I turn around, allowing him to clasp it. There’s little point in arguing with him, and really, I married the man. What more claim can he put on me than the ring on my finger?

  I slip on the shoes and follow him out of the front door. I have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t care. I find more and more that I hand myself over to fate and let the wind blow where it may.

  The car pulls up outside another hotel, much farther down the beach. This area is more exclusive, the hotels more expensive, and the clientele always wealthy. Enrique rounds the car and opens my door, guiding me out. Men and women dressed in tuxedos and cocktail dresses all head in the same direction up the stone steps to the revolving front door. We walk across the marble and gold-encrusted lobby and into an elevator that takes us to the third floor.

  The doors open onto a glittering dinner party. At least fifty tables are laid out with pristine white tablecloths and elaborate centerpieces. Enrique grabs my hand, placing it in the crook of his arm. So, this is my part tonight—arm candy.

  He crosses the room, regularly stopping and talking to people. It all seems fairly normal conversation. How are the kids? How’s business? Have you met my wife? Which of course, they haven’t because I’ve been his prisoner. By the time we make it to our table, I’m eyeing the ice bucket of champagne.

  I take a seat, and a waiter pours me a glass. The first crisp sip of the sparkling liquid feels like sheer relief. I just need something to take off the edge so I can deal with this…well, whatever is about to unfold.

  Men and women take their seats around us, and I tune out their conversations. A starter is brought out—caviar by the looks of it. I don’t touch it, opting for the alcohol instead.

  “You haven’t touched your food.” The woman next to me leans in, brushing her arm against mine.

  “Sorry, what?”

  She smiles, the lines around her pink painted lips sinking into her face. Her eyes slip from me to Enrique, who is talking to someone else. “Don’t you feel well?” She looks from my face to my stomach then back again, a small smile touching her lips. She thinks…Oh, God no.

  “No, I’m not…that.” I point at my stomach, then hold up the champagne glass like a very non-pregnant person.

  “It won’t be long.” She grins like that would be the best thing ever, and I feel sick.

  I feign a polite smile and chug a large gulp of champagne.

  Her husband then decides to lean over her and join in the conversation. “Adelina, I presume?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “I’m Francois Gourd. I have business dealings with your husband.” Great, just great.

  “Nice to meet you.” I try not to sound bored, but really, it’s impossible.

  “That’s a nasty bruise you have on your face. Did you walk into a door?” He laughs, as though his joke is hilarious.

  “No, Enrique threw a temper tantrum. My face got in the way.”

  His laughter cuts off, and both he and his wife don’t seem to know where to look. I can feel the icy tension pouring off Enrique, permeated by his sudden silence. I don’t care.

  “If you’ll excuse me. I need to visit the lady’s room.” Pushing to my feet, I stride away from the table and those people. I head toward the bathroom, but as I glance over my shoulder, I realize I’m being tailed by one of Enrique’s men.

  When I step inside the bathroom, he follows.

  I turn to face him, placing my hands on my hips. “Can you wait outside?”

  He stares straight ahead as though he doesn’t know where else to look in a women’s bathroom. “Boss said not to let you out of my sight.”

  I snort. “Well, you aren’t watching me pee, and I’m pretty sure there’s a law against you being in here.”

  He says nothing, and I head for the farthest stall, slamming the door behind me. It’s only when I turn around that I realize someone is in here. A breath gets stuck in my throat as the figure rushes me, sliding a hand over my mouth. The scent of mint engulfs me as I stare into clear eyes the color of sea ice.

  Sasha’s hand slowly slides away from my face, and I grip his shirt, slamming my lips over his. My heart swells in my chest, and tears prickle my eyes. I’m so happy to see him. He kisses me back, fingers stroking over my face, so gentle, so loving—the complete opposite of Enrique.

  “Malyshka,” he breathes against my mouth.

  “I missed you.”

  “There’s no time. I just had to see you.” His voice is barely even a whisper, as his fingertips trail over my cheek. “I’m sorry about Gabi.”

