Chapter 21: Chapter 19

The following day

Sicily: +7 hours of Chicago

Private property, 20 miles outside of Palermo

Three hours before the scheduled flight departure from Chicago

Blood runs across my fisted hand, the rivulets dropping to the ground and dissipating over the already sodden soil under my shoes. Guttural gurgling leaves the security guard’s throat as I rotate the knife I’ve buried hilt-deep in his neck. His body twitches a few times, then gradually goes still. I release the dead man, letting his body fall at my feet, where it lands with a loud thud. With rain coming down for the last few hours, most of the guards have taken shelter under the trees or inside the guardhouse, making the job of killing them less complicated.

Keeping to the shadows and the cover of foliage, I circle the house that’s been the primary residence of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra don until I spy another one of his men. The guy is leaning on the corner of the building, tucked under a slight overhang, his rifle casually draped over his back. A length of white cord extends from the phone in his hand to an earbud jammed into his right ear. I shake my head. Moron is listening to music while on guard duty.

The wet grass muffles my steps as I approach him from behind and yank the cord. He startles, turning around, but I already have the earbuds wire wrapped around his neck. When he starts flailing, hands reaching to free his windpipe, I push his face into the wall and tighten my grip on the cord. He manages a few weak whimpers before going to meet his maker.

There are no motion detectors or video surveillance anywhere on the property. Just manpower and a rather basic alarm at the front door. Like all narcissistic, overly self-confident men who have risen to power without much effort, my godfather believes he’s untouchable. He will find out very soon how utterly wrong that conviction is.

It takes me a little over half an hour to dispose of the remaining twelve guards. Afterward, I take a casual stroll around the building until I find an unlatched window to serve as my entry point. Infiltrating a target’s location is significantly easier when you can first eliminate the security detail. Aside from that double-tap in Germany a couple of months back, the last assassination I handled myself was more than a decade ago, and it took me almost four hours to get inside the guarded house. I had to sneak past twenty of my own men to reach my mark. Not an easy feat, considering I trained them all in the first place. To this day, Allard still occasionally brings up that Boston job, cursing the son of a bitch who managed to circumvent his team and force-feed cyanide to the guy being held in the basement cellar.

By comparison, sneaking into Calogero’s home is a fucking cakewalk. It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside this house, but I still remember the layout. I climb the stairs and head toward the master bedroom. When I reach the second to last door on the left side of the hallway, I unscrew the silencer from my gun and tuck it into my pocket. No point in keeping anything quiet since there’s no one left alive on the grounds other than me and my cumpari.

The door opens without a sound. The wall-mounted TV in the room is playing a documentary of some kind, its volume muted, but the screen is throwing plenty of light onto the bed where my godfather is snoring. I lean my shoulder on the jamb and cock my gun.

Calogero’s eyes snap open.

“Buonasera, Cumpari.”

For a few breaths, he just stares at me, then jerks upward. His hand extends toward the nightstand. I aim at the drawer and pull the trigger. Pieces of wood splinter off, and the flimsy stand topples over and crashes to the floor, some of the debris ending up in the corner.

“What do you want?” Calogero rasps while beads of sweat collect on his hairline. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the study window. The one you always forget to lock. And as for what I want . . . I’m sure you know that already.”

“Even you can’t be so bold. What would your mother say if she could see you now? How can you kill the man who held you up at the altar before God to baptize you? Who helped raise you into the man you are today?”

“Don’t you dare speak of her!” I snarl.

“She knew the rules, Rafael. Breaking the code of silence means death! There was nothing I could do. She understood it. And she forgave me. I saw it in her eyes.”

I take him in, this man I once revered, waiting for even a speck of regret over what I’m about to do. It never materializes. The man who took me and Guido fishing when we were kids, who showed me how to change the tire on my bike, who gave me advice about girls . . . he is already dead. To me, he died the moment he watched Mancuzo press the gun to my mother’s head and pull the trigger, and did nothing. That man who chose Cosa Nostra over the woman he once swore he loved.

