I could see Tatiana sleeping inside and check that she was fine. I sent a quick message to Dmitri, much to the incredulity of Elena.
“She’s fine.”
“Dmitri worries. Is he allowed to?” I asked her.
Elena huffed and turned back to her book, dismissing me. As I rose to my feet, she asked, “What did Giovanni say?”
“Not much. But it’s clear he’s not pleased with the threat against his daughter.”
“Should he be?”
“Of course not,” I said. “He also confirmed his intention to take part of New York.”
Elena used her book to shield her eyes from the sun. I stepped to the side, blocking the rays for her. “Did he say where?”
“No. But the most logical choice would be the Lombardis.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Most logical choice? Why do you say that like you know that for a fact? I thought the Lombardis were strong.”
“Strong, but not the strongest. In fact, compared to the other three families, the Lombardis have very little power,” I confirmed. “A change in leadership is inevitable.”
Realization danced over her expression. Elena had never been slow at understanding meanings behind my words—or anybody’s. “You were going to take the Lombardis’ territory. Why didn’t you?”
“They didn’t have everything I wanted.” I met her eyes, looming over her. Her breath caught. “But the Falcones did.”
“Like the key?”
“One reason,” I murmured. “But not the main one.”
Elena swallowed. “Konstantin, I have to tell you something—”
Anton came bounding over, disrupting us both with a loud, “Uncle Kostya, Auntie Lena.” He threw himself down beside Elena, cheeks flushed with delight. “Where’s Mama?”
“She’s having a nap,” Elena said. “I think we should let her rest.”
“And sister Nika?”
“She’s also napping,” I confirmed, when Elena’s brow furrowed at Anton’s lack of understanding about babies in the womb.
Anton got back to his feet, something capturing his attention. “Okay!” He darted back into the overgrown garden.
I stood taller, checking for him. I could spot his little dark head moving amongst the flowers, joined by his puppy companion.
Elena steadied herself on her elbows, searching for him. A new word had appeared on her wrist: phylum.
“I didn’t know Danika was so successful with her interrogations,” she said, moving from one topic to another with the speed of lightning.
“She can get anything out of anyone,” I agreed. “Only a few have managed to remain immune to her charm.”
“Roman?”
I smiled, capturing her eyes. She almost smiled back. “Roman, yes.”
“I have a theory it is because he’s so hard-headed.”
“Oh? Perhaps you’re right.”
This time she did smile slightly. “Are you immune to Danika?”
“I’m not sure. She has never tried to charm me—we have always been friends before boss and interrogator.” I held her gaze. “You’re immune to her.”
“I’m not. I just know when she’s trying to get something out of me.”
“Is resistance not the same as immunity?”
Elena glanced out at Anton, his giggles rising above the plants. Something flickered in her expression, and she said quietly, “No. No, it’s not.”
A voice called out across the garden, and Tatiana joined us. Her hand rested on her swollen stomach, cradling it the same way she had done when she was pregnant with Anton.
“Is he behaving?” Tatiana asked.
“Always,” I said. Elena nodded in agreement.
Tatiana put two hands to her stomach and laughed softly. “She’s kicking again. Honestly, Elena, it is you.” She smiled down at her. “Do you know your Auntie Lena, Nikola?”
Elena’s expression tightened but she did not deny her title as Auntie Lena.
I searched her beautiful features, the freckled olive skin and eyes the color of ferns. Elena had never mentioned a deep connection to her family and had vocally hated Thaddeo, but she had blended well into this family, gaining the trust and love of Danika and Roksana easily, followed by Tatiana, Roman and even Artyom.
Babushka and Dmitri were the only ones holding out, unsure what to make of the newcomer.
As for me, Elena had already been a part of me, deserving of my love and trust, since the day I picked up her thoughts in the shape of an academic article.
20
Elena Falcone
I was standing in my childhood dining room.
I had hated this place growing up, hated the chairs and chandelier and table with a fierceness that the intimate objects hadn’t deserved. Hours I had spent angrily scanning the walls out of boredom, counting all the holes (37) and dents (17). I had catapulted 54 peas into the chandelier and hidden 12 broccolis under the chair.
Like another part of my memory, my father formed from the wall and into his chair. He always