by Naomi West
"That makes me so glad to hear," I say, feeling much, much better. "I was worried you'd be upset or something."
"I mean, I'm a little mad that he's not doing the big wedding thing, but Michal's never been the type for that. But getting married and trying to get out of …the business—that’s all so great to hear."
"Do you think your father will be mad?" I ask.
Danica waves the comment away.
"He's a grown-up; he'll get over it. Men like him don't ever retire, anyway; they work until they drop."
"But what about the business?"
"Michal will get it when our father dies, and he can do whatever he wants with it. He can probably just sell it to the Irish; they'd be happy to buy out the competition."
I'm overjoyed. Danica orders a couple of glasses of champagne, and we make a toast.
"To your wonderful future," she says, raising her glass.
"Cheers."
Chapter Seventeen
Danica
Eloping. It took every bit of restraint I had to not explode at Alina the moment the word left her mouth. I couldn't believe it—both that she was planning to do it and that she was stupid enough to tell me. Then again, I had her pegged as a naïve little girl from the moment I saw those big, Disney princess eyes. It's really not surprising that she thinks I am a friend who she can share her deepest secrets with.
But what does she think I'm going to do, let her bat her eyelashes at my brother and get him to throw away our family business? Not goddamn likely. So, right after I dropped blondie off, I was on the phone with my father, telling him everything that Alina had told me. I knew I had to tell him, but all the same, I was happy that I didn't have to do it in person. Despite talking to him on the phone, I could see the expression of pure anger that undoubtedly formed on his face as I told him that his only son was planning on ditching the family business for some little tart from the home country.
"Come to my apartment. Now," he says.
Why he wants me to tell him the rest of the details in person, I can’t say. Regardless, I drive to the massive tower where my father's penthouse apartment is, and soon after, I'm riding the elevator up to his floor. Anxiety is quaking in my stomach.
What do I have to be nervous about? I think to myself. Michal's the one in deep shit.
The silver doors of the elevator slide open, revealing the spacious, luxury penthouse where my father lives. Even though I've been here countless times, the apartment still takes my breath away. The place is positively cavernous, a massive, wide-open space decorated with old-world sophistication. My feet echo on the hardwood floor as I walk in, the twenty-foot ceilings making me feel like I'm entering some kind of ballroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city, the view so incredible that I almost swear I can see the far away spires of New York if I look hard enough.
Near the far-right end of the windows, I can see the blood-red, high-backed chair that my father likes to sit in. Sure enough, he's there, a glass of something in his hand.
"Danny," he says, raising his voice slightly over the classical music wafting through the apartment.
"Hello, Papa," I say, walking towards him.
I arrive at his chair and stand next to him, looking out over the city. A tense moment passes; I worry that he'll take out his anger for the Michal situation on me. But then I think better of it—I’ve always been his little girl; the wrathful side of my father is a side of him that he shows to everyone but me.
"Michal," he says, the name laced with venom.
"It's unfortunate," I say, my eyes fixed forward. "He seemed to be making such good progress."
"I was a goddamn fool," my father says. "That girl—that stupid little girl. Sure, I knew that he was sweet on her, but I figured that she could be used as a bargaining chip—a little something nice to throw him to motivate him to start thinking about the future. I worried that she might be a distraction, but I didn't dream that she'd be a liability."
"And she's exactly that," I say, Alina’s pretty face floating in my mind. "She's got Michal thinking he can leave the business behind; this is all her doing."
My father takes a slow sip of his drink.
"Michal is getting sloppy," he says. "I asked him to put the squeeze on the Donahues, to get them softened up so that when the war came, we'd be able to take them out once and for all. But, instead, they now know that Michal's been behind everything."
My eyes go wide. War with the Donahues at this point in time would be catastrophic.
"But what about the treaty?"
"Hanging by a thread," says my father. "Eamon's a moron, but even he can see the writing on the wall. So, he wants Michal."
"And you're just going to give him to Eamon?"
"It may very well come to that."
My blood runs cold. I know what this means.
My father rises from his chair and walks to the window, taking a sip from his drink as he does so.
"I had big plans for you," he says. "I wanted you to be the normal one in the family—the one who was able to leave all of this and be untouched by it. I imagined you married to a Wall Street man, owner of a nice townhome in the Upper West Side, and mother of a few kids. But I'm afraid fate has different ideas for all of us."
I take a slow, deep breath.
"Michal is my son, and I'm going to try to see him through this. But if the unthinkable happens, you're going to be the one to take his place."
My heart is racing.
These are the words I've been waiting to hear—the words that I dared not even fantasize about.
