Kissing The Enemy

by Helena Newbury

  Yuri shook his head sadly. “No. It would have been. But he had someone else who kept him balanced. Until she pulled away.”

  “A lover?” I asked in wonder. “A mistress?”

  Yuri gently put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes.

  “Me?!” I croaked.

  He nodded.

  I blinked at him and stepped back, my head spinning. He gazed at me sadly as I stumbled off down the hallway.

  Me? I’d been responsible for keeping Vasiliy moderated all those years?

  But it made sense. When he first took Lizaveta and me under his protection, his wife had been dead a few years and he’d seemed cold and distant. But the shock of our parents’ deaths and suddenly having two girls under his roof had jolted him off the path he’d been on. And as I became involved in the business he’d gradually warmed. Yuri was right: I’d been his conscience, his light in the darkness, just as his wife had been.

  I’d thought that I hated our family because I’d been constantly arguing with him. Now I realized that that was my purpose: I was his counterbalance. How many times had he stepped back from some vicious course of action because I’d told him it was too cruel? How many times had I unwittingly defused a situation, just by being there for him to vent to over a game of chess?

  I’d pulled away from my family. I’d dreamed of freedom and New York and isolated myself from Vasiliy more and more. And then I’d wondered why he became colder and colder.

  My whole view of the last few years twisted around, reversing itself. All those things Vasiliy had done that drove me crazy: following me to New York, visiting all the time...God, even my arranged marriage with Mikhail. They were all ways of staying close to me. Subconsciously, he knew he needed me, even if he’d never admit it. And the harder he’d tried to keep me close, the more I’d pulled away.

  The realization hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer: this whole aggressive expansion into New York, the partnership with Mikhail, the gang war we were now in: none of this would have happened if I’d been there to calm him, to be his warmth and his conscience. I’d always said I didn’t want to be a Malakov: I hadn’t understood that I was a vital part of the mixture that made the Malakovs work.

  I stopped walking and had to hold onto the wall to steady myself. This is all my fault!

  I climbed the stairs to the first floor just in time to see Mikhail leaving, a wide grin on his face and a small army of men in tow. Some were carrying guns, some baseball bats, some cans of gasoline.

  It was all my fault...and it was too late to fix it. The war had begun.

  34

  Angelo

  The fires were the worst. Fighting and smashed-up storefronts...I could kid myself that that was random. But when I saw the owners standing in tears in the street, watching the flames roaring through the place they’d spent twenty years building...then, I knew I’d fucked up. These were my people, this was my turf, and I’d failed utterly to protect them.

  I told them all the same thing. I hugged them and said, “I’ll make this right.” And they took my hand and shook it and told me they trusted me. But I could hear it in their voices: they’d never fully trust me again.

  The Fire Department did their best but there were too many fires and they burned too aggressively: Mikhail’s thugs had smashed their way in and then poured gasoline over everything. The firefighters kept looking at me: they knew this was connected to me and they wanted to know how I could let it happen. They were probably wondering if the same thing would be happening to Russian businesses in a few hours.

  I did what I could. I even joined the bucket chains at some of the fires until the overstretched Fire Department could get to them, but we saved maybe one place out of ten. Meanwhile, I was getting phone calls about cars, boats and real estate being smashed up—the Russians were destroying anything that was under our protection. It was like nothing the community had ever seen: brutal, all-out destruction. It was Mikhail and his men who lit the fires and raised the baseball bats, but I could feel Vasiliy’s raw hatred behind it all. This was personal.

  And it had a horrifying knock-on effect. Fights were breaking out in the streets, not just between my guys and Mikhail’s men but between civilians. Russian guys who’d never dared set foot in our neighborhood suddenly got bold and came looking for trouble, in gangs or on their own. Meanwhile, the local guys were on the streets looking for payback and they took their anger out on anyone who looked or sounded like they might be Russian. I met with community leaders and reached out to the gangs, trying to calm them down, but how do you convince a hot-headed sixteen year-old to stay home when his parents’ coffee shop just got torched?