  My heart sinks. He’s the first person to say it, to even acknowledge that I lost my sister, and the words on his lips make it all the more real.

  The hinges on the external door squeak before heels click over the floor. Two women start talking, and it serves to drown out mine and Sasha’s conversation.

  I pull him close, pressing my head to his chest. “Please say you’re here to kill him?”

  He sighs, kissing the top of my hair. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”

  I lift my head. “When?”

  “Soon. Is he enraged yet?”

  I narrow my eyes and nod. “What exactly are you planning?”

  “To bait him into going after Nero.”

  “He’s on the edge. I can probably give him a shove.”

  “Do not risk yourself, malyshka.”

  “I won’t.” At least no more than I already have.

  “I do need you to do something for me.” He holds out a tiny metal disk, no bigger than my little fingernail. “Only if it is safe, stick this into something that Bianchi always has on his person.” I take the tiny metal disk and hold it up on the tip of my index finger. “It’s a tracker. When the time comes, we’ll need to know his exact location.”

  I nod, and he stares at me, his brows tugging together.

  Touching my chin, he twists my head to the side, inspecting my jaw. I know he sees the deep bruising. “I hate that you’re with him,” he spits.

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. It won’t be long.”

  A sudden banging on the cubicle door makes me jump. “Hurry up,” the guard says.

  “Coming!”

  Sasha’s lips brush over mine. “I’ll come for you, malyshka.”

  I close my eyes, fighting back tears. “I love you.”

  “Always.”

  I feel the loss of heat as he steps back, and I suck in a deep breath before I open my eyes, taking one last look at him. Then I turn around and walk out of the stall. The guard watches me intently as I wash my hands and leave the bathroom. My heart feels heavy for seeing Sasha. I loved him before, but now he feels so vital to my existence. He’s all I have left, the only soul in this world who even cares if I live or die. It’s both heartbreaking and reassuring because if I am to have only one person, then I’m grateful it’s him. My unsuspecting white knight.

  I know he’ll come for me, and that knowledge is what makes me keep walking, back into that ballroom, back to that table where my murderous husband waits. Soon. He’ll be dead soon, I tell myself.

  I don’t drink for the rest of the evening, attuning myself to Enrique’s hushed and cryptic conversations. It’s more of the same: his acquaintances regretfully telling him that until he solves his publicity issues, they simply cannot work with him. His empire is crumbling. Thankfully, we leave before dessert is even served.

  The second the car door closes, he loses it, shouting and slamming his fist into the inside of the door over and over. Where he was once so cool and calm, he’s now beginning to unravel, and I smile. He’s suddenly right in my face, his fist in my hair, wrenching my head back.

  “Maybe if I send Nero Verdi your head, he’ll stop this petty bullshit.”

  I snort. “Nero Verdi doesn’t give a shit about me.”

  He gets closer until I can feel spittle hitting my face as he speaks. “Una wants your head, principessa.”

  A laugh slips from my lips, and I delight in the prospect of feeding into his insecurities. “You aren’t that stupid, Enrique.”

  He lets up just enough that I can look him in the eyes.

  “Una might want revenge, but for Nero, this is just an excuse. You attacked the mad Italian in his own home. Since that moment, he’s been waiting for this.”

  He releases me and sits back in his seat, a strained breath rattling his chest. He taps a finger over his bottom lip.

  “Think about it, Enrique. If Una wanted to avenge Sasha, she’d just kill us. Hitting your business, that has Nero written all over it.” I love watching the confusion on his face, him trying to figure out his next move to counter their motives.

  “He thinks me weak,” Enrique says quietly, and I can see just how much that bothers him.

  “Well, are you?” It’s the only seed I need to plant.

  He’s too driven by his pride, and it will be his downfall.

  19

  Sasha

  Nero has a plan. I’m both relieved and concerned. If he has a plan, it will be mapped out to perfection. I know that, but it will also be insane. He is the mad Italian after all.