"I'll do whatever the family needs," I say, keeping my excitement in check.
My father turns to me, his face in a grave expression.
"An answer like that is precisely why I know that our business would be in good hands with you at its head."
I've always dreamed about this day—the day that father realized that I, not Michal, am the right choice to lead this family. And now that it's here, a joy that I can hardly believe runs through my body like warm electricity.
"And the girl?" I ask.
"She'll be out of the picture."
I wince a little at this. Sure, Alina is naïve and clearly not cut out for this life, but she's bright and has a good head on her shoulders. Oh well.
"What are you planning on doing?" I ask, letting my curiosity get the better of me.
"Don't worry about the details," says my father. "And don't get ahead of yourself. If I can smooth things over with the Donahues and set Michal straight, that's what I'll do. I simply want you to know what may lie ahead for you."
Michal is family, sure, but I know that I'm more suited for the job. Michal can be soft and unwilling to do what needs to be done to run an operation like this. And his weakness …his love for this girl --- that tells me everything I need to know.
"I've sent Michal on a last-minute trip to Chicago under the pretense of speaking with some of the clients of the legitimate side of our business. While he's gone, this Alina situation will be taken care of. I hope you weren't too fond of her."
"I have enough friends," I say.
"Good," says my father. "Then let's not waste another minute."
Chapter Eighteen
Michal
The plane flies steadily through the night sky on the return flight back from Chicago. As I look out of the window onto the stretch of Pennsylvania landscape stretching out under me, I wonder why my father even sent me on this trip. The job, if it could even be called that, was simple glad-handing, checking in with some clients who we recently signed a construction contract with and making sure they are happy with the arrangement. I took them out for dinner, asked if they had any concerns about the impending projects, and made the sort of small talk that I normally hate. Sure enough, all was well, and as we ate, I couldn't help but feel as though they were wondering just as much as I was why I'd bothered to come out.
Surely father could've sent any of the lower-level men out to do th
is job, I think, sipping on my Jack Daniels from the flimsy plastic cup before me.
Soon, the plan is on the ground. I collect my bag, annoyed by the whole process. And what's more, I haven’t heard from Alina at all today. I texted her this morning, asking her about one thing or another, and heard back nothing. Then, I texted her once again before I got on the plane, letting her know that the flight was leaving on time. When I got off the plane I slipped my phone out of my pocket and, as soon as I had reception once again, checked, but saw nothing.
I know that I'm being foolish, but I can't help but feel a little worried. It’s not like her to simply leave texts unanswered. I make my way to my car, talking some sense into myself. I think about getting home and seeing Alina once again. I shake my head as I turn the car on, wondering how I got to be so sappy; I feel like a little kid in love for the first time.
Pulling into the driveway, I get out of my car and bound up the stairs, my bags in my hands. Opening the door, I step into my house, only to be greeted with silence.
"Alina?" I say into the entrance hall, my voice echoing in the silence.
No response. I pull my phone out of my pocket so quickly that I nearly drop it. Looking at the screen, I confirm once again that she hasn't called or messaged.
I'm starting to become worried.
Leaving my bags at the front door, I make my way through the house at a quick pace, scanning each room for any sign of her. But she's nowhere to be found; it's like she vanished without a trace. I step out back by the pool, just in case she's back there, but I find nothing but the still, clear water. My stomach begins to tingle with fear; this is unlike me. I've been spending the last couple of weeks putting the squeeze to the Donahues without even breaking a sweat. Only now, upon coming home and seeing that Alina has vanished into thin air, do I begin to feel worried about anything.
I check the bedroom that she had stayed in when she first arrived. I look for a note—maybe something explaining that she lost her nerve and is making a break for it across the country or something. It would kill me to read this, but at least I would know she's safe. Scanning the room over and over, I find nothing.
Then it occurs to me: the Donahues. I know that I've been sloppy with the attacks on the businesses. I've left too many broken limbs and made too many threats for them to not have figured out that it is the son of the head of the Nowaks who is behind it all. I've been sloppy, and now I might be paying the price.
But there's no sign of a break-in or struggle. It looks as though Alina left on her own.
Or she left with someone.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial Danica. Is it possible that they took a weekend trip to New York?
The phone rings as I pace around the entrance hallway.
"Hi, Michal," says Danica on the other end, finally answering.
"Hey, Dani," I say. "You haven't spoken to Alina recently, have you? I just got back from Chicago and I can't find her anywhere."
A long moment passes. I feel my blood begin to run cold.
"You need to talk to Dad," she says after a time.
