at his funeral, painted a bloody and graphic picture of the truth for me… all of it.
My father was trafficking women. Stealing them from the clubs that he co-owned with Konstantin, the Bratva pakhan , and selling them to buyers in other countries.
My stomach twists every time I think about it.
My father wasn’t a warm man, or a kind one, or even someone I greatly respected, but I didn’t think he had that kind of evil in him.
I’m well aware of the moral complexities, all of the grey areas of the mafia life, the brutality and the killing and the blood that is often shed, but that…
I still can’t quite wrap my head around it.
Nor can I wrap my head around the rest of what Konstantin told me—that in the last week of his life he was running from Konstantin and his men, that he died in a shitty safe house somewhere on the outskirts of Miami, taken down by a bullet from Konstantin’s enforcer, Damian Kutnezsov.
That my father had tried to infiltrate Konstantin’s estate, that he’d threatened Konstantin’s family, Damian’s family.
That he was far worse than the man I knew.
It feels like some kind of horrible nightmare, knowing that the man who raised me was capable of such terrible things, and I don’t have time to come to terms with it.
His legacy has been left unprotected and unclaimed, because he was too greedy to see what the outcome of going behind Konstantin’s back would be, and too proud to think that he could ever be brought down.
So he left me—unmarried and alone—in a world that accepts neither from women born into families of power within it.
I sink down into his chair, pressing my fingers to my temples.
I want to be left alone. To be given time to grieve not only the loss of my father, but the loss of who I thought he was.
I’m going to get neither. And the knock on the office door reminds me of that, the sharp rapping noise making icepick jolts of pain shoot through my aching head.
“Come in,” I say after a moment passes, letting out a long breath. “I’m in here.”
The door creaks open, and Nora, our housekeeper, walks in gingerly.
She’s been in here before—at least to direct staff on cleaning and upkeep, but she looks as uncomfortable as I feel.
She’s wearing her housekeeper’s uniform—slacks, grey today, and a white button-down blouse—and her hair is up in a neat bun, her weathered face without a speck of makeup.
“Several men have arrived, Simone,” she says softly. “The heads of some of the families are here to pay their respects.”
The sharks have arrived. They paid their respects at my father’s funeral and the reception that was held after; there’s no need to do so again.
But they’re not here for that. They’re here to see just how bloodied I am.
If my eyes are red-rimmed, or my head is held high.
How hard I’ll negotiate for what happens to my father’s legacy, to his money, and to me, in the wake of all of this. If I’ll crumble, or if I’ll fight .
And, I expect, Konstantin Abramov is out there too, but possibly for different reasons.
He’s the only man I’m truly afraid of. With Don Genovese and now my father, Don Russo, both dead, he’s the most powerful mob boss in Miami, with no one else coming close in terms of money, alliances outside of South Florida, business interests, or manpower.
He rules Miami without question, and it goes without saying that whoever tries to claim me and my father’s empire will either need to ally with him—or be in direct opposition to him.
Or… he could kill me, and take it for himself.
Marriage isn’t an option for Konstantin—he’s already married. But my father wronged him. My father betrayed him, threatened him, and now…
Now I’m all that’s left of the Russo line.
Konstantin is known to be a man of diplomacy, a man who prefers words to bullets and peace to blood, but men change.
And it’s entirely possible that rather than allow a single speck of my father’s line to continue, rather than allow some other man to take up my father’s empire, Konstantin will simply kill me and take it all for himself.
There’s no one in Miami who could or would stop him. The thought is terrifying. It makes my blood run cold as I stand up, smoothing my hands down the front of my slim black pants and swallowing hard.
I have to face them. I have no other choice, just as I’ve never had many choices throughout all of my life. And for all I know, before the day is over, I’ll be in the ground beside my father.
It’s not fair. I allow myself a single, petulant, childish moment of thinking how very unfair it is that I was born into this life, without choices, without options, without anyone ever asking me what it is that I want.
And then, I let it go. My choices are few, but I still have some—namely, how I’m going to present myself to the men out there waiting for me, to the sharks. Whether I will be wilting or strong, frightened or brave, and I know what I choose.
I’ll never allow any of them to see that I’m terrified, even if I am.
"Tell them I'll be out in a moment," I say to Rosa, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
"Offer them drinks. Whatever they want." I need a moment to compose myself.
Just one. Inhale. Exhale. A moment to breathe and remind myself of who I am, that even if I was raised as a pawn, even the pawn has some control of the board.
Noranods, her dark eyes filled with concern as she looks at me.
She's been with our family since before I was born, and she's the closest thing to a mother I've ever had.
My own mother died when I was seven, of a fast-moving cancer, and Norastepped in to fill that void as much as she could, given her position in our household.
She knows me better than anyone, and I can see in her expression that she's worried about what's about to happen.
She knows the rules of this world, too. She knows what my place in it is, and to some extent, how my father left things. That I don’t have a husband, not even a fiancé. She knows how much danger I’m in.
"Be careful, mija ," she says quietly. "These men, they are not here for your benefit. They’re here for theirs."
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.
Noranods 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.