“Never mind that,” I snap. “Get out of the house now. Don’t stop to pack. Just leave. You promise me, Greta?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding slightly scared.

“Go to the safe house and stay there until I call you again.”

“You ought to go there yourself!” Greta cries.

“I will,” I tell her. “To pick you up later. After this is done.”

She makes an irritated sound that shows exactly what she thinks of that promise.

I hang up the phone.

Miko is still watching me.

“I take it we’re not going to the prairie.”

“No,” I say. “Yenin wants to destroy my family, root to leaf. He wants to shame us and decimate us. And most of all, he wants to hurt us. We’ve lived in that house for a hundred years. More than our businesses or our holdings, he wants to destroy our home.”

“Are you sure?” Miko says.

I shrug.

“No. But if we want to draw him out . . . that might be the perfect bait.”

30

Yelena

I have no idea how to find my brother. And no idea how to find Sebastian.

But there’s one person I can locate quite easily: Aida Gallo.

I suppose I should call her Aida Griffin now.

From what Sebastian told me, she rarely leaves her husband’s side.

And Callum Griffin spends most of his time downtown in his Alderman’s office.

So that’s where I go, driving Enzo Gallo’s BMW. I park it a few blocks away from City Hall, not wanting Aida to have the nasty shock of seeing her father’s car parked out front.

Sebastian told me that Aida works part-time in Callum’s office, ostensibly as his assistant, but actually brokering some of his most crucial deals via her connections with the other influential Italian families.

I’m expecting to meet her inside, probably dressed in chic business wear, like she had on at the charity auction. So I barely pay any attention to a woman pushing a fancy stroller up to the steps of City Hall. I almost plow right into her in my hurry.

“Oh! Sorry!” I say.

The woman looks me up and down with a puzzled expression. “Is that my shirt?”

“Oh my god, Aida!”

“In the flesh,” she says. “I wondered where you went . . . Sebastian was being strangely evasive on the topic.”

“That’s because he locked me up under the garage.”

“Hm. Kinky,” Aida says.

It’s hard to read her expression. A range of emotions seems to flit across those gray eyes, like storm clouds fleeing before the wind. She certainly doesn’t have the same boundless mirth that I witnessed at the date auction. There’s no hint of a smile on her lips.

“Aida . . .” I say. “I’m so, so sorry about your father.”

Her chin trembles, but she shakes her expression clear again with one ruthless toss of her head.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.

“It . . . what?”

“I saw you the night of the auction. Unless you’re Meryl Streep . . . I’m pretty sure you’re head over heels for my brother.”

My mouth is hanging open. Everything I’ve heard about Aida is that she’s pure fire. The last thing I expected from her is forgiveness.

“I’m a mafia daughter, too,” she says. “I know how little power you have in your own life . . . until you rip it out of a man’s hands.”

The baby in the stroller gives a loud and angry squawk.

I peer in at him, startled by his shock of black curls and his furious expression. His gray eyes are every bit as fierce as Aida’s—startling in comparison to his smooth, chubby face.

“He looks just like you,” I say, in wonder.

“I think he’s got a worse temper, if that’s possible,” Aida laughs. “Poor Cal.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Miles.”

As I look down on the baby, I feel the strangest rush of emotion. I never particularly wanted a child. I felt like I’d barely lived my own life yet. But the thought of having a baby like this, with soft dark curls like Sebastian’s, and maybe his autumn-brown eyes, too . . .

I didn’t know you could want something so suddenly, and so hard.

“Aida,” I say in a rush. “Sebastian left this morning. I’m pretty sure he’s on some kind of revenge rampage. I don’t know where he is . . . but I’m worried.”

Aida frowns, looking for a moment just as ferocious as her baby.

“From my last conversation with Sebastian, I was under the impression he was going to chill the fuck out so Nero could recover, and we could bury my father . . . Then we’d reevaluate.”

I shake my head helplessly.

“I don’t think that’s what he’s doing,” I say.

Aida pulls her phone out of her purse and hits a number—presumably Sebastian’s. She waits, the phone ringing several times. Then, right when she’s about to hang up, someone answers.

“It’s not a great time right now, Aida.”

I go limp with relief. I can barely hear the words, since Aida doesn’t have the call on speaker, but I’d recognize Seb’s voice anywhere. He’s alive, and he sounds in relatively good condition.

“Oh, it isn’t?” Aida says, sharply. “Is that because you’re trying to launch a full-scale war on your own?”

A pause, then Sebastian says, “I’m handling it. And I’m not on my own—Miko’s with me.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Seb sighs. “You’re about to be the First Lady of the city. This was my mistake. I’m the one who’s going to clean it up.”

My stomach lurches. Was the agreement with my father the mistake? Or was it just . . . me?

“Where are you?” Aida demands.

“I’m at the house,” Sebastian says. “But don’t come here, Aida. If you want to help, go take care of Nero. He’s having another surgery tonight, you could give Camille a break . . .”

“Seb, I’m not—”

“I’ve gotta go,” he interrupts. And he ends the call.

“Goddamn it,” Aida hisses, shoving her phone back in her bag.

“He’s at the house?” I say, making sure I heard right.

“Yeah,” Aida nods.

“That’s where I’m going, then,” I say, turning around to leave.

“Wait,” Aida says. “Let’s get Cal, too.”

I feel tense and anxious, wanting to get back to Sebastian as quickly as possible, but I see the utility in having Callum Griffin with us as well. Even though he’s set his sights on the mayorship, he’s still the scion of the Irish mafia. He’s no pencil-pushing politician. He’s a force to be reckoned with.

As we scale the steps to City Hall, I lift the front of the stroller so Aida can bring Miles up without going all the way around to the wheelchair ramp.

Several people nod or wave to Aida, obviously recognizing her. I mostly get side-eyes, because while she’s dressed in a chic pants-suit, I’m still wearing the tattered Converse, pajama pants, and a ripped Van Halen t-shirt. To make matters worse, my shoulder is bleeding again and it’s soaking through the bandage, spotting the front of the shirt.