What would she think of us? Of what we’ve done?

We just completed a massive real estate development on the South Shore. Would she look on that in awe, or would she think that every one of those buildings was built with blood money? Would she marvel at the structures we brought into being, or picture the skeletons buried beneath their foundations?

The bartender brings Dante’s drink.

“Can I get another for anyone else?” he asks us.

“Yes!” Aida says at once.

“Alright,” Nero agrees.

“Not for me,” I say. “I’m gonna head out.”

“What’s your rush?” Nero says.

“Nothing.” I shrug.

I don’t know how to express that I feel impatient and uneasy. Maybe I’m jealous of Dante leaving for Paris with his wife. Maybe I’m jealous of Aida and Nero, too. They seem sure of their path. Happy in their lives.

I’m not. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Dante stands up to let me out of the booth. Before I leave, he hugs me. His heavy arms almost crack my ribs.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says.

“Of course. Send us postcards.”

“Fuck postcards. Send me chocolate!” Aida pipes up.

I give her a little wave, and Nero, too.

“She hasn’t had wine in a while,” I say to Nero. “You better drive her home.”

“I will,” Nero says, “but if you puke in my car, I will fucking cut you, Aida.”

“I would never,” Aida says.

“You have before,” Nero snarls.

I leave them in the booth, heading out into the warm Chicago evening. It’s summertime—even at ten o’clock at night, the heat is barely beginning to fade.

We’re close to the river. I could walk home along Randolph Street, but I take the river walkway instead, passing all the restaurants with their strings of lights reflecting on the dark water. I cross over into River North, where the streets are quieter and less brightly lit. I stroll along with my hands in my pockets. It’s a nice area, and I’m 6’7. I’m not worried about getting mugged.

Still, when I hear a shriek, I tense up and look around for the source of the noise.

About fifty yards down the sidewalk, I see a blonde girl struggling with a man in dark clothing. He’s burly, with a tattoo of an arrow on the side of his shaved head. He appears to be trying to shove her in the open trunk of his car.

The girl looks like she was headed out to a party—she’s wearing a short dress and sky-high heels. The heels aren’t helping her keep her balance while the man bodily lifts her off her feet and tries to throw her backward into the trunk. She gets a hand free and slaps him hard across the face—hard enough that I can hear the blow all the way down the street. He retaliates by slapping her back even harder.

That really pisses me off. Before I even think what I’m doing, I’m sprinting down the sidewalk, charging right at him.

Just as he manages to shove her into the trunk, but before he can close the lid, I barrel into him from the side. I hit him hard with my shoulder, sending him flying into a wrought-iron fence.

He slams into the fence, but he’s back up on his feet again a moment later, coming at me with both fists swinging.

I don’t actually have all that much experience with fighting—I’ve only been in three or four fights, while Nero’s probably been in a hundred. But I’m a big fucking dude, with a long reach. And with two older brothers, you learn some things.

The guy comes at me in a blitzkrieg, both fists flying. I keep my own arms up, blocking most of his punches at my face. He hits me a couple times in the body, which doesn’t feel great. I watch for an opening. When he sends another wild right cross at my face, I step aside and hit him in the eye with a left. That rocks his head back. He’s still coming at me, but not quite as steadily.

He’s got a broad, ugly face. Discolored teeth. His skin is the color of uncooked bread dough. He’s in a rage, snarling at me. Sweating and panting while he keeps throwing haymakers at me that can’t quite reach my face.

I’m not raging. Actually, I feel colder and more calculated by the moment. I feel myself analyzing him like he’s a character in a video game. Looking for the best and quickest way to annihilate him.

I start hitting him again and again in the face and the gut. Each blow feels solid and satisfying, like punching a heavy bag. Every grunt of pain from this asshole gives me a glow of pleasure.

He gets me with a jab to the lip, and I taste blood in my mouth. That just pisses me off more. I grab him by the face like I’m palming a basketball, and I slam his head back into the fence. I do that three or four times until the light goes out of his eyes, and he slumps down on the sidewalk. I don’t even bother to break his fall.

The blonde girl has pulled herself out of the trunk. Seeing her assailant out cold on the pavement, she runs up and kicks him in the gut.

“Chtob u tebya hui vo Ibu vyros!” she shouts, pulling back her high-heeled foot and kicking him again.

To be honest, I kinda forgot about the girl for a minute while I was beating the shit out of this guy. Now I turn around and really look at her for the first time.

She’s tall, and that’s saying something from my perspective. She’s got to be over six feet in those heels. With her face aflame with fury, she looks like a vengeful Valkyrie. She’s white-blonde, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail on top of her head. Her features are sharp and exotic—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, fierce white teeth. And her body . . .

I feel bad thinking about that, when some dude just tried to abduct her. But it’s pretty impossible to miss the Amazonian figure stuffed into that skin-tight dress. Full breasts, tiny waist, mile-long legs . . . it’s hard to snap my eyes back up to her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

Her left cheek is red and swollen where the man slapped her. I can see his individual finger marks on the side of her face.

“I’m fine!” she says angrily. She has a hint of an accent. I’m pretty sure she was shouting in Russian a minute ago.

“What did you say to that guy?” I ask her.

“What?”

“When you kicked him—what were you saying?”

“Oh.” She shakes her head impatiently. “It means . . . something like ‘May a dick grow on your forehead.’ ”

I let out a snort. “Really?”

“Yes,” she says, frowning at me. “This is a very common insult in Russia. Very rude, trust me. He would not like it if he could hear what I said.”

“Well, he can’t hear shit,” I say. “But he deserved it anyway.”

“He deserves to be castrated!” the girl says, spitting on the sidewalk next to her fallen assailant. It’s funny—spitting is the furthest thing from ladylike. But I find it oddly attractive. It seems wild and foreign, like she’s a warrior princess.

Speaking of which . . .

“Do you know who he is?” I ask her. “Why was he grabbing you?”

The girl makes a sharp, dismissive sound. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says.

That just makes me curious.

“Why don’t you try me?” I say.