Prologue #2
I’ve spent most of the night on this balcony, sipping pink champagne and counting down the minutes for us to leave.
I’ve been watching my parents mingle throughout the room, while poor Anna remains tethered to my mother’s side at all times.
After I spent a couple of hours doing the same, my father didn’t put up much of a fight when I told him that I needed a breather.
My mother didn’t say anything on the contrary either, since the last thing she wants is to cause a scene.
However, from the lingering sad glimmer in Annamaria’s eyes, I can tell she’s still upset I bailed on her so early.
I know that having me by her side would make this event far more tolerable, but I couldn’t muster another fake-ass smile without losing my goddamn mind.
So here I am, leaning against the railing and getting tipsy, watching the crowd below mingle and make connections, while pretending to care about the charity they’re supposed to be raising money for. It’s all so… fake.
When my parents throw these parties at the old Salvatore mansion, I can stomach it more since I can always eavesdrop on a few capos talking business to keep me entertained. But here? It’s nothing but rich fat cats acting like they rule the world. Newsflash—they don’t.
No matter how many billions you have in your bank account, your life is just as frail as the guy begging on a street corner.
It can all go away with a snap of a finger.
A lesson we Romano kids learned early on in our lives.
We don’t take anything for granted. Not our wealth, not our privilege, and most importantly, not the air that fills our lungs.
We all know that enemies loom and lurk in dark corners, plotting ways to take it all away from us.
That alone keeps us humble and vigilant.
Unlike these pricks. They think they are untouchable. How wrong they are. One quick flick of my blade and they’d be nothing more than a notice in the obituary section of a Sunday paper.
I really must be bored out of my mind if fantasizing about slitting these one-percenters’ throats is the highlight of my evening.
Still, looking down at my sister, with her head bowed as if she wanted nothing more than to shrink herself until she disappeared entirely, I realize that, unlike me, Anna wouldn’t find any comfort or distraction in thoughts of bloodshed.
Damn it. Guess my time’s up. No one is going to rescue my sister but me, so I’d better get a move on.
After downing another flute, I decide to make a quick pit stop at the open bar before returning to my family, since I need something stronger to numb myself if I’m to tolerate another vapid conversation.
However, just as I start moving away from the balcony, a flash of black ink catches my attention amongst the pristine and well-dressed guests.
A flutter rises in my stomach when I spot none other than Kirill Petrov moving through the crowd, the room parting for him like the Red Sea.
I tell myself the nerves are just because maybe—finally—some action will break up this yawning night.
A Bratva underboss showing up here is guaranteed to cause some wreckage, and I’m absolutely here for it.
A logical person would question what on earth Kirill Petrov is doing here. But me? I let out a relieved breath that finally something entertaining is happening.
Not that I like Kirill. The one and only time I ever talked to him, he was a righteous ass. Still, he’s definitely a lot more interesting than anyone else here.
It’s only when I see him make a beeline to my father that my hackles rise. And when the two meet face to face, I half-expect the entire room to spontaneously combust from all the subtle posturing.
Not wanting to be a distant bystander, I place the empty flute on a waiter’s tray and hurry downstairs to hear what they’re talking about. But unfortunately for me, when I manage to weed through the crowd, Kirill is long gone.
Damn it.
My attention drifts back to my parents instead of scouring the ballroom for the Bratva prince.
My father and mother are deep in conversation with a state senator, while Annamaria stands solemnly at my mother’s side, doing a piss-poor job of pretending she’s enthralled with whatever they are talking about.
My mother is the only one who notices me approaching, but doesn’t break her focus on the senator.
Perfect. That’s all I need to pull Annamaria away for a second.
“What did Kirill want with Dad?” I whisper in her ear.
“Who?” she counters, confused.
“Kirill Petrov. You know? The guy who was just talking with our father before the senator. What did he want?”
But to my chagrin, Anna still looks confused.
Jesus Christ.
How the hell can she not know who I’m talking about?
The man practically radiates main-character energy.
I pull her another step away, so no one hears me interrogate my sister, who was obviously in la-la land at the worst possible time ever, instead of paying attention like I needed her to.
“You know… skyscraper-tall, six-four, black hair, black eyes. Tattoos up his hands and neck. Basically a full-blown thirst trap gift-wrapped in an expensive suit. How did you not clock him?”
“Oh,” she says, the painted image finally making it clear who I’m talking about. “Him.”
“Yes, Anna. Him.” I try not to roll my eyes. “What did he want?”
She bites her lower lip and shrugs. “Honestly, I think he just came to say hello. Nothing else.”
“Just hello? That’s it?”
“I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention.”
Of course, she wasn’t.
“How do you know him?” she asks, suddenly intrigued.
“I don’t,” I counter, not wanting to rat out Lucky and Enzo, or how they needed me as muscle to go to Little Russia a couple of days ago.
“Then why ask me about him?” She arches a brow, reading the lie in my eyes.
That’s the thing about me and Anna. I can read her like a book, but she can read me just as easily.
“Because I know of him. He’s the Bratva underboss here in Chicago, so yeah, I’m a little curious why he’s here. Nothing more,” I lie through my teeth, flashing a mischievous smile.
“I know that look.” She laughs softly, “You’re bored and want to pick a fight. That’s why you’re interested. Well, don’t. You promised Mom and Dad you’d be on your best behavior tonight.”
“Those words never left my lips.”
“Please be good, Stella.”
“You’re good enough for the both of us, Anna. Let me just be me.”
With a wink, I leave in search of trouble. Because Kirill Petrov is definitely trouble. And on a boring night like tonight, trouble is exactly what I’m in the mood for.