Chapter Three
MARCO
The blonde hanging all over my brother will probably end up in his bed tonight.
And maybe mine.
My brother and I have always shared things.
Once, we shared a womb.
Now, we share almost everything.
She leans heavily against Gio, one hand spread across his chest as she looks between us. Her lipstick is too red, her perfume too sweet, and whatever interest she had in telling us apart disappeared somewhere beneath her third glass of champagne.
It shouldn’t be difficult.
Gio stands an inch taller—the height came from our father. He inherited our father’s dark-brown eyes too, while mine are the same gray-green as our mother’s.
Our features aren’t exact reflections, either. Gio’s jaw is a little broader. My nose is straighter. The differences are there if someone bothers to look.
Most people don’t.
They see the same dark hair, similar builds, and faces alike enough to confuse at a glance. Tonight, Gio has abandoned his tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt, and allowed the edge of one tattoo to show above his collar. My jacket is still buttoned. My tie remains where it belongs.
She studies us again.
“You’re twins?”
“Fraternal,” I say without looking up from my scotch.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Gio grins.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
He slides a hand around the back of her neck and brushes his thumb along her jaw. She practically purrs.
I take another drink.
We’re seated in one of Vesuvio’s private dining rooms. Dark paneling covers the walls, and a brass fixture casts a low circle of light over the round table. Through the closed doors comes the muted rhythm of the restaurant—the clink of glasses, low conversation, and an occasional burst of laughter.
The room is designed to make private business feel respectable.
The Callahans will arrive any minute.
The woman whispers something in Gio’s ear.
He laughs.
I finish my scotch.
“Fratello, puoi mandarla a casa per stasera?”
Gio looks at me over the top of her head.
“She’s sitting right here.”
“I’m aware.”
The woman blinks at me.
“You speak another language?”
“Italian,” Gio tells her. “And he was being rude.”
I set my empty glass on the table.
“It wasn’t rude. I asked you to send her home.”
Her mouth falls open.
Gio presses his lips together, fighting a smile.
“We have business to attend to,” I remind him. “This is a distraction.”
“Some distractions are fun.”
“I mean it, Gio.”
He studies me, probably deciding whether irritating me is worth the effort.
Apparently, it isn’t.
He sighs and snaps his fingers.
One of our men steps through the doorway.
The blonde begins to protest, but Gio quiets her with a whispered promise and a kiss that ruins what remains of her lipstick. By the time Dario escorts her from the room, she’s smiling again.
Dario gives me a brief look on the way out.
He has removed drunk women, armed men, and one city councilman from these rooms with the same expression.
“You know,” Gio says, reaching for his drink, “one day you’re going to die of responsibility.”
“Probably.”
The atmosphere changes when Armando escorts Connor Callahan and his son through the doors.
It happens before either man speaks.
Connor is in his late fifties, with silver threaded through his dark hair and the permanently dissatisfied expression of a man who considers happiness a negotiating weakness. His navy suit is expensive but conservative, selected to suggest old money rather than new crime.
Declan follows half a step behind him, looking as pleased to be here as I feel.
I stand to greet them.
A glance from me brings Gio to his feet. The lazy posture disappears. He buttons his jacket, though he doesn’t bother looking for his tie.
The look on Armando’s face tells me there’s a problem.
He remains near the doors rather than taking his usual position along the wall. His shoulders are rigid, and his attention stays on me instead of our guests.
“Boss.”
I shake Connor’s hand.
“What is it?”
“There’s trouble with the Russians.”
I excuse myself and step away from the table.
“Here at Vesuvio?”
“Yes.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Shots fired?”
He shakes his head.
“Then what?”
“The girl with Viktor Mikhailov disappeared from the private restroom.”
I frown.
Since when does Mikhailov care about a woman disappearing?
If I were his date, I might disappear at the first opportunity too.
“So?”
“It’s his niece, boss. She’s missing.”
Something tightens in my chest.
Lucia Romanova.
I know exactly who she is.
Six months of digging has given me a considerable file on her mother and almost nothing on Lucia herself. A birth certificate. A few school records. One of the last school photographs taken before Lucia disappeared from public view.
In the photograph, Lucia is young enough to smile without reservation. Her dark hair falls over one shoulder, her eyes fixed on the camera.
Then nothing.
At eighteen, Lucia disappeared from public view.
Now she has apparently walked out of my restaurant.
Mikhailov lives in a polished neighborhood in nearby Beacon Hill, but his organization is rooted north and east of the city. The North End and the waterfront belong to families like mine.
