Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1)

by Bethany-Kris

  Well, then …

  “I want a guarantee, if I agree,” Alberto said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Markovic Bratva stays out of Brooklyn, barring Little Odessa, of course. Even your businesses and your men’s businesses. I know you simply use Little Odessa as the home base to your operation. You don’t need territory, being an arms trafficker, Vasily. Most of your work is done out of state and country.”

  “I’m fine with that demand,” the Russian said. “As long as Coney Island can remain a no man’s zone. No one owns it, so to speak. And while Brooklyn remains your territory, I want a guarantee we can still come and go for personal reasons … safely.”

  It didn’t escape Alberto’s notice that Vasily hadn’t confirmed or denied his hand in the arms trade, but he didn’t bother to call him on it.

  “Of course, I’ll steer clear of you and yours, and this,” Albert said, and gestured around them, “will never have to happen again.”

  A nod from the Russian.

  What Vasily was asking for, would be no easy task to complete. Alberto knew firsthand the level of protection one needed as the boss. If Gavrill were half as smart as Alberto thought he was, the man would be surrounded at all times. It wouldn’t be easy, what Alberto was agreeing to, but if it meant his city would finally sleep, he was willing to take the risk.

  That, and more.

  Alberto also knew that no one could ever know about what had transpired between him and the Russian in this cemetery with their children playing just feet away. It would look shameful for an Italian Don to work with a Russian for any reason, even if it was to his benefit. And he strongly believed that Vasily would feel a similar shame from his people, should it come out that he had worked with an Italian to have his brother killed so that he could take the man’s spot in his organization.

  No one could know.

  “I’ll see it done,” Alberto said.

  Alberto extended a hand, waiting for Vasily to accept and seal the deal between them. With the slightest of smiles, if the dark amusement on his face could be considered one, Vasily gripped his hand. For the first time, Alberto noticed the spider inked on the back of his hand.

  It was only a second before Vasily was pulling his hand away, but the sight of it sent a shiver of apprehension through him.

  Along came a spider …

  Alberto had only heard the saying once, but it had never resonated in him the way it did just then. Some spiders were innocent, but others ... others were deadly. The Russian’s chiming phone had him stepping off to the side.

  Alberto quickly made his way off the path and strolled toward his still-animated, happy daughter. She was kicking her legs to and fro, her head tipped back, and her smile was so wide it could outshine the sun. The boy at her side was smiling, too.

  “It does not,” he heard the boy say.

  “Does too,” Violet said in her sing-song way. “Brown, red, orange, and yellow. Everywhere.”

  Alberto stopped walking, confused. What was his child doing?

  “What about the sky?” Kazimir asked.

  “Gray—like your daddy’s eyes.”

  Kazimir’s brow puckered. “But the grass is still green?”

  “Very green. Like your jacket.”

  Violet closed her eyes, still kicking her legs and smiling.

  “Where is the sun, then?” the boy asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Violet laughed. “I closed my eyes, so now I can’t see it, either.”

  “But you were supposed to be helping me see, Violet.”

  Alberto watched his daughter’s eyes pop back open instantly.

  “It’s hiding behind the clouds,” she said. “But we’ll find it again.”

  Alberto didn’t quite know what to think. Children weren’t like adults. They didn’t understand the boundaries between cultures, and surely not ones as difficult as Cosa Nostra and Bratva.

  But there his girl was, helping a Russian boy to see, in her own little way.

  It was still time to go.

  “Violet,” Alberto called. “It’s time to go have some gelato.”

  Kazimir frowned.

  Violet jumped off the bench without argument. “Next time, Kaz.”

  “Okay,” the boy agreed, his frown fading.

  Alberto didn't correct the children.

  Life would teach them.

  It always did.

  Her father was going to kill her, if the alcohol didn’t first.

  Violet Gallucci had waited for this day—the day she finally turned twenty-one—counting down until she was able to taste the freedom that her birthday brought. Until now, she had been confined to the places her father deemed appropriate. And when it wasn’t him breathing down her neck, it was her brother, Carmine.

  And she had toed the line, doing exactly what was asked of her, even as she had rebelled in small ways.

  But tonight, she was pushing the boundaries as far as they would go, teetering on the edge. Violet might have known what her father would say if he knew where she was headed, buckled into the backseat of the cab with two of her best friends, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Amelia was to her left, texting away on her phone. She was oblivious to everything around them, her brows drawn together as she read whatever excuse her boyfriend, Franco, was feeding her as to why they wouldn’t be able to hang out later.

  Then there was Nicole to her right, whose gaze was rapt on the passenger window, watching the city pass them by as they sped toward the outer limits of Brooklyn to Coney Island. She was the quietest of the three, and the one most anxious about where they were going, but being the good friend that she was, she’d dutifully come along.

  And right in the middle, was Violet. She had been nervous before they left, but a shot of raspberry tequila had fixed that and now she was just bubbling with excitement. It wasn’t just the club they were heading to that had her adrenaline flowing, it was the risk—the thrill of something she knew was against the rules.