  I told women to stay off the streets and made sure Grace had shut down Cinderella’s and sent the girls home. That’s about all I could do.

  By the early hours of the morning, Little Italy looked like a war zone. The police were sweeping both Russians and Italians off the streets as fast as they could, but their holding cells were full and they didn’t have enough evidence to hold them. The local captain, who was on my payroll, pulled me aside and demanded to know what the fuck I was going to do. That’s when you know it’s bad, when the police come to the criminals for help.

  I didn’t have an answer for him. I was pissed...but the anger didn’t have anywhere to go except inward. What could I do? Burn Russian businesses in revenge? It would be the civilians who’d suffer.

  As I gazed around the place I loved, now lit by orange fire and blue and red lights, I kept thinking back to that day I’d first seen Irina at the ballet. We did this. This is our fault.

  I was worried sick about her. She was still stuck in Vasiliy’s townhouse, with that bastard Mikhail way too close to her. And in a few days she’d be going back to Moscow and I might never see her again.

  I hadn’t told her that I loved her. I hadn’t been able to say the words. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.

  Rico found me at about eight in the morning. The sky was lightening but the smoke blotted out the sun. The streets were running with a gray, slushy mixture of soot-stained melted snow and runoff water from the hoses. Rico had been up all night too and he looked like I probably looked: soot-smeared face, filthy white shirt with a few bloodstains from the injured. Both of us had discarded our ties at some point when the heat from the fires had gotten too much.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he said.

  I shook my head and turned away from him. “I’m staying.”

  He grabbed my shoulder and gently but firmly turned me back. “This isn’t something you can win from here, Angelo,” he told me. “Besides, The Saints want to talk.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed, then let him lead me to the car. I’d always liked the cool, luxurious interior of the big Chrysler. It had been a safe haven where I could escape my troubles and think. Now, though, the luxury felt wrong. I shouldn’t be in here while they’re out there….

  Goddamn Mikhail and Vasiliy for doing this. And goddamn me for making them. If I’d had a niece and found Mikhail had been fucking her, would I have reacted any differently?

  Rico dialed The Saints. I had him put them on speakerphone. Rico deserved to know what was going on.

  “What the fuck is going on?” yelled Nicky. “It’s fucking Iraq down there. It’s all over the fucking news! What the fuck?!” He screamed it so loud, his voice rasped.

  Rico and I looked at each other. It was clear the Saints didn’t know about me and Irina. If they had, they’d have summoned me so they could put a bullet in my head.

  “It’s spilling over,” said Vincenzo. “The Russians are getting ideas, right across the city. You don’t fix this now, we’re going to have a big fucking problem.”

  “You gotta kill Vasiliy. And that fat fuck Mikhail,” said Taavetti. “Only way to stop them.”

  Immediately, he was shouted down. “You don’t kill the leaders, you dumb fuck,” snapped Nicky. “Someone’s gotta be there to turn it off! Why do you
think they haven’t taken out a hit on Angelo, yet?”

  He was right. That was the only reason I was still alive. The only thing worse than war was chaos, which was what we’d have without leadership.

  “What you gotta do,” snapped Nicky, “is show them how much this’ll hurt, if they keep it up. Each step they take into our territory has gotta be like walking on razor blades, understand? Starting tonight, we burn their businesses—every one of them. We take out everything they own. Every backroom poker game gets smashed up. Every car dealership, those cars get totaled. Everything.”

  I spoke for the first time. “It’s out of control. People are getting drawn in. Not just our people: anyone with Italian blood.”

  “Good,” said Nicky savagely. “Let ‘em. They should fight for their turf, goddammit.”

  Fight for their turf. It all suddenly seemed so stupid. “They’re kids,” I said. “Some of them are sixteen.”

  “That’s plenty old enough to fight,” said Taavetti. “Put baseball bats in their hands and send them into Little Odessa.”

