Chapter 8
Cesare
The anniversary celebration was in full swing, crystal chandeliers casting amber light across Manhattan's elite criminals dressed in thousand-dollar suits.
I stood near the bar, whiskey neat in hand, watching my wife navigate a conversation with Don Battaglia's wife like she'd been born to this world.
Incredible. I can’t help wondering how I’d feel if I’d seen her, known her, before she was forced to meet me at the altar.
If I would’ve thought that a quiet artist could step into my life and wield charm so unconsciously.
Something was nagging at me, though; something other than Viktor’s obvious cat-and-mouse game, whatever that was.
Giovanni Lombardo wasn’t here. He’d made some excuse, I’d heard from a few associates. It wasn’t a good look; the whole point of this marriage had been to unite our families, and Giovanni not showing made it look like he didn’t respect my power.
We were forty minutes in; just past nine.
Paola wore the emerald dress I'd chosen—silk clinging to curves I'd mapped with my hands this morning—and those diamond earrings catching the light every time she turned her head. Every inch the Don's wife. Poised. Graceful. Perfect.
Mrs. Battaglia said something, and Paola laughed. Not the performance laugh. Real laughter, warm and genuine, the kind that made something tighten in my chest.
Pride.
That's my wife.
"Your bride is impressive, Monti."
Don Caruso materialized at my elbow, his weathered face approving. "Well-spoken. Composed. You chose well."
"I know." No false modesty in this world.
"The Lombardo alliance was a smart move.
Your father would approve." The mention of my father—dead six years tonight—landed heavy. I’d been trying not to acknowledge the grief I still felt these years later at his absence.
Not surprising, but abrupt. Like a guiding light in my life snuffed out in a moment.
Across the room, Paola gestured animatedly, probably discussing art. My art curator wife finding common ground.
"Family built on genuine affection lasts longer than mere strategy," Caruso said quietly. "Your Bianca has fire. Intelligence. I have to say, I’m a bit surprised; we’d heard that Bianca Lombardo was more ice than fire. I’m impressed. She'll make you strong."
He moved on, leaving me watching her.
When had I started thinking of her as mine instead of the wife?
I crossed the room, my hand finding Paola's lower back—a claiming gesture everyone recognized. She leaned into the touch.
Progress.
"Excuse me, Signora Battaglia. May I steal my wife?"
I guided Paola toward Don Caruso's circle, leaning close. "Don Caruso wants to meet you properly. Old guard. Traditional. Let him do most of the talking."
"Understood."
We approached the cluster of older Dons—men who'd built this world with blood and strategy.
"Don Caruso," I said formally. "May I properly introduce my wife, Bianca."
Caruso turned his full attention to her. "Mrs. Monti. A pleasure."
Paola didn't hesitate. "The honor is mine, Don Caruso. Cesare has told me you knew his father well."
Perfect. She'd done her homework—or had the instincts for this.
Approval flickered in Caruso's eyes. "Vittorio was a great man. His son follows in worthy footsteps." He looked at me. "Six years is no small accomplishment in these times."
"I've had good counsel," I deflected. "And now, a strong alliance."
"Indeed." Caruso turned back to Paola. "Tell me, Mrs. Monti, how are you finding married life?"
The room quieted fractionally. People listening, measuring her response.
A test.
Paola met his gaze directly. "I'm very fortunate, Don Caruso. Cesare is..." A pause, brief but weighted. "Everything I could have hoped for."
That hesitation was perfect—it suggested genuine emotion rather than rehearsed script.
Caruso chuckled, raised his glass. "Spoken like a woman in love. Good. To Don Monti and his beautiful bride. May your union bring many years of prosperity."
Glasses raised around us. Voices echoing the sentiment.
My hand tightened on Paola's waist. She'd passed the first major test.
We circulated. I greeted allies, measured rivals, tracked Viktor's position like tracking a predator.
Piero appeared at my elbow. "You both look devastating tonight. Status report: everyone's talking about her favorably. The alliance looks solid."
"And Viktor?"
Piero's expression darkened. "Watching. Waiting. He brought Irina—that's new. He'll approach soon."
"Let him come."
The orchestra began playing a traditional waltz. I turned to Paola. "Dance with me."
She took my hand.
When I pulled Paola close, hand on her waist, something shifted. We'd danced at the wedding reception—pure performance. This felt different.
Maybe because I'd woken with her in my arms this morning. Because I knew how she looked beneath emerald silk, how she sounded when she came.