“I’m sure she did.” I lift my gun. “But I never will.”

The gunshot sounds like cannon fire in the silence of the room. Calogero’s head snaps back. He falls onto the bed, his eyes wide and glassy, while a swell of crimson surges from the hole in the middle of his brow.

Chicago

One hour before the scheduled flight departure

I park my car in front of Uncle Sergei’s freshly painted two-story house and exit. I wasted three hours hiding in my room while I waited for Dad to finally get bogged down in his office, giving me a chance to sneak out of the house unnoticed. If I want to catch Rafael’s plane—and I do—I can’t spare more than ten minutes on this visit.

Roaring barks explode on the right as two enormous black dogs round the corner and run toward me. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the impact. A second later, I’m assaulted by paws and warm wet tongues.

“Jesus. I forgot how big you guys are,” I groan. “Uncle Sergei! I need help here.”

“Well, well, well. Isn’t that my favorite troublemaking little cousin?” a male voice says from the porch.

I look up and find Sasha, Uncle Sergei’s son, leaning on the doorframe. He’s dressed only in gray sweatpants, his partially inked bare chest in full view.

“I’m a year older than you, you schmuck!” I laugh as I try to keep the dogs from turning me over. “Help, please?”

“Bambi! Flora!” he yells. “Down. Now!”

The dogs immediately retreat and plant their butts on the ground, their eyes fixed on Sasha.

“You need to forbid Uncle Sergei from naming your dogs.” I laugh and run up the steps and into his arms. “I’ve missed your ugly mug.”

“We missed you, too. Come on in. We’ve got some leftovers. Mom made her famous chicken and Mexican rice. Besides, if you stay out here, I’ll need to get my shotgun to ward off the horde of salivating men that will soon start to gather.”

I smile. I’m wearing some of Yulia’s pretty clothes that she let me borrow, not my usual baggy jeans and shapeless shirts. Can’t wait to see the look on Rafael’s face when he sees me descending the stairs off the plane. He’ll be surprised. I haven’t told him that I’m coming back.

“I can’t stay,” I say. “I thought you moved out.”

“I did. But you know how my mother gets jumpy every time Dad goes out into the field. So I came over to keep her company.”

“And get free food?”

“Yeah, that, too.” He winks. “Dad is coming back sometime tomorrow. You can drop by then.”

“I’m . . . actually leaving right away. I’m on my way to the airport.” I throw a look at my watch. “I have less than an hour or the plane will depart without me.”

“Leaving? But you just got back. Where are you going now?”

“Sicily.” I can’t suppress my grin.

“Oh. What a coincidence. Dad’s there now.”

I stop in my tracks. “Uncle Sergei’s in Sicily?”

“Yeah. Roman needed him to off some asshole over there. He took off yesterday.”

My legs nearly fold under me. Panic grips me and horror washes over me from head to toe. I can practically feel the tight squeeze of fate’s hand around my neck. Squeezing. Squeezing. I can’t breathe.

“Vasya? You okay?”

I spin around and run out of the house, straight to my car. Ignoring Sasha’s calls after me, I grab my phone while starting the engine and dial Rafael’s number. It rings. And rings. I try twice more, but he doesn’t answer.

“Shit!” I merge onto the road leading to the highway that will eventually take me to the private airfield and keep calling Rafael. No answer.

I call Dad’s number next. The call goes directly to voicemail.

“Oh God,” I choke out, then redial. Voicemail again.

My eyes dart between my phone and the road in front of me. I can’t get on that plane unless I manage to contact Rafael and warn him. Or make my dad call off Uncle Sergei. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I turn the steering wheel sharply to the left, making a U-turn, and floor the gas pedal, heading toward home instead of the waiting airplane.

Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Half an hour. I keep dialing, switching between Rafael’s and Dad’s numbers. No answer. Voicemail. No answer. Voicemail. I pull up the contacts list and scroll, searching for Guido’s, but I can’t find it!

“Fuck!” I scream and restart my search from the top of the list. When I finally find his name, I hit dial and turn on the speakerphone.

Please. Please pick up!

“Vasilisa?”

“My father sent a hitman after Rafael!” I cry. “You need to warn him!”

Silence. A second feels like a lifetime. “Who did he send?”

“My uncle. Sergei Belov.”

“Shit,” Guido whispers.

The line goes dead.

“Guido? Fuck.” I call Rafael again. Nothing.

I hit my mom’s number next. She answers on the first ring.

“He sent Uncle Sergei to kill Rafael!” I scream into the phone.

“What? Who?”

“Dad! I’ve been calling Rafael but can’t reach him. And Dad’s line goes directly to voicemail.”

“He’s in his office. I’m heading down there.” I can hear the slam of the door and the hurried footfalls of running feet. “You should have told Roman, Vasilisa. If you’d have told him the truth, he never would have sent Sergei. Your dad believes that man was keeping you against your will and that he hurt you. And since you wouldn’t give your father any details, he assumed the worst.”

“I didn’t want to tell him because I was afraid he’d do exactly this!”

“Call Sergei,” she says over her rapid and shallow breaths. “Tell him to stay put.”

“You know he won’t,” I whimper. My uncle takes orders only from the pakhan. I could cry and beg, and he would still follow through on what he was ordered to do. He won’t waiver unless my father rescinds the command. “I’m ten minutes away. Please, Mom! Convince Dad to call off Uncle Sergei!”

“I will, baby. Don’t worry.”

“What do you mean, he canceled the shipment?” I snarl into the phone.

“I’m speaking rather clearly, am I not?” Nikolai replies.

It took me years to find someone who could adequately replace Anton as a brigadier, overseeing the ranks of our men. Managing Bratva’s foot soldiers is akin to handling the reins on a herd of maniacal hyenas. They won’t take orders from just anyone. But even when they do, many often feel at liberty to make their own interpretation as to how the orders should be carried out. To keep everyone in line, and not go apeshit in the process, the man in charge must either possess an extremely calm demeanor and be methodical in exercising his authority, or be someone who is basically nuts himself. Nikolai Levin is the latter kind. Most days, I’m not certain if I should promote the disrespectful fucker or simply snap his neck. The lunatic took a bullet for me two years ago, so I guess I have a soft spot for him.

“Watch your mouth,” I bark. “And explain.”

“We arrived at the border as planned, only to have one of Ramirez’s men relay a message to us that the backstabbing cunt found another buyer. I tried getting a hold of Belov, but he’s not answering his phone.”

“My brother is dealing with another issue at the moment. Do you still have Ramirez’s guy?”

“Yes.”

“Break his legs,” I spit out. “Make him talk. I want to know who got what’s supposed to be mine.”

“Already did. It was Artem Voloshyn. He offered Ramirez a forty percent cut.”

Fucking Ukranians. I thought I was done having to deal with those assholes two decades ago.

“There’s more,” Nikolai continues. “One of my guys caught Artem’s dealer in West Town last week.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

My office door suddenly bangs open, and my wife barges in, flushed and breathing heavily as if she ran here at breakneck speed.

“What have you done?” she chokes out, eyes distraught and flaring.

“I’ll call you back.” I throw the phone on my desk and lift my hands up in defense. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me. I swear, malysh.”

I have no idea what could have distressed her so much, but I know it can’t be anything I’ve done. I would rather cut off my own hands. And legs. Slit my own throat. I’ll have to consider a proper order, but the sentiment remains the same.

“You sent Sergei to kill Vasya’s Sicilian!”

Oh. Well, I guess that was me. “That fucknut is not hers. De Santi is a hitman who’s kidnapped and held our daughter hostage for over two months. You didn’t actually expect me to let it go?”

