“Aw, fuck.”
Good whiskey, my ass.
More like cat piss. Or goddamn sewer water.
I’d been in this godforsaken country for less than two days, and I had yet to locate a decent glass of whiskey. Vodka? Sure. The Russians were the vodka gods. But whiskey and bourbon were the pinnacles of life itself. Society didn’t exist without them, pure and simple. During the Prohibition years, did you see pictures of the police dumping out—and catastrophically wasting—barrels upon barrels of vodka? Hell, no. That was all beer, bourbon, and glorious whiskey.
The lack of decent liquor only served to blacken my already dark mood. And this watered-down crime against humanity in my glass sure as shit wasn’t going to do anything to work out the tension in my neck.
Married. I was fucking married.
Despite the fact that it was my own doing, I knew this was karma coming back to bite me in the ass in the most sadistic of ways. I had no idea how in the hell I was going to explain this to my family. But the time to bite the bullet was now, because I had to get on a conference call with them in precisely twenty seconds.
Ten minutes later, I sat in the stiff leather armchair near the fireplace, scowling into the crackling fire. My cell phone sat on the armrest on speakerphone, my father’s voice drifting through the bleak atmosphere of the room. I polished my favorite bollock dagger against my pants, scraping the blade against the material as I did so. I had a pretty decent dagger collection and a pension for practicing my aim at empty whiskey barrels back home. I carried at least one with me everywhere I went.
I couldn’t always tune in during family meetings while I was traveling abroad for business, but this conversation was particularly important to be involved in. My father, Enzo Rossetti, was detailing the new leadership hierarchy in the Sicilian mafia syndicate, since Santi and Dominic Gabbiano—the Sicilian boss and his nephew—had recently started sporting orange jumpsuits. All at the hands of my four brothers, our father, and myself.
You see, we were the “sixth” family of the New York five crime families.
The family that had voluntarily exiled themselves in the early twentieth century because my ancestors hadn’t wanted any part of the other five’s corrupt, greedy agendas. The Rossettis hadn’t been willing to kill for personal gain, not to mention kill innocent people. The Rossettis also hadn’t been willing to cheat, lie, or steal to make a name for themselves in America. And when they’d seen their Italian cohorts run headlong down that path toward evil, they’d packed their shit, drove across the bridge, and settled in Brooklyn.
Ever since then, my father and grandfathers before him had lived a life and raised their families based on honest, hard work and helping out their fellow man. We wanted nothing to do with the ways of the original five families in Hell’s Kitchen, made up of the Esposito, Mancini, Ferraro, Rinaldi, and D’Angelo families. Although, we tended to step in whenever their power became too great or too far-reaching.
That was the Rossetti credo: protect innocent people from the anarchy of the families.
The older generations of Rossettis had felt responsible for the malicious deeds of their former brothers. So, they’d taken it upon themselves to interfere when the families’ influence stretched well beyond their territory. And each generation of Rossettis had been taking up those shields ever since.
Which was the exact reason for the current shit storm in which we’d found ourselves.
There was a major structure shift going on among the original five. Vinnie D’Angelo, former head of the D’Angelo family, had completely removed his name from, and all involvement with, the New York syndicate. He was done, out of the mafia. His only daughter was dating my youngest brother, Ace. Their relationship was what had inevitably led to the incarceration of the highest-ranking members of the Sicilian syndicate, Santi and Dominic Gabbiano.
And it wasn’t the first time we’d gotten in the middle of the five families’ business as of late.
My other brother Cris had been responsible for getting Raphael Esposito, head boss of the entire New York organization, locked away earlier in the year. A few months after Raphael’s arrest, Cris had personally killed Stefano Esposito, Raphael’s only son and heir, after Stefano had kidnapped Cris’s fiancé Jasmine.
To say that we were now deeply embroiled in all mafia business was putting it mildly. My family had been on Raphael’s shit list for years. But we’d painted giant fucking targets on our backs over the last several months. At least Raphael and the Gabbianos were in jail and on a fast track to prison. Raphael’s trial was coming up in a matter of weeks, and it was going to be a slam dunk. There was no way he could get off on those charges, boss or not.
But none of that was even our biggest concern at the moment.
My stress level rose as I listened to Dad explain the most recent developments and summarize the events of the last few months.
Two of my brothers had found love.
How fucking sweet.
God knew I was more than thrilled for Cris and Jasmine, as well as for Ace and his little spitfire Roxy. But ruminating over their newfound happiness grated in light of my current circumstances.
I remained silent as my brothers chimed in here and there over the line. All I could do was stew in the ramifications of my new situation and try to get my shit together. Which proved difficult because I could still barely wrap my head around it.
Married.
I, the confirmed bachelor of all sluthood, the King of Smartasses, was actually stunned speechless. I couldn’t come up with a single sarcastic quip, not one witty retort. Because nothing about this was funny.
