Chapter 37 OKSANA
A few days later…
I'm still fuming. Not only did Stephano not invite me to La Famiglia's meeting, where heads will be rolling, but he also suggested I accept the invitation I received from Scarlet DeLuna to a wives-and-sisters-of-the-capos meeting.
I already feel like hurling when the SUV stops at the gatehouse to the sprawling DeLuna estate out in the suburbs. The suburbs!
With the image of the Stepford Wives—and yes, I made Stephano watch that movie yesterday as punishment—still ingrained in my head, I give Sasha a glaring look promising death as I refuse his hand to help me out of the SUV. God help him.
I've worked in disguises before, worn ball gowns, skirts, and dresses, but this isn't a disguise.
This is part of the new life I signed up for—although when I proposed to Stephano, I had no idea I was signing up for anything besides bullets flying around us.
Wearing pencil skirts and prim dresses for outings and shopping trips…
my insides are shuddering at the price I'm paying to be with the man I love.
What sacrifices does he have to make? None!
The irony that I'm right there where my father wanted me all those years ago isn't lost on me, but the thought of paying Stephano back in spades makes it… worthwhile, I guess.
A pretty brunette stands at the top of wide granite steps leading up to an impressive mansion. It's not like Grigori's, but then again, nothing is. This place looks a lot more… normal.
The woman, Scarlet DeLuna—I've done my homework—hurries down the stairs in her six-inch heels and tight skirt, all smiles and friendliness. "Oksana! I'm so glad you could make it."
I didn't have a choice lies on the tip of my tongue, but besides being a badass assassin, I do have manners, and I realize how much the Italians measure their value by the behavior of their women. Appearance is everything. And family.
"Scarlet?" I allow a note of a question into my voice, although I already know who she is.
"It's so nice to meet you," she embraces me, kissing both of my cheeks like we're long lost friends.
I return the gesture, force a smile to my lips, and tune the bitch inside me out.
You can do this, I assure myself. It's just one afternoon.
I could, too, but the notion of the menfolk hashing out their war council right now is still sitting like a rock in my stomach.
"I've heard so much about you," Scarlet prattles on, leading me up the stairs, then more stairs, and then another set. Good God, I had no idea I'd be in for a workout.
I wonder what exactly she's heard about me.
"Is it true that you're an assassin?"
I blink a few times in surprise at her forwardness while trying to catch my breath. Walking up endless stairs in high heels and a tight skirt is not part of my workout routine, although, come to think about it, maybe it should be from now on. I'll need all the practice I can get.
"I suppose." I reluctantly respond. Nobody has ever asked me directly like this.
"And is it true that you were an enforcer for your father?" She keeps peppering me, not even slightly out of breath after the second set of stairs.
"Where are we going?" I finally give in and stop to catch my breath. "The bell tower?"
"Oh, sorry. I guess we could have taken the elevator."
Elevator? She's got to be fucking kidding me. My mind is already working out ways to kill her and make it look like an accident. The simplest solution would be to push her down the stairs, which would teach her.
"I'm so used to the stairs, the elevator is on the other side of the house and…"
I tune her out, closing my eyes and entertaining myself with the ways I'm going to torture Stephano for this.
Finally—finally—we reach the last floor.
What has to be a renovated attic. Although attic seems the wrong word for this.
The space is massive. A seating area, reminiscent of a living room with sofas, a fireplace, and a TV, is set in one corner, separated by a pony wall.
Most of the space is open, filled with tables, easels, artifacts, and brushes, resembling a lab.
"I'm a curator," Scarlet explains. "Antonio had this renovated for me so I could have my own workspace, since… since I couldn't go to the museum any longer."
My mind goes through the file I've read on her: Scarlet DeLuna, née Lambert, daughter of a judge of all things.
Twenty-five. Museum curator. Married to Antonio DeLuna, capo of La Famiglia.
The file was accurate, but what hadn't crossed my mind was the fact that Scarlet obviously had to give up things she loved in her life before becoming a mafia wife.
Interesting. Maybe, I allow, maybe this afternoon won't be altogether wasted.
I realize that being a curator and an enforcer for the Bratva are two very different things, but if they're both things we had to give up…
she and I might have something in common.
As much of a stretch as it is. It also seems that Toni found a way to make it possible for his wife to keep working at what she obviously loves.
"Come, the others are in here, but I have to warn you," she drops her voice conspiratorially, making me curious about what in the hell she could possibly be warning me about. "We’re all working on some things… behind our husbands' backs."
Now my curiosity really spikes.
She leads me across the large space where a wall is divided by a short hallway leading to two rooms. "Bathroom," Scarlet explains, pointing at one. "My office," she opens the door to another, and I'm struck speechless.
It's not the office itself or the several women inside.
No, it's what's on the walls, on the tables and desks.
On computer screens and tablets. This entire room looks like a war or special ops room.
One wall is filled with pictures I recognize, Donna Margarita, Igor Pavlov, Edoardo, and Silvestre—although he looks a lot livelier than the last time I saw him in person.
The pictures are connected by different-colored tape, and scribbles have been made along the edges.
These women are investigating La Famiglia, or to be precise, whatever has been lurking from the past. To say I'm impressed is understating it.
"What is this?"
"Let me introduce you first." Scarlet points her finger at each woman in turn as she recites their name, not knowing I've already committed them all to memory.
There is Cat, married to Enrico Sartori; Guiliana—Gigi—Toni's sister, married to her former bodyguard, who’s now Toni's second in command; Violet, married to Marcello Orsi; and Marcello’s sister, Sophia, who is—surprise—married to Raf.
I shake each woman's hand; we mumble nice to meet you and size each other up, but not in an antagonistic way.