  I step onto the runway at La Guardia and get into the waiting SUV. Jackson slides onto the seat beside me, his shovel-like hands resting on his thighs casually.

  He looks tense, ready for a fight. Nero can be a loose cannon, but his two right-hand men could not be any more different. Giovanni is tempered, calm, logical. He’s a man who upholds traditions and morals, who lives by a code. Jackson is pure brawn. He shoots first and asks questions later, and much like Nero, has little time for morals or codes. As Nero has climbed to power, I’ve noticed he is more and more influenced by Gio. Power is about politics as well as brute strength and fear.

  Una should be here, but she stayed behind with Tommy and the rest of the men she took with her to Sicily. Apparently, this plan requires her to stay and keep pressing Enrique. Tonight, I believe she’s going to blow up one of his bars. It should just be a job, but she likes this rampage a little too much.

  We don’t go to the villa in the Hamptons, instead winding through the city until we reach the Manhattan penthouse that Nero. The building stretches into the sky like a mirrored blade, reflecting the New York skyline around it. We take the private elevator up to the top floor, where I find Margot in the kitchen, feeding Dante. She pauses when she sees me.

  “He’s waiting for you in the office.”

  “Thanks, Margot.” Jackson winks and smiles at the older woman, making her cheeks tinge pink.

  I ignore them both, striding along the corridor to the office. Nero leans against the front of his desk, glass of liquor in hand. Gio sits on one of the couches, his expression stern and unwavering. He looks a little ruffled, his hair not quite as neat as usual, and his tie appears as though he’s been tugging at the knot.

  “Ah, Sasha, Jackson.” He greets us briefly. “Sit,” Nero instructs, pointing at the sofa. He pours out a glass of whiskey for Jackson, before hovering over another glass and raising a questioning brow at me.

  I shake my head.

  “So, what’s this plan of yours?” Jackson asks.

  A wry smile plays over Nero’s lips. “Simple. Bianchi employed the Elite. Well, now he’s about to bite the hand that feeds him.”

  I frown. “He’s not stupid. He’s never going to start a fight with the Elite.”

  “Not the Elite.” He takes a sip of his drink and places it down on the desk. “Ronan Cole.”

  Jackson chokes on his whiskey, and I sigh. “Careful, Nero. You don’t want to get on that man’s radar.”

  “I’m not going to. I’m going to set Bianchi up. He’s going to steal from Mr. Cole.”

  I don’t like this. Ronan Cole is insane, literally, completely unhinged. He’s also powerful in ways that make Nero’s operation look like child’s play. He isn’t just in the Bratva. He is the Bratva. He owns the Elite; he owns everything. From funding the Russian government to creating and selling weapons of mass destruction, he is quite literally a world player. In Russia, they call him D’Yavol—the devil.

  “This is unwise, Nero,” I warn. “Whatever issues you have with the Elite, that will be nothing compared to what Cole will bring down on you. He’ll shut down your entire business with a phone call.”

  “I’ve had dealings with Cole. He’s a madman, yes, but he respects strength. And he doesn’t like to be stolen from. He’ll make an example of Bianchi.”

  Something uncomfortable settles in my gut, but I swallow it down.

  “You’re pitting one enemy against another,” Gio ponders.

  “No, he’s using a sledgehammer to swat a fly,” I mumble.

  “How?” Jackson asks. “How are you going to get Bianchi to go after that shipment?”

  “Simple. He’ll think it’s mine. Follow me.” Nero straightens and walks out of the room.

  We all follow him up to one of the spare rooms. He takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door before stepping inside. A man scrambles up from a chair in the corner, his eyes darting wildly between Nero and me. He’s young, maybe not even in his twenties. His face is covered in an array of bruises, and there’s blood down the front of his shirt, possibly from a broken nose.

  “Ah, David, you’re awake. Good.” Nero claps his hands, and the boy jumps, eliciting a smile from Nero. He puts a hand on the boys trembling shoulder.