Nina rushes across the room. “Please, Roman. You need to call Sergei and tell him to abort.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Vasilisa is in love with him, kotik.” Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, she practically thrusts her nose against mine. “You’re calling Sergei off. Now!”

“What? No, she can’t be in love with him.”

“She’s planning to return to Sicily!” Nina yells into my face while shaking me. “I tried to convince her to tell you the truth, but she was scared this is exactly what you would do!”

I stare at my wife while a firestorm rages inside me. My baby girl can’t be in love with a goddamned De Santi, can she? I’ve already arranged dinner, inviting my accountant and telling him to bring his son. The boy works in the records management department of a retirement home. A nice, safe guy. One who’s the same age as Vasilisa. Not a fucking assassin-for-hire who lives on another continent.

“Nina, baby, she’s just confused.”

“She’s not fucking confused! She loves him!” My sweet little wife is now roaring so loud that I fear the windows may shatter. “You can’t do this! Her father cannot kill the man she loves! It will destroy her, Roman! And it will destroy you!”

“Vasya deserves someone nice. Someone who will keep her safe.”

“Don’t you understand? She doesn’t want nice. She wants him. And he’s kept her safe all along. Even when you couldn’t.”

I furrow my brows. “What are you talking about?”

“The mall. The explosion twenty years ago. Rafael De Santi is the man who saved our daughter’s life!”

That’s . . . that’s not possible. But . . . Oh fuck. As much as I want to deny Nina’s words, somehow I know it’s the truth. Since the moment I met De Santi more than decade ago, I’ve always wondered what happened to him. I never made the connection.

Vasya.

I leap out of the chair and grab the phone.

The needle on the speedometer is hovering over the one-hundred-miles-per-hour mark. I press the gas pedal harder, swerving between the other vehicles on the road. It’s five minutes after seven. Rafael’s plane just took off. Without me. Doesn’t matter, I’ll take the first commercial flight I can get on, as soon as I know the man I love is safe. There’s still time. My uncle prefers to work during the night. I take a calming breath, but the air suddenly gets caught in my lungs, and I almost plow into the car in front of me.

The time difference. I forgot about the goddamned time difference! Sicily is seven hours ahead of Chicago. It’s two in the morning there right now. No. No. No!

The streetlight in front of me changes to red. I hit the gas harder. A pickup truck approaches from the side road, and I barely miss it as I fly through the intersection. Our neighborhood is just a mile away. I call Rafael again. And again.

No answer.

Slamming on the brakes in our driveway, I’m shaking so much that I can hardly open the car door. I don’t bother shutting it, just take off at a run, taking the stone steps to the front door two at a time.

The door of Dad’s office is ajar. I stumble inside and stare at my father. The words are stuck in my closed-up throat. Dad is standing next to his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. Mom is in front of him, clutching his shirt.

“Sergei.” My father’s deep voice breaks the silence. “Abort.”

A choked sound of relief leaves my lips. I lean back on the wall because my legs are threatening to give out. My eyes stare blazingly into my father’s. He’s still holding the phone to his ear. The muscles of his jaw are tight, and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“Mне он нужен живым, Сергей. Понимаешь?” he barks and lowers the phone.

I don’t even breathe as I wait for the great Roman Petrov to say something.

“Dad?” I whimper.

My father takes a deep breath, his eyes downcast. Avoiding looking at me.

15 minutes earlier

My phone rings as soon as I turn it back on, and just as I’m reaching for the front door. The pilot’s name lights up the screen. I take a look at my wristwatch. Five minutes after two.

“We’re ready for takeoff, boss.”

“Alright.” I nod, even though he can’t see me, then wait. I can’t bring myself to ask for confirmation of what I already know.

“She didn’t come. I’m sorry, boss.”