"Now, this might seem a bit strange to you and overwhelming," Scarlet continues, and again, I control myself from filling her in on what I would call strange.
"But you've probably heard of what's happening right now with Don Edoardo and all the conspiracies.
" Scarlet watches me, and I realize she expects some kind of reaction.
"I'm aware," I say carefully, deeply intrigued by where this is going.
"Of course she does," Gigi leans back with a sigh full of attitude. "She’s like some superspy-assassin-enforcer hybrid."
I shrug. She’s not wrong.
Scarlet clears her throat, shooting Gigi a don’t-start-with-me look that says those two have definitely caused international incidents together.
"Anyway, we decided we’re not going to just stand by and let the men handle this.
" She air-quotes dramatically. I suppress a laugh.
Honestly? These women are… not what I expected. This might actually be entertaining.
"Or risk it getting out of hand and have brothers pitted against husbands," she adds.
Finally, something I can get behind. Support your husband, protect your family. Good thinking.
"So what have you uncovered?" I ask, genuinely curious how far these amateur sleuths have gotten.
Sophia steps forward, pointing to a photograph taped to the wall. "We don’t know who this man is, but he was clearly important to Donna Margarita."
I blink. They’ve found Viktor Voronin. Oh, these girls have no idea what they’ve stumbled into.
"That," I say, tapping the image, "is Viktor Voronin. The bloodiest Russian Pakhan in modern history. Donna Margarita’s father."
The room ripples with ohhhhhs and wide eyes.
"Wow, Donna Margarita was Russian?" Cat blurts.
Scarlet beams at me like a proud teacher. "See? I knew you’d be an asset." She points to another image, and my blood turns to ice. "Do you know him, too?"
My hand moves before my brain catches up. I take the picture off the wall.
A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Blonde hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like arctic water.
A foreboding feeling creeps up my spine, settling into my sternum like a heavy stone pressing down, into my stomach.
"It’s Nico, right?" Gigi says, uncertain. "I’ve been telling the others—"
"No way," Sophia cuts in. "That’s not Nico. Nico isn’t blond."
Cat adds, "And look at it. This is like an… antique photo, right?"
I don’t answer them. I can’t. My pulse starts to thud in my ears.
The photo is black and white. Old. The edges are soft with age, the contrast too sharp, shadows carved deep into the boy’s face.
He can’t be more than sixteen. Blond hair cut short and severe, a jacket that looks borrowed or issued, collar stiff against his throat.
There’s no smile. No softness. Just a cold, assessing stare that isn’t looking at the camera so much as through it.
My breath leaves me in a slow, silent exhale.
"Where did you get this?" My voice comes out too steady. I hate it.
"Camilla found it going through her grandma’s, Donna Margarita's, things," Cat explains, shifting like even she can feel the tension rolling off me. "Who is it?"
"Wait—Camilla’s back?" Gigi blurts. "Where was she?"
"It’s a long story," Cat says quickly. "She’s keeping her head down, but she wanted to talk to me, so…"
Their voices blur into background noise. All I can see are the eyes in the photograph. Too pale. Too sharp. Already watching. Already judging.
Slowly, I turn the picture over. The back is yellowed, and the ink faded, but a date is still legible, written in spindly, old-fashioned handwriting, the kind people used before pens were disposable. 1942. My stomach drops.
Beneath it, a set of initials: V.V.—Viktor Volkov.
And below it, added later, with a ballpoint pen: A.V.—Alexei Volkov.
The rock in my chest slips lower, settling painfully in my gut as understanding blooms all at once, ugly and undeniable. This is why the picture was kept. Why it was hidden instead of framed. Why someone marked it like a warning instead of giving it a name.
This wasn’t a memory. It was proof. And suddenly, horrifyingly, I know exactly what I’m looking at.
This isn’t Nico.
But it is where Nico came from.
Fuck me, I should have seen it sooner.
Ah fuck. Fuckedy Fuck!
A loud laugh escapes me—too loud, too sharp—because the alternative is screaming. "That, ladies," I manage, "is a very rare picture of Viktor Voronin."
They look disappointed for a whole second.
"So it has nothing to do with this," Violet's frustration bleeds through her voice as her fingers wave vaguely at the murder-board of their investigation.
"Oh, this," I say, lifting the photo, "will earn you more goodwill from the Bratva than you can imagine."
They all beam, chattering delightedly, but their voices fade to static. Because now I’m staring at the picture again.
At the boy.
At the hair.
At the jaw.
At the mouth.
I pull up a recent picture of Nico on my phone, one I took while he was still at the hospital.
Stephano has his arm around him. But for once, I'm not swayed by the sight of my husband.
Instead, I enlarge Nico's image and hold it side by side against the photograph of Veronin.
The breath leaves my body like a punch. The resemblance is… undeniable.
Shit, fuck, how did I not see it before?
Because I haven't seen a picture of Voronin in years, and never one of him as a boy. But now, seeing them side by side, father and son… It's too much of a coincidence, even though I don't want it to be true.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
This will kill Stephano.
My hands move independently of thought. I snap a photo. Send it to Grigori.
Me:
Compare DNA. Nico Conti vs. Voronin.
Keep a very close eye on him.
Do not let him out of your sight.
Three dots appear.
Then:
Grigori:
On it.
What did you find—
I lock the screen.
Not now.
Not here.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckedy fuck.
"Are you okay?" Scarlet asks.
I force a smile. "Fine. Sunstroke," I lie.
Before any of them can press further—
POW. POW. POW.
Gunshots echo from downstairs. The women freeze. My hand goes to the knife in my boot. And the huntress inside me wakes up screaming.