Not one fucking bit.
Although, I’d damn sure had a response for everything Alexia “Lexi” Kozlov had to say to me earlier.
That sharp tongue of hers had pushed every one of my buttons, which had me asininely turned on in seconds. Not that such a reaction was anything unusual for me. A stunning woman spitting sass at me through red-painted lips? Fuck, that was like my kryptonite. I’d instantly boned up the moment she’d flashed that icy glare my way and told me to speak for myself.
You’ve fucking lost it, Rossetti.
She was obviously no more thrilled about this ridiculous arrangement than I was, which worked perfectly. Our mutual disdain would make it easier to avoid each other once we got back to the States. Christ, I was going to have a woman living with me. Sharing my space. Invading my privacy. Most likely frustrating the bejesus out of me.
I really hadn’t thought this through.
But I hadn’t had much choice in the matter.
“I think that about does it. Nico?” Dad suddenly asked, cutting into my spiraling thoughts. “You have anything to add?”
I hesitated for a moment, close to pussying out completely.
Just get it over with, jackass.
“Actually, yeah.” I cleared my throat when it started burning like hell. “So, uh, I kind of did something…”
Luka, one of the twins, chuckled. “What did you do this time, bro? Join the Communist Party? Screw the daughter of a Russian mafia boss?”
Everyone snickered through the speaker.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t laughing along with them. Hell, I was the one usually cutting up first. I was the one always dicking around, making inappropriate jokes at someone else’s expense.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“No,” I said gravely. “But I married her.”
The line went deathly quiet.
And it stayed that way for an ungodly number of seconds.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Dad eventually barked.
All five of his sons were taller and bigger than him, but that didn’t mean Enzo Rossetti still wasn’t the imposing, intimidating patriarch of our family. He was a man you did not want to fuck with.
I swallowed, my mouth now dry as a desert. “I got married…to Sergei Kozlov’s daughter.”
“Sergei Kozlov?” Cris spat.
“The same.”
I drained the rest of the wannabe whiskey in one pull. It was the appropriate punishment for my half-baked, impulsive actions. Which normally served me well in my various business dealings. But in this case, I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
I was now in bed with the Russian mafia…at least figuratively.
And my family didn’t have to say the words for me to know exactly what they were thinking.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I must have lost the plot because I didn’t know which was upsetting me more.
The fact that my father hadn’t been present at my own wedding, sham nuptials or not.
The fact that I was married to a cocky American stranger.
Or the fact that I hadn’t even gotten to wear my dream dress to my own wedding.
The realization that the second item on that list wasn’t the first and most obvious answer made me certifiable. But as I stared at myself in my full-length mirror, I just couldn’t ignore how pathetic it was that I’d reluctantly said “I do” while wearing high-waisted black ponte pants, a cropped, long-sleeved black and white houndstooth mock-turtleneck sweater, and lace-up black boots with a chunky heel. Apparently, no matter how hard I’d worked in school to make a better future for myself, this was the best I could do. Though there hadn’t been much time to change after my father had taken me so off-guard earlier that morning.
Now that I thought about it, I wouldn’t have changed anyway.
I wouldn’t have wanted to give my husband the impression that I was in any way excited about being thrust into matrimony, bound and gagged.
My father not even deigning to show up, however, after he’d not-so-subtly nudged me down the figurative aisle, caused irrational hurt to swell up inside me. He’d basically dropped me off to face my groom—and doom—before jetting off for a business meeting.
Recalling the troublesome conversation we’d had earlier that morning didn’t exactly ease my growing nerves.
“You want me to what?” I shrieked at Batya. Dad.
He sighed, yet remained ever patient, as he interlaced his fingers over his crossed legs. “Things are not good here, zaika.” Bunny. He’d always called me his little bunny. “You don’t need to know the details, but the Voiny are gaining in numbers. And with the rising opposition, certain…debts…are being called in. Apparently, some in the organization feel I’m losing traction. They’re offering their fealty and protection but at a steep price.”
Over the last several months, a group of revolutionaries, calling themselves the Voiny, or “Warriors”, had formed in the Russian mafia syndicate. They essentially wanted all the older generations, such as my father, out of the organization so they could bring about the “new era.” Their definition of modern organized crime. They were dangerous radicals—terrorists, in my opinion—whose strength and influence were growing. My father was doing everything he could to combat them, but there was one small problem.
We had no idea who their leader was.
So far, none had been revealed and no individual was claiming the position.
“And me marrying some random American is buying protection?” I screeched. I was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Batya’s top leg started casually swinging back and forth, like he didn’t have a concern in the world. “He’s not some random American, zaika. He’s a very wealthy businessman who’s interested in buying me out of my stake in the company. It’ll be more than enough money to pay my creditors, as well as buy the loyalty of my allies.”
The way I saw it, they weren’t your allies if you had to pay them for their allegiance.
