CHAPTER 1
Alana
The Wobble is the single, longest song in the history of time. I’ve destroyed governments in less time than it takes to do The Wobble. The song also is even longer when the groomsmen start off with a ten-minute choreographed dance number.
The air in the reception hall hangs over me like a fleece blanket in the summer, and the stink of stale cologne, booze and early onsets of body odor chokes me. I step out onto the deck for a break, closing the music and noise behind the door. The chilly early October breeze is exactly what I need. But, of course, someone will assume I snuck out because the wedding is too much for poor Alana. I’ve noticed their attention on me more since the summer. Geez, you die one time and everyone’s suddenly concerned about your well-being.
Resting my arm on the porch railing, I study the pond and the new landscaping Waverly put in this past spring. I’m sure it’s stunning in the day with its changing leaves, but right now everything is dark on black.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Lena. She’s still upset she couldn’t come to the wedding, but Lance and Izzy agreed that Lena would be more of a distraction and a security risk. And it would mean that half the wedding guests couldn’t enjoy the night because they would feel obligated to be on the clock.
Lena: You ok?
Me: Of course.
Lena: You did good tonight.
I know I did. My successes are all in that reception hall. I gave my best friend a wife and family. Lukas is going to take Waverly to the Azores in November to propose. Dimitri and Katya are engaged already. No wedding date has been planned, they’re just happy to be together. Joey and Jenny are doing great. She’s renting out her apartment, and they’re living together with a dog. Even this hotel has a newfound life because of me. Everything is going to plan.
The music comes crashing in when someone opens the door. Ugh, I’ll never be alone.
“Helluva party in there,” Andrey says. Of all the Four Families fathers, I have the most mixed feelings about him.
“Weddings usually are,” I say in a flat, ‘well duh’ voice.
He’s wearing a navy-blue suit with an orange pocket square. His hair is slicked back, and now that he’s taking care of his skin, he might pass for fifty.
“How are you doing?” He stands next to me, sharing my view of the pond.
“I’m fine.” But getting more annoyed with every passing second. “It was a beautiful wedding.”
“Yes, it was.” His head dips low as he says, “It’s a shame my family won’t have one.”
“Like hell.” I didn’t work this hard for four years just to whiff it at the end with the last family.
The grandmothers that bonded the four crime families together paid me to safeguard the future of their legacy. That meant heirs. Fine, but all the grandkids were a mess and barely functional humans. So, I fixed them and paired them off. Not easy by any means, but doable. The Russians are the last family I need to finish on the list, and Andrey here is the only one who has a problem with it.
“Maybe,” he pushes himself off the banister and says, “but I won’t be attending.” There’s a finality to his tone, like it’s been decided by ancient gods and passed down as lore. He’s so fucking melodramatic. He adds, under his breath with that ‘woe is me’ tone, “They wouldn’t want me there anyway.”
“Yeah, well, sending your gay son to Russia might not have been the best call.” He scoffs and steps further away. Andrey’s heard this all a million times. Mostly because I set a calendar notification on his phone to remind him not to be a twat to his family. “Or you could tell Uri the truth.”
He whips around and gives me his most deadly glare, and I see the mob boss in him, not the broken man. I raise my eyebrow and he steps back. His eyes drift to the water with resignation. “It’s better this way.”
“On the list of shitty dads, you are in the top ten but not in the top five. There’s still time to fix this.”
He huffs and somehow even the puff of air has a Russian accent. “How’s he doing in private security?”
“He’s great.” Actually, I have no clue. I should check in on that. My phone rings, and I frown when I see Fuck Nugget on the screen. “Hey, one of the top five shitty dads is calling right now.”
Andrey takes his cue to leave as I answer. “Who threatened to beat the shit out of you today?”
Fuck Nugget exhales, his voice hoarse and raw from years of verbal abuse. “No one, I was calling to check in on you.”
“That’s… uncharacteristic since you never check in on your own kids.”
“And you sure as shit make sure I’m paying for them.”
“Your orgasm, your money.” We’ve had this conversation many times, but I do like quoting his son’s logic back at him. It always drives the knife deeper.