"You're doing well," I told her quietly. "Better than I expected."
"Low bar." Almost teasing.
When had we developed this ease?
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
I answered honestly: "That I'm proud of you."
She missed a step. "Proud?"
"You've handled tonight perfectly. Every Don here respects you. That matters."
"Because it reflects well on you."
"Yes." I pulled her closer. "And because you deserve that respect."
She looked up, searching my face. It was obvious she didn’t believe that sentiment, not yet. But I’d make sure she did someday soon. "I don't understand you."
"Good. Keep me unpredictable."
The music swelled. She rested her head briefly against my shoulder.
For one moment, we weren't a Don and his reluctant wife. Just two people dancing.
Then the music ended.
Reality returned.
We'd just stepped off the floor when Viktor materialized. Alone. Irina was nowhere visible.
"Ah, the happy couple. May I steal a moment?"
My hand found Paola's back—protective, warning. "Of course, Viktor."
"I wanted to speak with you both privately. About business."
Business. Never good.
Viktor gestured toward a quieter corner. Refusing would show weakness.
I guided Paola to the indicated corner. Viktor positioned himself with his back to the room, blocking others' view. Deliberately isolating us.
"I've been thinking," Viktor began, "about alliances. About family. About... twins."
Paola went very still.
"What about twins?" I kept my voice neutral.
His smile sharpened. "Two people, identical faces, but perhaps very different lives. Very different... choices."
The emphasis on choices was deliberate.
"Get to your point, Viktor."
"How does one know they have married the right twin?"
The question hung between us like a blade.
Every instinct screamed danger.
"That's a strange question, Mr. Kozlov," Paola said steadily.
"Is it? Your bride seems quite different from the Bianca Lombardo I had heard so much about. Different interests, different... energy." Viktor's gaze traced her face. "I was told Bianca worked in finance consulting. Yet tonight, I hear you discussing Renaissance art. Curious, no?"
The specific detail made my blood run cold.
Viktor knew about Paola's real background.
"And the wedding itself. So sudden. Your twin sister traveling, unable to attend. Quite convenient."
"Get to your point, Viktor." I stepped forward slightly, putting myself between him and Paola.
"I wonder if Giovanni Lombardo sent the correct daughter to the altar. And I wonder what would happen if people discovered such a... substitution had occurred."
There it was.
Direct accusation. Threat laid bare.
The silence stretched—deadly, absolute.
"That's quite an accusation," I said, voice ice. "One wonders what evidence you base it on besides paranoid speculation."
"Let's call it... an educated observation. But you're right—observation is not proof. Not yet."
Not yet.
"You're making dangerous accusations without proof, Mr. Kozlov," Paola said, stronger than expected. "In our world, that could be seen as provocation."
Viktor acknowledged her move with a slight nod. "Or friendly warning. Better to address inconsistencies privately than have questions arise publicly. Don't you think?"
"What do you want, Viktor?" I cut through the games.
"Simple: cooperation. Your eastern territory access. Three shipping routes. Twenty percent of your legitimate import business."
Outrageous. Almost a quarter of my operation.
"In exchange for what? Your silence?"
"In exchange for my discretion. Think of it as insurance, Cesare. You keep your alliance, your reputation, your power. I get fair compensation for my silence. Everyone wins."
"Except me."
"You get to keep your beautiful bride. Surely she's worth the cost?"
His gaze slid to Paola—predatory, knowing.
My fist clenched.
"I need time to consider."
"Of course. You have until Monday. Three days." He checked his watch. "After that, I may need to share my observations with others. For their protection, you understand. Deceiving Dons is never a good idea Cesare."
He stepped back, smile pleasant. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."
Then he was gone, leaving us with that threat hanging like a guillotine blade.
Paola's hand gripped mine hard enough to hurt.
"Cesare—"
"Not here." Clipped. "Smile. We're being watched."
She pasted on a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"We need to leave," she whispered.
"Can't. Not yet. Leaving early shows weakness." I guided her toward the main room. "We stay. We perform. We show everyone nothing rattles us."
"How long?"
"Another hour. Maybe two."
Three days. Viktor had given us three days.
We circulated. Every moment was agony—my mind racing through options, strategies.
Piero appeared during a lull. "You look like you want to kill someone."
"Perceptive as always."
"What happened?"
"Not here. My office. One hour after we leave."
Piero's expression darkened. "Understood."
Paola excused herself to the ladies' room. I watched her go, every protective instinct screaming to follow.