Slipping the phone back into my pants, I head to the kitchen. My steps sound hollow in the huge space, echoing off the walls, the sound eerie in the darkness of the house. I don’t bother turning on the lamps as I cross the room. There’s enough moonlight illuminating my way to the fridge.

Some people say that it’s a sacrilege to drink red wine cold rather than at room temperature. I’ve always found it tastes rather bland that way. Grabbing a stemmed glass and then a bottle out of the fridge, I walk through the living space and stop at the threshold to the terrace. How many times did I have those workers paint these French doors? Four? Five? The guys certainly made plenty of noise while doing it. Just as I ordered them to. All so my vespetta could feel more at home.

Funny thing, how I spent over twenty years making heaps of money, building my empire. The entire time I was convinced that it would bring me happiness. Too late did I realize that all of it was nothing but dust in the wind. All my wealth couldn’t help me attain the one thing I want most. Vasilisa’s love. Just like none of the expensive jewelry I gifted her ever garnered a smile on her face, unlike the silly doodles I’ve sketched for her. And here I am, at the pinnacle of my success, owning so many things . . . Yet possessing nothing of value.

Warm wind blows into my face as I step out onto the terrace and take a seat on the deck chair at the far end. The tiny lights of distant fishing boats are scattered across the dark expanse of the sea, twinkling as they ride the waves. I pour myself a glass of wine and watch them.

“Getting reckless in your old age, De Santi?” a man’s voice says from the shadows to my left.

“Seems that way.” I lean back and take a sip of my wine. “Been a long time. How’s life, Belov?”

“It was quite fine, actually. Until some motherfucker decided to kidnap my niece.” He steps out of the darkness and leans his backside on the banister, crossing his arms over his chest. The glow of the moon reflects off the gun he’s holding.

“So, the pakhan ordered you to take care of that problem for him, did he?”

“I would have, even if he hadn’t,” he snaps. “What the fuck, Rafael? We’ve had dealings for years. Was it some sort of payback? And if so, for what?”

“It wasn’t.”

“Then what? Did someone hire you to do this? At what price? Shit. If you’d called Roman when you got the contract, he would have paid you double just to send her back right away.”

“I was told that not all things have a price tag. I’m now convinced that’s true.” I nod toward the gun in his hand. “Feel free to do what you came here for.”

“What, you just gonna sit there and let me kill you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Why?”

“Because the alternative outcome of this meeting is me killing you, Belov. And, unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

My gaze glides along the route Vasilisa and I traveled when we spent the day on my yacht, feeling the Russian’s eyes on me the entire time. He probably thinks I’m bluffing, expects me to pull out my weapon at any second. If it was anyone else in his place, Petrov’s avenger would already be dead. But Vasilisa adores her uncle. And I could never kill anyone she loves.

“Are you going to spend the whole night just staring at me?” I ask.

Belov laughs. “You know, I could have sworn you were one of the sane ones.”

“Acquired madness is one of the worst kinds, I’m afraid. When you catch it, there’s no cure.” I meet his gaze and throw back what’s left of my wine. “Take good care of her.”

He lifts his gun, aiming at my chest. “I will.”

A gunshot explodes into the night.

The bullet slices through my flesh; shockwaves radiate throughout my body. Pain shreds my insides, setting every nerve ending on fire. If someone buried a superheated rod through my breastbone, twisting it in the process, I imagine this is how it would feel.

Notes of a familiar song suddenly sound somewhere near. I almost laugh when I recognize “Gangsta’s Paradise.” The music gets louder when Belov reaches inside his pocket and pulls out his phone, pressing it to his ear. Unperturbed by the interruption, he lifts the gun, aiming at my head.

I can see Belov’s lips move as he speaks with whoever is calling him, but all sound gets muted now, only low mumbling remains. It’s getting harder to draw a breath. The light of the boats are a lot more blurry. I close my eyes and let the darkness take me. But on the cusp, a fleeting thought invades my mind.

I should have stuffed one of my shirts into her backpack.