He told me how he saw the car pull up alongside his parents’ car. How he’d known. And then the gunfire, a deafening roar, and every bit of glass in the SUV shattering. His dad had tried to drive away but had slammed into a fire hydrant after just a few seconds, unleashing a torrent of water. When Angelo reached the car, the gunmen had gone and his parents were dying, their car in a red-tinged lake of water and broken glass.
His mom died first. His dad lived just long enough to make him promise, to swear on his life, that he’d never let Russians take his turf.
“I hunted them,” Angelo told me. “Rico helped. I wiped out every last one of their gang and then took over from my dad.” He gently pushed me back and stared down at me. “Now do you get it?”
I nodded. “I do,” I said, my voice catching. “And I need to tell you something. So you’ll understand me.”
And I told him about rounding the corner into our street in Moscow and seeing first the blue lights of the fire service and then the cherry red of the flames. About running down the street and realizing that it wasn’t a mistake, that it was our townhouse that was burning, tongues of flames leaping up from every window. About searching the crowd of onlookers for my parents and not finding them.
The firefighters had already brought them out, their blackened bodies covered in sheets.
At the inquiry, the police said that my parents had passed out on a combination of booze and drugs and that’s why they hadn’t fled when the fire started. They showed the press photos of drug paraphernalia and empty bottles—all mysteriously unscathed by the fire—that they claimed had been found alongside my parents. My teetotal mom, who’d sworn off the booze a decade ago and my dad who was so anti-drug he’d grounded me for a solid month just because I tried weed at a party.
But no one cared about the facts. My dad was a well-known gangster. Who cared if him and his “girlfriend” (the press couldn’t understand the concept of a married gangster) killed themselves with drugs?
I hugged my sister Lizaveta tight and thanked God that she’d been at a sleepover that night. And I swore I’d get as far away from the gangster life as possible. Then Vasiliy took us in and that promise became impossible...even when I ran to America.
“Jesus,” muttered Angelo. His arms locked around my back, iron hard and unbreakable. His palms pumped warmth into my freezing body and his broad chest shielded me against the worst of the wind. Maybe we were different. But maybe we were different in just the right way. His parents’ death had pushed him one way, mine had pushed me the other. But our pain had the same source.
I had to try. “That guy who got shot tonight? His name’s Josef. He has a three year-old kid. A little girl. We nearly orphaned her tonight: she would have grown up wanting revenge. It’ll go on forever, generation after generation, until someone’s brave enough to say enough!”
“You want me to just walk away, like you did?” he asked.
I opened and closed my mouth a few times. Yes, I wanted to say. After all, that’s what I’d done: distance myself as much from Vasiliy as possible and refuse to be involved, even though it meant isolating myself. But now I thought about it, something about it felt wrong. I’d never questioned my decision before, but now…. “I want you to help me figure out how to end this without people getting killed,” I said instead.
He pulled away from me and paced, shoes crunching in the snow, then flung his arm out and pointed to the Statue of Liberty. “This is how it is in New York! Since the first of our guys came over on boats! It’s been going on for a hundred years! You think we can stop it? Just because I’m in—”
He stared at me. Drew in a shuddering breath.
“Because I’ve got fucking feelings for you?” he said at last.
I couldn’t think about the implications of what he’d nearly said. Not now. Not with everything that was on the line. I walked over to him and took his big, warm hands in my cold ones. “We need to do it because if we don’t, no one will,” I told him.
We stared at each other, eyes locked and neither willing to give ground. Then I remembered how he’d convinced me. “You took me to Little Italy,” I said. “Now let me show you something.” I gave him a wan smile. “Please? It’ll be like a date.” God, remember when this was just dating? When neither of us knew who the other one was? So much had changed...and so little. Despite everything, the sight of him standing there, black hair ruffled by the wind, white shirt stretched tight over that magnificent chest, still reduced me to mush.
His eyes flicked over me and on each pass his gaze grew hotter until I was almost squirming. I wasn’t even wearing anything special, just what I’d thrown on before running out of the house: a black dress and knee boots.
“Okay,” said Angelo. “Show me.”
28
Angelo
We climbed into my car and she guided me through the streets until we reached one that was little more than an alley. I frowned because I couldn’t see a sign or a doorway.
“Underground,” Irina told me, grinning. She pointed at the stone steps that led down. “Best place to be, when it’s cold. We have a lot of underground places in Russia.”
I stepped out into ankle-deep snow—the street was too small to have been swept yet. I walked around and opened Irina’s door for her...and the sight of her took my breath away. She twisted in her seat to climb out, her knees pressed demurely together. My eyes locked on the enticing slice of soft tan thigh visible between the hem of her tight black dress and the tops of her shining black knee boots. I was still getting over the knee boots. How had she known?