  But, she never outright broke the rules her father had set forth, merely bent them a little.

  “Franco is an asshole,” Amelia muttered with a frown as she locked the screen of her phone and dropped it in her lap. “Remind me again why I put up with his shit?”

  “Because you love him?” Violet asked.

  “Because he’s the only one of your boyfriends that your father approved of,” Nicole supplied, finally looking away from the passing scenery and to her friend.

  “That’s not entirely true,” Violet said. “He liked … what was his name, Ben?”

  Amelia made a face. “Because he was a political trust fund baby.”

  Violet shrugged. “He still approved.”

  Amelia scowled as her phone buzzed again, her attention on whatever message had come in. Nicole tossed Violet a look, rolling her green eyes.

  “Still loves him,” Violet said, too quietly for Amelia to hear.

  Nicole shook her head. “Not the kind of man to love.”

  Amelia didn’t seem to notice her friends’ discussion, or she just didn’t care, with her phone in her hand and Franco giving her his time.

  The three girls had been friends for longer than Violet could remember. She had memories of playing in the middle of a giant pile of tulle ballet skirts, dressing up with her mother’s shoes, and stealing the makeup from her vanity. All those memories featured Nicole, Amelia, or both, in some capacity.

  In a way, her best friends had been picked for her.

  Violet knew it was true.

  Alberto, her father, kept Violet on a leash that was shorter than anyone actually knew. Sometimes it didn’t seem like it was there, but it was. Her friends were just one example of that.

  The Gallucci family had a lot of rules, but only one was really important for Violet to follow: she didn’t see, hear, or know a thing. From the time she was young, she knew that was the only thing her f
ather really cared for her to learn. The rest of the rules came along after.

  But some things couldn't be ignored. And with readily available Internet at Violet’s fingertips, and her family being a sort of dynasty in New York, there was only so much pretending she could actually do. When new people learned her name, or even her father’s, she answered their questions with a shrug and a smile.

  She knew who her father was.

  She knew what he did.

  She just wasn’t supposed to.

  Cosa Nostra wasn’t meant for girls, after all.

  Both Nicole and Amelia were the daughters of her father’s right and left-hand men. And because of that, they had been placed in Violet’s path from the time she could walk. They were respectable, acceptable, Catholic, Italian girls that understood the secret, sometimes smothering, lifestyle that Violet was surrounded by.

  They lived it, too.

  “So … where’s your brother tonight?” Nicole asked.

  Violet passed her not-so-subtle friend a look. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Curious.”

  “You should drop his ass before it becomes a habit,” Violet said.

  Nicole lifted a single shoulder in response. “He makes it easy.”

  Because he was easy.

  To anything with legs and tits.

  Violet forced herself to swallow those words back. She wasn’t particularly close to her brother, being that he was six years older than her, but his attitude didn’t help most days. Carmine felt like it was his personal duty to make sure his sister was staying out of trouble and keeping her nose clean.

  Nothing irritated her more.

  Nicole was the perfect example. If it was Violet who was running around with some guy, her brother would probably take offense. But his choice to run around with a girl was perfectly acceptable and none of her business.

  Not that Violet wanted to know what Nicole did with her brother.

  “You’re not telling Franco where we’re going, right?” Violet asked Amelia.

  Her other friend glanced up from her phone again. “Why, so he can gain himself some brownie points with my dad and yours by ratting us out?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Don’t worry,” Amelia said. “I was only trying to get him to meet up with me later.”

  Violet checked out the window, looking for a sign of how close they were to their destination. It couldn’t be far—maybe another ten minutes.

  Then she could forget about how she was failing several of her classes, how her father was going to flip when he found out, and about everything else that was stressing her out.

  She just wanted to party a little.

  That’s what being twenty-one was for, right?

  Who cared if Coney Island was no man’s land and off-limits for a principessa della mafia?

  The loud crunch of bone was enough to make even the strongest of men flinch, but as Kazimir Markovic—or Kaz, to those that knew him well—straightened, flexing the fingers of the fist he had launched into the man’s face, he didn’t look bothered at all.

  “Was that really necessary?” Abram asked from his position in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he regarded the scene with thinly-veiled amusement. “He was just about to tell us the good news, isn’t that right, Marcus?”

  Kaz and Abram both looked to the man sprawled on the floor, one hand cradling his face as he groaned in pain. His shirt was wrinkled from Kaz’s former hold on him, and spattered with his own blood. His nose had already been broken, the soft cartilage giving way beneath Kaz’s strength.

  Contrary to popular belief, Kaz wasn’t as violent as people made him out to be. He much preferred using rationale and reason to get the things he wanted from others, and that had served him well over the years.

  But tonight, he was in no mood.

  The last thing he wanted to be doing was tracking down men like Marcus to find out where his money was. He liked to think he was a patient man, giving those that owed him a chance to pay their debts before he came to seek them out.

  Except, Marcus had chosen to duck and dodge him for the last three weeks, practically a ghost in a city where no one could hide—at least not from Kaz.

