Staten Island, through investments and relationships. Boring, almost. If I had decided to take down the Lombardis, there would’ve been more of a fight, more of a challenge. But the prize at the end wouldn’t have been nearly as sweet.
“Why are you smiling, Boss?” Dmitri asked.
“Because of our success.” I turned to Artyom. “Has Feodor contacted you yet?”
Artyom bowed his head, trying to hide his irritation. My Obshchak and Sovietnik weren’t the best of friends but they both pushed aside their difference in personalities to do their jobs. I wouldn’t allow anything else. They were both too useful.
“He has. The horses are in transit. They will be here by—” The shrill ring of Artyom’s phone cut him off. Quietly, he excused himself, frowning faintly at the name on the screen. Most likely a spy of his calling.
Dmitri watched Artyom’s retreating back as he left the study. “He doesn’t like that girl being here.” He turned to me. “I don’t either.”
I raised an eyebrow at his tone.
“Watch yourself, Dima,” Roman warned.
His jaw sharpened but he bowed his head in apology. “I meant no disrespect, boss. But my wife and son are here, and so are two other women. They can’t protect themselves if Falcone’s widow brings trouble to our doorstep.”
“I understand your worries, Dmitri,” I told him. “But she stays.” I assessed my krysha. Dark bags beneath his eyes stained his pale cheeks. “Go and get some rest. The rest of the day will be about waiting; you don’t need to be awake for that.”
Dmitri didn’t relent. “You’re not worried about her spying on us? You really think her desire to be free will beat monetary gain? Or the satisfaction of seeing the man who killed her husband die?”
His questions came from worry and protectiveness, driven by exhaustion and strategy. That was why I didn’t react to his tone. In private, I was happy to debate and argue with my men, our brotherhood too strong from years of clawing for power to ever be threatened by a few rude comments.
After all, I didn’t value them for their passive obedience—what good was a warrior with no teeth?
Perhaps if Thaddeo had believed the same mantra, he would still have his territory and life.
And his wife.
“I’m not worried,” was my reply. “She will do anything to stay away from Chicago and gain her freedom.”
“How do you know that?” Dmitri asked.
Even Roman lifted his head at the question, eyes thirsty for answers.
I didn’t bother looking down at the papers in front of me. I could summon most of it by memory, the hard copy no longer needed. Academic papers were known for being non-biased documents, but if you read between the lines, you could peel away at the author. Solve them like an equation.
That had always been half of the fun of learning. Unraveling the author like a ball of yawn, finding out what made them tick, despite their best efforts to remain anonymous and push forward their ideas.
Those who didn’t want to be found were always the most satisfying to catch.
How did I know that Elena would not be a threat to my household, to my family? How did I know she wouldn’t spy on us and send all our secrets to Chicago? I had no doubt that if the Queen of Chicago asked her childhood friend for some information, Elena would happily oblige her.
I leaned back in my chair, smiling slightly. “You’re going to have to trust me.” At the twitch of Dmitri’s jaw, I leaned forward once more, catching his attention and saying seriously, “I won’t let any harm come to your wife and son.”
He bowed his head in response, looking slightly more relieved but not a lot.
Roman swung on his chair, leaning on the leg. When he was younger, he had fallen and split his head open dozens of times, but not as often as he had matured. “Danika likes her,” he said. “But Dani likes everyone.”
“She doesn’t like you,” Dmitri sniped.
Before he could snap back, the study door clicked and Artyom walked in, his expression grim. His knuckles were turning white with how hard he was gripping his phone.
I suspected what this was about before he said anything.
“Another woman has been killed.”
Roman leapt to his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him. Dmitri swore in Russian, tone harsh and cold. I stayed seated, unmoved, but I felt my features twist.
Deep inside me, barbaric anger began to boil.
I asked, “Who?”
Artyom stepped forward, releasing his phone and pushing it to the