  “We’re outnumbered!” I snapped, finally losing it. “They have more men, more guns. Vasiliy has billions in the bank: he can hire mercenaries, if he has to. Even with the civilians fighting with us, we’ll lose! It’ll be a bloodbath!”

  “So?” Yelled Taavetti. I heard him huff for air from his oxygen cylinder. “We go out fighting. Your dad spilled blood to take those streets; you can fucking spill blood to defend them!”

  I shook my head silently. My dad would never have sent men to their deaths when he knew the fight was useless. The Saints were just scared of losing what they’d built up and they were willing to sacrifice ever Italian life on the street in a futile bid to cling onto it.

  “Fix it, Angelo,” said Nicky, his voice vicious. “This is your last fucking chance. Fix it, or we’ll find someone who can.”

  The line went dead. I could feel Rico’s eyes on me from the driver’s seat. It took me a long time to turn and meet his gaze.

  “Angelo?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

  I couldn’t explain. Rico had been with me for so long, since even before I took over from my dad. He’d helped me build this empire. Now he couldn’t understand why I was standing by and watching while it was torn down. I tried, even though I knew it was useless. I owed him that. “They lied to us, Rico. The Saints got us fighting a war but the Russians aren’t any different to us.” Rico balked. “They’re not,” I insisted. “The Saints got us thinking it has to be this way, but it doesn’t.”

  Rico slowly shook his head at me. “This is Irina,” he said. “She’s done a number on you.”

  “No! She just opened my eyes!”

  Rico put his hands on my shoulders and slammed me back into my seat. “Okay, listen! I’ve stood by you every fucking step of the way. I’ve done exactly what you told me, every time. So for once, shut up and listen to me. You are about to lose everything. Okay? Everything. If the Russians ever were interested in peace, they sure as fuck aren’t now, not now Vasiliy knows you’ve been banging his niece. This is war and you can either fight or surrender but there ain’t no third option. So snap out of it because I need Angelo back!”

  I knew he was right. But how could I explain to him that my empire didn’t matter anymore, if I couldn’t have her? “Drop me home,” I told Rico. “Then go to Underground and see what needs doing there. I need to think.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him shaking his head, his face taut with worry. I owed him so much. I wished I could tell him not to worry, that I’d fix everything...but it wasn’t true.

  * * *

  I stumbled through the door of my apartment, woozy with fatigue. I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and my muscles, worn out from crawling through the mud and then throwing buckets of water all night, had solidified into concrete.

  I needed sleep, but I didn’t have time. Instead, I got under the shower in the hope the hot water beating down on me would help me think. But there wasn’t any solution I could see.

  My instinct was to fight. That’s what I always did. That’s what my dad had always done. But Vasiliy was too fired up with anger: he didn’t just want victory, he wanted to destroy me. To even slow his progress, I’d have to sacrifice every man I had, plus a lot of civilians. Maybe The Saints were okay with that, but I wasn’t.

  Peace? There’d be no peace now, not between Vasiliy and me. We were way past that. I’d foregone any hope of peace that morning when I’d first called Irina, already knowing who she was. If I could go back in time….

  Who was I kidding? If I could go back in time, I’d do exactly the same thing again. I loved her.

  That only left surrender. It would save some lives, but I’d be letting down all the people who’d trusted me to protect them. Vasiliy was cold, but at least he seemed professional—it wasn’t him I was worried about. It was that bastard Mikhail and his thugs: they’d be the ones who’d shake down local businesses for protection money if I surrendered. No way was I unleashing them on the people I cared about.

  And however hard I tried to focus on the crisis, my mind kept swerving back to Irina. I’d told her I’d find a way, but I couldn’t see one. I’m never going to see her again!