The wind was like a huge monster trying to squeeze its way down the narrow alley, shrieking as it was forced through metal fire escapes and rattling at dumpsters. It flattened our clothes against our bodies and whistled down our necks. I grimaced. I still hated winter. Irina, looking perfectly comfortable, smiled sympathetically. “Come on,” she said. “Inside.”
I hesitated when I saw the graffiti in Cyrillic beside the door. But I followed her down the stairs.
We emerged into a huge cellar. She was right: it was the best place to be. The thick stone walls stopped the cold dead: we couldn’t even hear the wind. And in the center of the room there was a huge open fireplace where thick logs of wood crackled and spat, yellow flames reaching up to a big metal hood that sucked away the smoke. Near the walls, there were small wooden tables lit by candles, mostly occupied by couples. Closer to the fire, people sprawled on beanbags and cushions.
All of them were Russian. I could hear the language all around me, heavy and brutal, those long “s”s that reminded me of rusty chains dragging someone down into dark water, the hard “k”s that were like a gun being cocked as it’s put to your temple. I had to stop myself reaching for my gun. My whole being was screaming at me to get out of there, telling me I was surrounded by the enemy.
There was shouting behind us. The three guys were talking in Russian but one...two...three! has the same feel whatever the language. I spun, expecting an ambush—
And watched as the three of them chugged their beers and then drunkenly cheered.
Irina pulled me over to the bar and got us a shot of vodka each, along with a beer. She clinked shot glasses with me and I knocked back the vodka: smooth and icy, with a scalding kick. Then she was leading me through the sea of bean bags and cushions, right into the center of a group of people. She sat us down on the one unoccupied beanbag, me sitting on my ass with her sitting between my legs. I glanced around, skittish and pissed. Out of my comfort zone didn’t begin to describe it. These were the people who’d invaded my country, stolen my territory, killed my parents….
And for the next four hours, I got to know them.
I met a few guys who worked down at the docks and another who was in med school. I met a violinist who went to Fenbrook and a stripper who was sinking all her earnings into property. I met a couple who were opening a cafe together and a single mom on a very rare night out.
I tried to hat
e them. I tried to remember every bit of shit that the Saints had said about them. I reminded myself that they were cold-hearted and disloyal, that Russians would turn on each other in a heartbeat. That’s why they bred gangsters who were so power-crazed and brutal.
But...none of that tallied with what I was hearing and seeing. The dock workers would have fit right in with the American guys I knew down there, bitching about the new safety laws and playing dumb pranks on each other. The stripper was smart as hell and was going to have a property empire in a few years if she kept it up, but she wasn’t callous or mean: she was leasing one of her places to a homeless shelter at a crazy low rate so that they could get people in out of the cold. And the couple who were opening a cafe were just as wide-eyed and naively-optimistic as any of the hundreds of American couples who try the same thing.
All of which made the nausea build in my stomach. They’re just like us.
And all of them were scared. The dock workers had nearly got into a fight with their Italian co-workers, because Mikhail’s thugs had shut down their favorite bookie. The stripper said she didn’t feel safe walking to her car anymore, because a couple of guys in the crowd—Italian guys—had called out some vicious shit when they realized she was Russian. The couple had been warned away from their first choice of cafe. They’d been told: that’s too close to Italian territory. Don’t you know 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 inside
s 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?
Moments later, another car filled with Vasiliy’s men pulled up, picked up Yuri and drove off after the Mercedes. Whatever he’d told Angelo, Vasiliy wasn’t risking showing up without backup. I wasn’t disappointed. That was just the way these things were done: one hand stretched out in greeting, the other ready behind your back with a knife.
What did that smile mean?
I knew that these sort of meets could turn bad in half a second, just as the one with the bikers had. If Angelo had any sense, he’d secretly take backup too. But it seemed like Vasiliy was at least willing to talk. It was Mikhail who was the problem. Mikhail wanted all-out war. He wanted every last scrap of Angelo’s territory—that’s why he’d formed the alliance with Vasiliy in the first place. He stood to lose everything he’d been fighting for...so why had he smiled?
Unless….
Unless he knew the meet was going to turn bad.
Unless he knew something that would turn Vasiliy against Angelo.
Unless he knew about us!
I stood staring out at the snow-covered street, my eyes widening. No. No way.
I started to panic breathe. My chest was heaving but I couldn’t fill my lungs. I frantically tried to rationalize it away. It makes no sense. If he knew, why wouldn’t he have told Vasiliy already? Why bother to even go to the meeting? I turned slowly away from the window, willing my heart to slow. Yes. That’s right. Of course he doesn’t know. I walked through to the kitchen and started making myself a coffee. I thought the problem was that all the lying had made me paranoid.
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