"Why?" I ask. "What does Dad know about Alina?"
"Just give him a call. Trust me. You and he have important matters to discuss."
Then the line dies.
I'm feeling frantic at this point. Pulling up my father's number, I can barely think straight. The phone rings a few times—too many times—before my father picks up.
"There you are," comes his thick, oily voice from the other end. "How was Chicago?"
"Where's Alina?" I asked, brushing away the small talk.
"Come to my apartment," he says. "We have much to talk about."
Then, just as with Danica, the line goes dead without another word.
I stand in place for a few moments, almost feeling as though I might crush the phone in my hand. What my father has done, I can only guess, but I begin to understand that whatever he's done, sending me to Chicago was a ruse so I wouldn't be here to witness his plan's execution.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket and grabbing my keys, I dash to my garage. My eyes fall upon my jet-black Ducati motorcycle, and within moments, I'm gunning the engine and peeling out of the driveway. Soon, I'm whipping down the curved roads of my neighborhood, my mind racing with thoughts of what I'm going to say to my father when I arrive at his office.
What could he have done? I wonder. What kind of game is he playing? Is he claiming Alina for his own after all this time?
But the thought strikes me that Alina might've revealed our plans to be wed. If she did …
I shake the thoughts from my head as I weave through traffic, the towers of downtown pulling into view. Soon, I'm at my father's building. I pull into a spot and walk as fast as I can to the entrance without outright running. Moments later, I'm in the elevator leading to his penthouse, and when the silver doors slide open, I burst into the apartment, dropping my motorcycle helmet onto the floor as I enter. My eyes scan the place and I see my father standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city, his hands clasped behind his back. Opera music fills the air, the twin voices of two sopranos weaving and coiling around each other, a simple piano backing accompanying them.
"Where is she?" I demand, stepping into the center of the apartment, the glittering stretch of the city a backdrop to my father's figure.
"Have a seat," he says, not turning around, his voice calm.
"Tell me where Alina is," I say, not moving an inch.
"Sit," he says, his tone now stern.
I know that there's no getting around this. I walk to one of the high-backed, nineteenth-century chairs and sit down, crossing my legs in impatience. And as I sit, I look across the apartment and spot Danica. She's sitting in father's chair, overlooking the city, a glass of white wine in her hand. She's looking at me with narrowed eyes, a small smirk on her face.
"What is she doing here?" I ask, pointing to my sister.
But before Danica can speak for herself, my father responds.
"This is not a conversation," he says. "You're going to sit in that chair, have a drink, and listen to your father. I want not a single word out of your mouth until I ask for it."
I grit my teeth and say nothing; I know my father well enough to realize when it's time to do what he says. And if he knows where Alina is, he's holding all of the cards.
"Dani, be a good girl and fetch your brother a drink."
Dani, that same sly smile on her face, rises from her seat and toward the large, ornate bar on the other side of the room.
"What is it, Michal?" she asks, her tone prim. "A little scotch and water? No, I think some vodka is what you need."
Moments later, she's walking toward me, a glass of vodka in her hand so clear that it seems to sparkle. She hands it to me mid-turn, and without thinking, I bring it to my lips and take a sip. The drink is cool and refreshing, but does nothing to put out the fire raging within me.
Finally, my father turns away from the window. A small set of stairs lead to the area where he’s standing, giving him the effect of looming over me. I wonder just how many negotiations he's had with people sitting where I'm sitting, my father standing where he's standing.
"Have I ever told you how lucky you are to have a father?" he asks.
He lets the words hang in the air as he takes a slow sip from his drink.
"My father, your grandfather, well, we know very little about him, as you well know. He met your grandmother when they were very young, and after a whirlwind courtship, as she puts it, she was pregnant with me. They were married, of course, as was to be expected back then, but only after your grandmother and he were married did she learn just how a young man like him with no education could afford the lavish lifestyle that he was so eager to treat her to: he was a petty criminal."
"He was young—very young—when he was killed. A miserable little history—he was handing off a payment to his superior when, right at that moment, a scorned lover who had it out for the m
an to whom my father was delivering the money arrived. Girls who get involved in our lifestyle get tossed back and forth, you see. They love the status just as much as we do. But they can be very fickle, as my father's murderer had learned."
"Anyway, the man puts a pair of rounds through my father's boss' forehead, killing him on the spot. Then, he sees my father, your grandfather, standing there like a scared little calf, his youthful face dappled with blood, the brown paper bag containing the payment clenched in his hand. The murderer, seeing an opportunity, turns his gun on my father, puts another round right between his eyes, and takes the money."