just shoved a knife deep into his guts. “Jesus, Irina...no.
That’s the one thing I can’t give you.” He stepped back
from me and a floorboard creaked.
“Irina?” Vasiliy’s voice from downstairs. I winced and
glanced fearfully at the door. Chyort! “Why?” I
whispered. “It’s just...streets and businesses. Territory
on a map. I don’t understand!”
Angelo lowered his eyes and let out a long sigh. I
recognized the look on his face because I’d felt that way
many times myself. He was wishing he was someone
else, a normal person with a normal life. But then he
straightened and looked me in the eye again, his resolve
back. “Let me help you understand,” he said. He
reached up and ran his fingers through my hair, tucking
a strand behind my ear. “Come to Little Italy and let me
show you.”
“Irina?” Vasiliy again. And this time there was a creak:
he was coming up the stairs!
“I’ll just be a minute!” I yelled. But I knew that wouldn’t
hold him for long—he already sounded suspicious. “You
have to go!” I whispered to Angelo.
To my horror, he shook his head. “Not until you say
yes.”
I gaped at him...and then heard another creak from the
stairs. Vasiliy was nearly there. “I can’t!” What could he
possibly show me there that would change things?
“Irina?” God, Vasiliy was right outside my door! And
when I glanced back at Angelo, his jaw was set—he was
ready to fight. I think part of him almost wanted Vasiliy
to find him.
“Okay!” I whispered. “Okay, I’ll come. Tomorrow. Now
please, go!” And I pushed on his chest to get him
moving, even though that was like pushing on a brick
wall. Then I ran to my door…
...just as Vasiliy opened it. I caught the door when it
was a foot open and gave him my best smile. “Hi!
Sorry. I’m ready now.”
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I heard voices.”
“Voices? I was on the phone. Rachel called—”
But he wasn’t fooled. He stepped forward, pushing open
the door and barging me out of the way. I staggered
backward and looked in horror at—
Angelo was gone. The doors to the balcony were open,
the drapes blowing in the breeze.
I forced my mouth to move. “I needed some air,” I said.
Vasiliy strode over to the balcony and stepped onto it,
looking around the small, snow-covered yard. I hurried
over and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
There was no one in sight...but Angelo couldn’t have
moved that fast. Where the hell was he?
Then I glanced down. The walls of my balcony are iron
bars but the floor is a solid sheet of black-painted metal.
Angelo, I realized, was standing right beneath Vasiliy’s
feet.
Vasiliy turned to face me, still suspicious. His eyes
searched my face for any hint of a lie. But it was one
Malakov against another—he’d taught me how to hide
my emotions too well.
After a long moment, his face softened. “I’m sorry,” he
said. “An old man’s paranoia.” He reached out and
lovingly stroked my cheek. “I just worry about you,
Irina.
The guilt. I hated lying to him...but if he found out
about Angelo, he’d kill him. I smiled and led him out of
my bedroom, pushing him through the door first and
then following behind.
Just as I left the room, I glanced back and looked out of
the window. Angelo had come out from under the
balcony and stepped back enough that I could see him.
Our eyes locked and I felt that deep, irresistible tug.
Tomorrow, he mouthed, watching my reaction.
I nodded. What else could I do? I’d go to Little Italy. I’d
see whatever it was he wanted to show me. And then
I’d have to break up with him all over again because
there was nothing he could show me that was going to
change my mind.
But I was wrong. The next day changed everything.
19
Irina
I’d texted Angelo to tell him where and when I’d arrive.
I stepped out of the cab and straight into his arms.
“Someone will recognize me,” I said, my voice muffled
by his chest.
His big hand smoothed down my back, calming me. “I
barely recognize you,” he murmured in my ear.
I’d tied my hair back in a bun so that there were no
loose strands. With the hood of my hooded top raised,
you couldn’t even see I was blonde. Dark glasses
covered my eyes—luckily, it was a bright day and with
the sun glinting off the snow, plenty of people had
opted for sunglasses so it didn’t look completely
ridiculous. As long as I didn’t open my mouth, no one
would have any idea I was Russian.
Even so, being there on Arthur Avenue—the real Little
Italy, Angelo claimed—felt wrong. The street didn’t look
scary: it was busy despite the cold and the people
looked happy, nodding to each other as they hurried
between cafes and delis. But to me, this was enemy
territory.
The cab pulled away but Angelo kept holding me. His
big hands roamed down my back and over my ass. The
embrace changed. He drew me harder against him,
arms iron-hard against my back, and I felt the outline of
his cock through his pants. Then he was kissing me, his
tongue slipping into my mouth, and I melted against
him, forgetting my fears. When he reluctantly released
me, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it tight.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk.”
My stomach knotted tight. What was it he wanted to
show me? Whatever it was wouldn’t solve the problem:
we were still on opposite sides. But I fell into step
beside him.
First, we passed a cafe. The owner did a double-take as
we passed, then ran to the door. “Mr. Baroni!” he called.
“Wait!”
We stopped and waited—Angelo relaxed, me nervous. A
few seconds later, the cafe owner returned and pressed
espresso cups into our hands. “Please,” he said.
Angelo knocked his back and I hesitantly did the same.
It was rich and perfect with a kick that hit me a beat
later, warming me from the inside out, the perfect
counter to the icy air. Angelo patted the cafe owner on
the shoulder as he took the empty cups and the guy
almost bowed.
Seconds later, we passed through an indoor market.
Everyone wanted Angelo to try their fruit, or to give him
a free scarf to guard against the cold, or to just say
hello and tell him how they were doing.
It went on: store after store, street after street. Angelo
strode along with his coat billowing out behind him,
head high, regal and yet approachable...and everyone
approached him. Some had questions. Some had
concerns. Most just wanted to shake his hand.
These weren’t his friends, I slowly realized. These were
his subjects. And they worshipped their king. It was
awe-inspiring...and weirdly familiar, but I couldn’t think
where I’d seen something similar.
Then Angelo put his hand on my arm, stopping me. His
gaze was focused on the street corner up ahead. I
couldn’t figure out what he was staring at...then I saw
him, a thin guy leaning against a building, hands shoved
deep in his pockets. He was furtively scanning the
street...looking for customers, I realized.
Then he glanced in our direction, saw Angelo...and went
white. Angelo lifted his chin a millimeter, as if to say,
I’ve seen you.
The guy broke and ran. And that’s when I finally
understood. Angelo must have seen the look on my face