“But why do I have to get married?” I whined. “And why him?”
I sounded like a sullen child, but that was only because I kind of felt like one right then. Although, getting married to a man I’d only just met the day before was a far cry away from refusing to eat all the vegetables on my plate.
“It is only for a short time,” Batya consoled in a gentle voice. “You don’t need to worry, but the threats I’ve been receiving are getting more serious.”
My heart panged painfully in my chest at the thought of anything happening to my beloved father. My savior. He’d always known how I felt about mafia life. How I’d always feared for his safety and general well-being. Getting locked up in prison for the rest of his life was one thing. Getting plugged with a bullet by enemy fire was another.
“Death threats?” I croaked, hand going to my throat.
He waved me off, shaking his head. “You don’t need to concern yourself with them. But it has raised my concern for your safety. They could easily target you to get to me. I want you to stay far away from all of this until I’ve managed to secure the situation.”
“You’re going into spyachka?” The word basically meant hibernation.
Batya had gone into spyachka only twice before in my life, once when I was in secondary school in England and the second when I was in university. It essentially meant that his life was in danger, and that he was going underground until the situation was resolved. I was not to get in contact with him because it would put my life in danger, as well. I was to stay away until he deemed it safe enough to come for me himself.
I knew the mafia code well enough to understand what all of this meant.
“Da, zaika,” he answered. “But this man can keep you safe in the meantime.”
“What makes you so sure?”
He pursed his lips. “Let’s just say that his family has a long history with the New York Firm. Nico Rossetti can protect you until I come for you.”
Which meant I’d be moving to New York, away from everything and everyone I knew, and away from him. The only family I had.
The oversized lump in my throat prevented me from responding.
Batya’s face softened. He was still a pretty youthful-looking man for his age. Olive skin, midnight hair that had only begun to gray at his temples over the last few years, but was still long enough to pull into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. A few more wrinkles had formed around his eyes as of late, but he in no way looked his sixty-two years.
Rising to his feet, he took me into his arms. “It will be all right, zaika. It is not forever. Just for a little while. And if anything should happen to me, I want your future to be secured. This way, you’ll have a respected family to take care of you if I’m no longer there to do it. At the very least, you’ll no longer belong to a criminal enterprise.”
Part of me wanted to resent the implication that I needed anyone to take care of me. But I let it roll right off my back because I was used to his antiquated, old school ways of thinking. He was merely a product of his own generation and upbringing. In his world, men were always the providers, and women were always the nurturers. Besides, the larger part of me caught on the somber undercurrents of what he saying.
“Stop talking like you’re not going to be around for much longer,” I said brokenly, feeling tears rise to the surface. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being taken away from me. “You promised me we’d go live on the beach someday.” He’d promised me that when I was eleven. I always liked to tease him with it. “You have to stick around long enough to make that happen, you know.”
He chuckled in his smoker’s rasp that was so comforting to me, so familiar. “I’ve never broken a promise to you, have I? I don’t intend to start now.”
I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed as hard as I could. As if the harder I squeezed, the more real he was and the more real he would stay. He couldn’t go anywhere when he was this alive and vibrant in my arms, right?
This man was everything to me. Had been from the day he’d plucked my seven-year-old self off the decrepit Siberian streets and generously taken me in as his own. He’d given me his name, his shelter, his care, and his love.
Everything I could have ever possibly wanted. I didn’t want to even think about where I would have ended up if he hadn’t stumbled upon me on that snowy street that fateful day.
Back then, I thought I’d been running away from neglect and misery, toward freedom.
Instead, I ran right into my hero.
I didn’t care about batya’s reputation as a ruthless mafia vor. Boss. Didn’t care about his lifetime of crime, nor how he’d reached his level of success or how he’d acquired his wealth. All I cared about was how good he’d been to me. No one had asked him to claim a scarred, emotionally damaged little girl as his daughter. But he had.
To me, that proved there was good in him. Damned what all the rumors said.
“It won’t be long before we see each other again, zaika,” he murmured against my hair as he stroked it. “I promise I will come for you with all haste.”
I nodded. “All haste.”
“I love you, my daughter.”
I swallowed back tears, though one still escaped the corner of my eye. “I love you, too, batya.”
He’d left for that business meeting shortly after our conversation, pawning me off on Nico Rossetti so fast I didn’t have time to blink. I’d been lost in a trance for hours after that, trying to work out whether or not I had dreamed the entire discussion.
But once I’d entered batya’s study and spotted the priest standing there waiting next to the head housekeeper, who’d acted as our witness, along with Nico typing away on his phone in the corner, I’d known the whole situation was terrifyingly real. At my entrance, my charming husband had barely spared me a glance before lowering his head back over the device.
An hour later, what I’d been able to pack up of my life was stuffed inside three humongous suitcases.
Booze and Bullets (Brooklyn Brothers #3) Page 2