  “Bianchi is forever trying to get moles inside my operation. Ever since Gabriella first brought her sister here,” Nero says, turning to face us. “This is David Russo, a second cousin to Enrique Bianchi. And he’s a rat, aren’t you, David?”

  “Please,” the boy begs, his teary eyes dropping to the ground as he cowers.

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” Nero says in a way that’s nothing short of disconcerting, and the boy cowers with every move Nero makes. “You’re going to do something for me, David. And all will be forgiven.”

  The boy nods rapidly, fear driving him to do and say anything.

  “Good. You’re going to call Enrique Bianchi and tell him that you know there’s a delivery coming in tomorrow night. A big one. Brooklyn harbor. Dock twelve. Just after midnight.” He nods more vigorously now.

  “Good.” Nero smiles. “I’ll ensure you’re well-compensated for your efforts.”

  “I… He’ll kill me,” the kid stumbles.

  Nero laughs. “Your cousin’s days are numbered, David. Do you want to be on the winning side, or…well, dead?”

  Nero wordlessly hands him a burner phone, and a small whimper leaves him. “Call him.” Nero moves to the desk in the corner, scribbling something on a Post-It Note before handing it to the boy.

  Wide hazel eyes flick from the note to the phone before he swallows heavily. His face washes white, and it’s clear for anyone to see he’s terrified.

  Nero leans in close, speaking in the boy’s ear. “In case you’re wondering who you should be more scared of…it’s definitely me.”

  When he pulls away, the boy is actually crying. I have to wonder why Enrique would plant someone so weak as a rat. Then again, he’s the last person anyone would expect for that exact reason.

  “Now take a minute and pull yourself together. Do this, and no harm will come to you. You have my word.”

  With shaking fingers, the boy types out a number on the keypad of the phone and presses it to his ear.

  “I need to speak to Enrique,” he says. There’s a pause. “It’s urgent.”

  Time ticks by, long minutes of silence, then I hear the low buzz of a voice on the end of the line. He looks down at the note in his hand. “You asked me to find out about any shipments coming in or out.” Another pause. “The day after tomorrow, the nineteenth, there’s a big one coming in, Brooklyn Harbor, dock twelve. After midnight.” He stops. “That’s all I know.”

  In the silence, I can hear Enrique ask if they’ll be heavily armed.

  The boy looks at Nero, who nods. “Of course, it’s Nero Verdi,” the kid says.

  I give it to him; he’s convincing.

  He hangs up and releases an uneven breath before placing the burner into Nero’s waiting palm.

  Nero smiles and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Well done, David.”

  With that, we all file out of the room, and Nero locks the door behind him.

  “The Russians will guard that delivery heavily. You know that. Bianchi’s men may never even get to it,” I say.

  “They’re not going to. We are.” Nero grins, and it’s the look of a mad man.

  “You’re going to steal from Ronan Cole?” I glance at Gio, seeing the same concern in his eyes. This is a fool’s errand.

  “He’ll never even know. We’ll steal it, and Bianchi will steal from us the same night,” Nero says.

  “I’m game,” Jackson says, digging into his pocket and taking out a box of mints. The huge man pops one into his mouth and grins before nudging me with his brawny arm. “Aw, come on, Russian. Live a little. You used to be such fun.” He laughs.

  “I have never been fun.”

  He snorts. “I know, that’s why it’s funny.”

  Insane. They’re all insane. I miss when my life involved only rational people. But no, I chose this. I’m now questioning why exactly.

  The harbor is huge, with twenty docks in total. Enormous cranes tower against the New York skyline, and though they look close, in reality, each dock is several hundred yards apart, with its own access. In the distance, a crane works, pulling shipping containers off a freight ship, stacked high. The colored containers look like Legos.

  Dock twelve is almost dark, the only lights cast from the edge of the dock itself. We wait silently, hiding behind a stack of containers set back from the water’s edge. The city lights dance on the water, the distinctive buildings jutting into the darkness of the sky and illuminating it like a beacon.