  When he had gotten the phone call from Abram that Marcus had been found and instructions were needed, Kaz had to postpone the meeting with his brother to deal with this bullshit.

  And if there was one thing Kaz hated, it was being late for a prior engagement.

  So, no. His patience was gone, and the last thing he wanted to hear from Marcus was another excuse.

  “I-I’ve got your money,” Marcus stuttered out, holding an arm out in front of him, as though that might help ward off any more blows from Kaz. “Please, I can get you—”

  “Zatknis’—shut up.” Reaching into his coat pocket, Kaz pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, tossing it down on the man. “Clean yourself up.”

  The portly man rushed to obey, his hands shaking with fear of what Kaz might do next. It wasn’t often that a man broke your nose, and then gave you something to clean up the blood.

  “Here’s how this works. Abram here is going to escort you to your office, your home, or to wherever the fuck it is you keep your money. You hand him over what you owe, plus twenty percent for wasting my time, and I won’t cut off your fingers. Understood?”

  Marcus nodded, still holding the handkerchief to his face.

  “Good.”

  Kaz glanced back to Abram, who looked far too amused by it all and gestured with a tilt of his head for the man to follow him toward the exit. Neither had to worry about Marcus trying to make a run for it, though it would have been entertaining to watch.

  “See this done. I have a meeting I’m overdue for.”

  Abram nodded once. “Right. Take it easy, Cap.”

  Kaz frowned as he watched the man head back toward Marcus, whistling beneath his breath. He had always hated that nickname, ‘Cap,’ but Abram insisted on calling him that—his idea of showing him respect since he was a brigadier—or Captain—in the Markovic Bratva. And no matter how often Kaz asked—or demanded, depending on who you asked—he still did it.

  Putting Marcus out of his mind for the time being, Kaz headed out into the night, breathing in the cold air as a wind blew over the vacant parking lot. Across the way sat his baby, the one thing that never failed to make him smile. It had been a present to himself after he’d received his stars.

  A matte black, fully customized Porsche Carrera GT.

  It was ostentatious to say the least, and when his father had seen it for the first time, he hadn’t approved, but he didn’t bother trying to tell Kaz to get rid of it—he knew the request would go unheeded.

  Hitting the unlock button on the fob he carried, Kaz slid inside. He slid the key inside the ignition and started her up. The low hum of the engine was like music to his ears as he pulled out of the lot, heading toward his brother’s nightclub in Coney Island.

  It was rare that Kaz visited him there, especially when Sonder was open for business. He wasn’t usually one for the nightlife scene, but whatever his older brother asked of him, he usually provided.

  He owed him that much …

  Kaz had only been driving for a handful of minutes when his phone rang. He took one hand off the wheel, dug his phone out, and read the name that flashed across the screen. He thought of not answering and letting it go to voicemail, but Vasily Markovic was not one to be kept waiting. And even if he did ignore the call, Vasily would just call back until he answered.

  Sliding his finger across the screen, he connected the call. “Kaz.”

  “What have I told you about this?” His father’s voice came in loud on the stereo of his car. “Your mother named you Kazimir, act like it.”

  This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Then again, there was very little about him that his father didn’t take issue with.

  “Have you seen to the new storage?”


  That was code for: 'Did you make Marcus regret not paying on time?’ “It’s under control.”

  “Good. And the shipment from Dulles?”

  “Secured.”

  That was the way these things worked. It was one thing to say that Kaz was a shit son, but no one could ever say that he took his position in the Bratva lightly. Not anymore. This was what he lived and breathed, the only thing he was sure of lately.

  Truthfully, the Bratva was the only thing he and Vasily had in common.

  His earliest memories were of Vasily’s role in the Bratva. From the time when he was his brother, Gavrill’s, sovetnik, or right hand, to when he became the acting Pakhan, the boss, after Gavrill’s death. Sometimes, Kaz thought Vasily was a better boss than he was a father—and there was a strong chance that Vasily felt the same way about him.

  To say that they didn’t get along outside of their mutual responsibility to the Bratva was an understatement.

  “You’re meeting with Ruslan soon, no?” Vasily asked.

  Kaz heard it, even if he didn’t want to, the derision in his father’s tone when he said his brother’s name. For those that didn’t know the man, they might have missed it, but Kaz had his whole life to study him. He could practically see the slight curl to his lip that Kaz was sure would be there if they were in the same room together.

  But Kaz never called him out on it, he bit his tongue.

  He bit his tongue about a lot of things.

  “I am.”

  Vasily was quiet for a moment. “Be careful out there. Stay mindful of where the lines lay.”

  He received that warning any time he ventured anywhere near Brooklyn, although he did go further in from time to time for personal reasons. Back when he was younger, before he could understand what the Bratva meant, a truce had been called between his father and Alberto Gallucci, head of the Gallucci Crime Family. The years before it had been wrought with tension, the animosity escalating to heights of which people hadn’t seen since the Valentine’s Day massacre.

  Even Kaz had felt the unforgiving hand of what an escalating turf war could do to a city. Sometimes, as he lay awake at night, he could still feel the heat of the blast on his face.