“What he said is true,” Adrian tells me. “We were born Bratva. We have countless enemies everywhere. Who do you think will protect you? The Italians? They barely know you. They don’t care about you like we do, Yelena. Their loyalties are to each other. Do you think Sebastian would choose you over his own sister or brothers? Over his own father?”

I swallow hard. I believed Sebastian when he said he was falling in love with me. But could I really expect him to prioritize me over the family he’s loved all his life?

“Would you choose him over us?” my brother demands. “Over me?”

I look into Adrian’s face, which is so like my own. He’s so much more than my brother. He’s been my best friend and protector all of my life. The other half of me.

But he’s the other half of what I was.

Sebastian is the other half of what I want to be. The Yelena I could be, if I were free.

I can’t choose between them. I don’t want to choose.

It’s only my father trying to force that decision.

I want to explain this to Adrian, but all he hears is my silence. My refusal to assure him that he matters more to me than Sebastian.

His face darkens and he pushes away from the table as abruptly as our father did.

“You’re making a mistake, Yelena,” he says to me. “And you’ll regret it.”

11

Sebastian

If we’re going to make a formal agreement with the Russians, I can’t do that on my own. My father is still the capocrimine. No matter how far he’s withdrawn, he’s still the one in charge.

Which means I have to tell him everything.

I sit down with him over breakfast, at the little table in our kitchen. Greta has made him a poached egg on toast with a side of fresh fruit. She offers me the same, but I’m too keyed up to eat.

Papa looks well-rested this morning. He’s freshly showered and already dressed for the day, despite how early I came to the house.

“What is it, son?” he says. “You look excited.”

“I met someone,” I tell him. “A girl.”

I see Greta perk up, over at the stovetop where she’s boiling water for tea. I know Greta has always had a soft spot for me. She always told me I was the type to make a woman very happy.

I think she was picturing some kind and gentle girl. Someone like my mother. I don’t know what she’ll think of Yelena.

With both Greta and my father listening closely, I explain how I met Yelena, and how I’ve been dating her ever since.

“Alexei Yenin knows,” I tell Papa. “I don’t think he’s happy about it. But he’s willing to make a formal truce.”

Greta sets down a steaming mug of tea in front of each of us. Papa lifts the cup to his lips, taking a long, slow sip.

His beetle-black eyes look troubled.

“I looked into Yenin when he took his position here in Chicago,” Papa says. “He’s violent. Cruel. Utterly ruthless. Feared even in Moscow. Not someone I planned to build a relationship with.”

“I know, Papa,” I say. “I don’t like it, either. But Yelena isn’t like that. When you meet her, you’ll see. And her brother isn’t bad, either.”

Papa is quiet, his face still. I know his brain is ticking away, examining this development from every angle.

“We have unfinished business with the Russians,” he says. “Bratva do not forgive easily.”

“Our history with the Griffins was just as messy. And look how well that turned out—now they’re our strongest allies. You never would have imagined that five years ago.”

Papa presses his lips together, considering.

“Fergus Griffin was my enemy, but I knew him. I respected him. I could trust his adherence to our agreement. I trusted him with Aida.”

“It’s Yenin who will be giving Yelena to us,” I say. “She’s his only daughter, too.”

I can tell Papa doesn’t like this idea, not at all. Still, he’s considering it. For me—because he wants me to be happy.

I press him. “We have the advantage, Papa. We have the power, the money, the positioning. Yelena will be living with me. We give them nothing, we risk nothing.”

Papa looks at me soberly. “Don’t be overly-confident, Sebastian. Yenin is not a fool. He does nothing without reason. If he agrees to this, it’s because he sees some advantage.”

“His advantage is partnership with us,” I insist. “We’ll allow them to expand their territory—it won’t matter to us, we’re making most of our money on the South Shore now. We can allow him to take over the parts of the business we wanted to jettison anyway.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that Yenin will become our employee,” Papa says. “If you think you can delegate to him, that he’ll be happy with our scraps . . . you’ve misjudged him.”

“I know all that!” I say to Papa, unable to hold back my frustration. “I know the risks. But this is what I want, Papa. I want Yelena.”

Another long silence falls between us. This time I don’t break it. I wait it out. Waiting to hear if I’ve convinced him.

“Alright,” my father says at last. “Set up the meeting.”

Alexei Yenin agrees to come to The Anchor restaurant, which is widely accepted as neutral ground for the gangsters of Chicago.

Almost three years ago today, my father sat across from Fergus Griffin at this same private table, to negotiate the terms of Aida’s marriage to Callum.

I wasn’t present for that meeting. Now I sit right next to my father, bookended by Nero and by Jace, who may not be Italian, but can be trusted for an encounter as sensitive as this.

Nero likes this idea even less than Papa did. He’s stiff and unsmiling in his chair, his narrowed eyes fixed on Alexei Yenin.

Alexei has brought three men of his own: his son Adrian, the silent enforcer called Rodion Abdulov—who I know Yelena despises—and a third soldier he introduces as Timur Chernyshevsky.

We all agreed to come unarmed, but I know Nero has his knives on him at the very least, and I have a gun concealed in my jacket. I’m sure the Russians did likewise. If we had intended to enforce that particular rule, we’d have met in a bathhouse instead.

Yelena isn’t here. I had hoped Alexei would bring her. I wonder if she’s sitting at home right now, wracked with nerves and praying that everything goes smoothly.

The silence stretches out between our two groups as Yenin and my father consider one another.

Papa speaks first.

“Thank you for coming to meet with us today,” he says politely. “As I’m sure you know, our children are eager to make an alliance. The Italians and the Bratva have had a rocky history in Chicago. But with each new generation comes an opportunity for a fresh start.”

“Who can stand in the way of young love,” Alexei says, an amused gleam in his pale blue eyes. “Water will cut through stone, given enough time. My daughter is that water, chipping away at me.”

My stomach clenches tight. I don’t like how Alexei talks about Yelena. He’s acting like she’s a spoiled mafia princess. Like he’s a hard man who’s only soft spot is his daughter. I don’t believe that for a second. Yelena is no Daddy’s Girl, and Yenin is no indulgent father.