In return, the event organizers provide me with Yelena’s contact information to set up the date. Of course I already have that—it’s the permission to call that I was lacking. I text her immediately, saying:

I hope you don’t mind that I stole that bid.

After a few minutes, she responds:

That was the point of the auction.

I type:

Is your father alright with me taking you out?

She responds:

Do you need his permission?

I can picture her expression of disdain. I don’t know if she’s annoyed because she’s being treated like chattel, or because she prefers a bad boy to a rule-follower. But of course, her father isn’t your average over-protective parent. There’s a lot more at stake here.

I’m just gauging the chances that I’ll be shot walking up to your front door.

A moment’s pause, then she replies:

No Kevlar required. But I hope you’d come either way.

I grin.

Absolutely I would.

We set our date for the following Saturday. All week long, I’m walking on air. I haven’t looked forward to anything in a very long time.

I’m lucky that Dante’s in Paris. If he were here, he’d definitely try to put a stop to it. I can imagine his gravelly voice and his thousand-yard stare:

“You think that’s smart, Seb? Taking out the only daughter of the Bratva boss? You know they’ll feed you to their fuckin’ dogs if you put a hand on her.”

Dante would try to get me to cancel. But he’s not here, and Nero would be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he tried to lecture me on inappropriate romantic entanglements. Before he met Camille, the main thing that attracted him to a woman was if she was off-limits, and likely to get him in a whole lot of trouble.

Aida can’t take the moral high ground, either. I’ve had to bail her out of countless scrapes. She doesn’t seem inclined to try to dissuade me—probably because she saw Yelena with her own eyes, so she knows how pointless it would be. All Cal says, bidding me goodnight when I drop them off at their apartment, is, “Good luck.”

It seems to take forever for Saturday to roll around. I try to distract myself with more work, more exercise, and plans to make this a date that Yelena won’t soon forget.

I pick her up at her father’s mansion on Astor Street. It’s at the very end of a shady, tree-lined lane, set back on a sprawling property surrounded by high stone walls.

The gate stands open like they’re expecting me. I take my truck down the long driveway, which leads directly up to the forbidding stone facade.

The house looks a bit like a castle, with several levels of walls and towers, and tall, narrow windows topped by gothic arches. But it’s not particularly beautiful. It’s heavy and hulking, with security cameras perched at every vantage point. The manicured hedges likewise have an oppressive look—too orderly and uniform, and not actually providing any privacy on the grounds.

I feel almost certain that Alexei Yenin will be there. As I park my truck and walk up to the front doors, I steel myself to meet him face-to-face. Instead, one of his soldiers opens the door—a brutal-looking man with a Cro-Magnon brow, squinting eyes, and a close-cropped beard. He’s a big boy. Not quite as big as Dante, but pretty damn close.

“Dobryy den,’ ” I say politely, in Russian. That’s one of only four phrases I know.

The guard looks me up and down silently. I almost expect him to search me for weapons. Instead he opens the door a little wider and steps aside, so I can enter the house.

Now Alexei comes striding forward, dressed in a cashmere sweater and slacks, with velvet slippers on his feet.

“Sebastian Gallo,” he says in his booming voice.

He holds out his hand to shake. His hand is large and stiff, the fingers swollen so that the gold ring on his right hand cuts into the flesh.

I feel a kind of atavistic hesitation to touch him, but of course you have to quash those impulses when dealing with gangsters. You have to shake their hand, clap them on the shoulder, and sit down with them to eat, even when every instinct in your body screams for you to get away from such a clearly dangerous person.

Alexei’s features are broad and rough, without any of the striking beauty his daughter possesses. But he does resemble her in one way: with his lank gray hair down around his shoulders, he has that same look of a barbarian—wild and foreign.

A second man comes to join us. He’s much younger, probably twenty-five, the same age as me. He looks exactly like Yelena. So much like her that it startles me. He’s white-blond, with the same violet-colored eyes, and the same sharp, exotic features. He’s wearing a sober dark suit with a high collar like a cleric. But his expression is anything but sober—he grins and holds out his hand to shake.

“Adrian,” he says. “I’m Yelena’s brother.”

“Priyatnoh poznahkohmeetzah,” I say, exhausting another twenty-five percent of my repertoire.

“Ho! Very good,” Adrian says, nodding his head with approval. “You’ve done your homework, my friend.”

Like Yelena, Adrian has a Russian accent, but his English is flawless.

I can feel Alexei watching our interaction. His expression is much harder to read than his son’s. He doesn’t seem displeased, but he doesn’t seem friendly either.

“Let me clear the air,” I say at once. “There’s been some conflict between my family and the Bratva. I hope we can put all that behind us. Now that you’re at the head of the Chicago chapter, I hope we can coexist peacefully. Perhaps even profitably.”

“Do you speak for your family?” Alexei asks, narrowing his pale blue eyes at me.

I hesitate a moment. That’s the crucial question these days. But if not me, then who? My father won’t be meeting with the Bratva any time soon, and neither will Dante.

“I speak for the Gallos,” I say. “Not the Griffins. But I believe they would say the same. Peace benefits us all.”

“Does it benefit us all equally, I wonder?” Alexei asks in his low voice.

“Come on, father,” Adrian says. “Sebastian isn’t here for business. He’s here to get what he paid for.”

Adrian’s tone is light. Still, I want to clarify that point as well.

“I bid on a date with Yelena,” I say. “Only a date. I intend to treat her with respect.”

“Of course,” Alexei says. “I know the honor of Italians.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

I feel tense and uneasy, as if I have to track Alexei’s every movement. It reminds me of guarding an opponent on the court—you have to be their shadow, moving and shifting in tandem with them, watching for the moment when they’ll try to trick you into stumbling in the wrong direction, or when they’ll drive hard to push past you.

I don’t know exactly what Alexei intends. But I do feel that we’re opponents.

“Rodion!” Alexei calls sharply, summoning the soldier who opened the door for me. “Get Yelena.”