they hate us?
The war was only just starting and already it was
affecting civilians. What next? I could see it unfolding in
my head: some riled-up Italian dock worker smashing a
crowbar into one of the Russian’s heads, then
staggering back in shock as the guy’s body went limp;
the stripper trying to scream as she was pushed up
against a wall by drunken Italians who’d had their
businesses smashed up by Mikhail’s thugs; the couple
clutching at each other in fear as their brand new cafe
was torched in front of them.
I suddenly stood up, shaking my head, and made for
the exit. Irina scrambled after me, but I was almost
outside before she caught me.
“No,” I said before she could speak. “No way.” I turned
my back on the cellar bar, pulling my overcoat tight
around me. Jesus, it was cold. “I can’t have been
wrong. My dad can’t have been wrong.”
“Maybe he wasn’t wrong,” said Irina quietly. She nestled
against my side, her arm around my waist. “Did he hate
Russians, or just the gangsters he was fighting?”
I said nothing, just started walking along the sidewalk,
feeling her there beside me, but not able to meet her
eyes. I’d started to shiver despite my suit and thick coat.
Suddenly, I wasn’t sure of anything, anymore.
I went back to the days growing up in our tiny house.
My dad bitching about the gangsters he was fighting:
the Irish and the Triads and the Russians...but not the
people. Now that I forced myself to face the memories,
I couldn’t think of a single time where he’d looked down
on someone because of where they were from.
The Saints, though...they’d been full of hate. Especially
Nicky and Taavetti, even in those days. I’d gone to visit
them with my dad a few times and I remembered the
shit they talked about anyone who wasn’t "one of us.”
When my parents were killed, I’d been driven by rage.
I’d slain the Russians who’d murdered them, but that
wasn’t enough. I needed to keep satisfying the anger or
it might burn down and go out, and then I wouldn’t be
able to keep going. So it became about all Russian
gangsters. And then, as The Saints whispered more and
more in my ear, it became all Russians.
I stopped in my tracks, the snow scrunching under my
feet. My dad hadn’t hated...but I had.
I turned and looked at Irina. She looked up at me and
the hope I saw in her eyes tore me up inside. “I’ve been
an asshole,” I muttered.
“You were angry. You’ve been manipulated. And you are
all assholes, all of you gangsters. But you, I think, can
change. Find a way to work with Vasiliy. Talk peace with
him.”
The whole street seemed to spin around me. Talk peace
with Vasiliy?! What the fuck would I tell The Saints?
Rico? The rest of my guys? Giving ground was
unthinkable.
But letting this escalate into a full-blown war, with both
the Italian and Russian communities paying the
price...that was unthinkable, too. Shit. What the fuck am
I going to do?
Then the wind blew Irina’s hair towards me, the tips of
those platinum-blonde strands just brushing my face.
They were so soft, it was difficult to tell where the wind
ended and the hair began. My ice queen. The one who’d
started all this. Even if I made peace, being with her
was going to be almost impossible. But without peace,
there was no way we could be together at all.
I let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over my face.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll set up a meet.”
Irina pressed her body against mine, her warmth
comforting against my chest. Her arms slid under my
overcoat to wrap around my back. “Thank you,” she
whispered.
I pulled her even closer, until her breasts were pillowed
against my lower chest and the scent of her hair filled
my nose. “He can’t know,” I murmured. “Vasiliy can’t
know we’re together or it’ll blow everything. Even
afterwards. Even if we can be…”—I had to struggle with
the word—“allies. He’s still not going to like it.”
She nodded quickly. “I can live with keeping this a
secret. But not with one of you dying.”
My arms tightened around her. God, she was so brave. I
was worried about betraying my dad’s memory, or
pissing off Rico or The Saints. She was going against
her entire family.
29
Irina
I hadn’t planned on being there for the phone call. But
Vasiliy knocked at my door first thing in the morning,
Mikhail by his side, to talk to me about me moving into
his New York townhouse until “these problems with the
Italians are dealt with.” I tried to figure out how to
convince Vasiliy that Angelo wasn’t a threat to me
without letting on why.
Then Vasiliy’s phone rang and I saw him stiffen when he
heard the voice at the other end. Shit! Angelo! I turned
away quickly, terrified my expression would reveal
something. I wound up looking at Mikhail, who was
looking worried himself.
Vasiliy ended the call and then stood staring at the
phone for a few seconds. “That was Angelo Baroni,” he
said, his tone neutral. “He wants to talk peace.”
“It’s a trick,” said Mikhail immediately. “Baroni would
never make peace with us.”
Vasiliy looked across at him. “I thought so, too. But
perhaps we misjudged him. He wants to meet, just him
and us.”
Mikhail slapped Vasiliy’s arm with his fat, ham-like hand.
“We can crush this fucker, Vasiliy. He’s showing that
he’s weak. Let’s finish him and take his territory.” He
was grinning but I could see how pale he’d turned under
the bravado.
“We don’t need his territory,” said Vasiliy.
Mikhail’s eyes bugged out. “I need his fucking territory!
This isn’t just about your guns, Vasiliy! You backed me
so that I could take over his turf!”
“I backed you so that my family could have a firm
foothold in New York,” Vasiliy countered. “If we can do
that another way...” He shook his head. “It may be a
trick. But we should hear what Baroni has to say.”
Hope soared in my chest—it felt as if it was going to lift
me right off my feet. That sounded like the old Vasiliy,
the one I remembered. The elder statesman, the
diplomat, the businessman. It was everything I could do
to keep from grinning. Maybe, just maybe, this could all
work out.
But when I composed myself and dared to look up
again, I found myself looking right into Mikhail’s eyes.
He was glaring at me...but then he nodded to himself,
as if deciding something. “Fine,” he told Vasiliy. “Let’s
go.
Even Vasiliy seemed surprised by the sudden about-
face. But he took out his phone again to call Angelo
back, already leading the way to the door.
It was when Mikhail was closing the door behind them
that it happened. He glanced up at me...and smiled.
Not the lecherous smile he normally gave me, the one
that told me he was imagining running his flabby hands
up the insides of my thighs. A smile I’d never seen
before. A smile of victory.
It was so unexpected that I didn’t have time to react.
The door closed and I stood there stupidly, watching
them climb into Vasiliy’s Mercedes. I watched them talk
to Yuri, no doubt explaining the plan, then Yuri climbed
out and just Vasiliy and Mikhail drove off to meet
Angelo.
What did that smile mean?