Boston is too small for our interests not to overlap, but Lucia disappearing inside Vesuvio makes this a Catenzio problem whether Mikhailov likes it or not.
“Pull the security footage,” I say. “Every camera inside and out.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And put men on the surrounding streets.”
Armando nods.
“They don’t approach her. If anyone finds her, they report directly to me. No one else.”
He hesitates.
It lasts less than a second, but Armando has worked for me long enough to understand the implications. I am ordering him to find Viktor Mikhailov’s niece without telling him.
“Understood.”
I return to the table.
Gio is entertaining the Callahans, which mostly means preventing Connor from leaving before we can discuss percentages.
I lean down beside him.
“You’ll need to handle this tonight.”
His easy expression doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens.
“What’s going on?”
I glance toward the Callahans.
Declan is pretending not to listen. His father doesn’t bother pretending.
The Irish and Russians have been at odds for years. The last thing I need is Connor Callahan learning that Mikhailov has misplaced someone valuable before I know why she matters.
“Viktor’s niece has gone missing from the restaurant,” I tell Gio in Italian.
Declan’s attention sharpens.
He likely recognized the name.
I straighten.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. Something requires my attention. You’ll be in good hands with my brother.”
Connor looks displeased.
That’s hardly a change.
I clap Gio on the shoulder and give him a warning look.
Do not antagonize them. Do not offer more than we agreed. Find out what Connor knows about the Russians.
He understands.
I leave before anyone can ask another question.
The security suite sits at the rear of the building beyond the kitchen offices. By the time I arrive, Armando has pulled footage from every available camera.
The room is narrow, windowless, and several degrees too warm from the equipment. Monitors cover one wall, each divided into multiple views of the restaurant, kitchen, hallways, entrances, and alley. Pale light from the screens drains the color from the men seated beneath them.
“Show me.”
One of the men rolls back the footage.
We watch Lucia enter the restaurant on Ivan Volkov’s arm.
Even through the grainy image, she’s difficult to miss.
Long dark hair. Black dress. Bare shoulders. Her spine perfectly straight. Her gaze fixed ahead as though looking at anything else might be interpreted as disobedience.
The footage jumps forward.
We watch her leave the private dining room with Ivan.
We watch her enter the women’s restroom.
Then nothing.
A second camera catches her several minutes later in the service corridor behind the kitchen. Servers move around her without a second glance.
She walks quickly, but she doesn’t run.
At the end of the corridor, she pushes through the emergency exit.
No alarm sounds.
No one reacts.
I look at Armando.
“Why wasn’t that door alarmed?”
The expression on his face tells me I’m not going to like the answer.
“It was disabled.”
“Why?”
“The office managers use it for smoke breaks.”
I close my eyes and look toward the ceiling.
“God damn it.”
The footage continues.
Ivan waits outside the restroom.
Then he knocks.
He waits again.
Eventually, he tries the handle. When the door doesn’t open, he forces it.
From there, the Russians spread through the restaurant. Two men take the service corridor. Another checks the kitchen. Ivan reaches the alley three and a half minutes after Lucia.
They miss her.
“Exterior camera.”
The display changes.
Lucia emerges into the alley holding her shoes. She stops just outside the door.
For several seconds, she doesn’t move.
The alley camera catches her from above. She appears smaller without Ivan beside her, one bare arm wrapped across her body against the cold.
She looks back.
I find myself holding my breath, waiting to see whether she’ll return inside.
She doesn’t.
She walks barefoot toward Hanover Street, shoulders bare in the cold, and disappears beyond the edge of the camera.
“Did the Russians see this?”
“No. They were checking the interior cameras when we pulled the exterior footage.”
“Keep it that way.”
Armando looks at me.
“Boss?”
“Erase the alley footage.”
The room goes quiet.
The men at the controls stop moving. Behind me, one of the monitors hums softly.
Armando glances at Lucia’s frozen image, then back at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t move.
“Do it.”
He nods to the man at the controls.
The exterior footage disappears.
A black screen replaces the image of Lucia standing outside my restaurant.
I study the remaining view from the service corridor. She is caught midstep, one hand gathering the black dress away from her feet as she heads toward the exit.
Viktor Mikhailov kept Maria Rossi’s daughter hidden inside his Beacon Hill townhouse for six years.
Now she’s loose in my city.
Mikhailov will turn Boston upside down to get her back.
“Send our men after her,” I say. “Quietly.”
Armando gives the order.
“If they find her?”
“They report back. Nothing else.”
“And if the Russians find her first?”
I look at Lucia’s image on the monitor.
“They won’t.”
If I want to get her away from Mikhailov, I have to find her first.