  I finally stepped from the shower and started to towel off. I had to restick some of the dressings and tape Rico had put on my back and ribs. God, I was a mess. Bruises everywhere and livid red finger marks around my neck where Mikhail had—

  I frowned in the mirror and looked closer. There was a symbol in amongst the finger marks, a symbol I recognized. A serpent. I grabbed my phone and checked the photos I’d taken of Kirsty to be sure. It was reversed because I’d been choked from behind instead of in front, but it was the same mark from the same ring. It was the same person.

  Mikhail. He’d been the one who’d raped Kirsty and beat her to within an inch of her life. It had never even occurred to me that it might be a Russian. He barely spoke, Kirsty had said. No wonder she hadn’t recognized the accent. And with his bland looks, Mikhail could be any fat businessman.

  At first, it made no sense—that’s why I hadn’t even considered it. The last place a Russian mafia boss would go was to a Cosa Nostra hooker: far too much potential for dangerous pillow talk and blackmail. They’d use one of their own places, where the girls were loyal to their side.

  My stomach tightened. Unless, of course, you’re a perverted bastard who likes to beat women up. Then it made perfect sense. Mikhail could keep his nasty little hobby from his comrades and he got to take his frustration with me out on poor Kirsty. No doubt he’d known she worked at Cinderella’s and that therefore she was one of mine. The bastard. He’s dead, the next time I see him….

  And then my blood turned to ice water. Mikhail was right there in Vasiliy’s house, with Irina.

  It got worse. Mikhail was the guy Vasiliy wanted Irina to marry. Sure, Irina had said she’d never let it happen, but then she hadn’t been expecting to be sent back to Moscow, either.

  Fear like I’d never known twisted together with white-hot anger. I have to get her out of there! My head started to fill with crazy fantasies of eloping with her, just blasting out of there in my car and never looking back, of leaving it all behind....

  I shook my head, walked over to my closet and took out a fresh, crisp shirt. That was batshit crazy. I couldn’t run off with Irina. My empire was burning. I had to stay here and—

  I stared down at the shirt as the idea broke over me like cool, fresh water. What if I didn’t?

  What if getting out was the right thing to do?

  It would solve all my problems. Irina and I could be together, in some country where Vasiliy couldn’t touch us. Irina would be safe from Mikhail. And I’d take Vasiliy’s anger with me. Sure, he’d still be mad as hell with me, but that rage wouldn’t be directed towards Cosa Nostra and the people we protected anymore. Whoever took over from me could negotiate peace—Vasiliy had already shown he was willing to deal,
just not with me, anymore. It could all work out.

  All I had to do was give up everything I’d ever worked for.

  I fingered the shirt, then stared at the neat rows of identical shirts and suits hanging in my closet. It was unthinkable. Completely fucking unthinkable. My dad’s legacy: gone. All my men. Rico. I’d never see them again. I’d never be able to come back to Little Italy—hell, I’d never be able to come back to America.

  But I’d get to be with her.

  I slowly replaced the shirt in the closet. Then I dug around and found the clothes I wore on the rare days I wasn’t working: t-shirt and jeans, a sweater and a leather jacket. Then I took the framed Yankees jersey down off the wall to reveal the wall safe, opened it up and swept all the cash into a sports bag. I grabbed my passport and tucked my gun into the back of my jeans, looked around the place for maybe the last time….

  And then I called Irina.

  35

  Irina

  Four minutes to noon.

  When Angelo had called on the burner phone, I’d had to sit down fast on my bed to avoid collapsing in relief. I’d barely slept the night before, staying up all night watching rolling news coverage of the fires in Little Italy and the fighting in the streets. I was so relieved to hear his voice, I wanted to weep. And when he told me his plan: to flee the country and start fresh somewhere else, I actually did start to cry. He was giving up his whole life for me.

  The plan was simple: I’d go to my house on the pretense of collecting some clothes. It would be easier for me to sneak out of there than to escape Vasiliy’s house. Angelo would be waiting in a cab on the next street over at exactly noon. I’d run to him, we’d drive straight to the airport and we’d have disappeared before anyone could stop us.