Page 4 of No Greater Oblivion

“I was just thinking…I haven’t seen Special Agent Morales yet.” I let out a little laugh. “Isn’t that just so funny.”

The smile on his face dissolves. I’m not supposed to know the FBI is circling around Li’s illegal operation—smuggling chemicals from China to the US through his family’s shipping company where they’re used in American factories for the production of fentanyl, methamphetamine, and ketamine. It’s where the bulk of his fortune came from until the DEA started cracking down on his operation a few years ago. Since then he’s been forced into more legitimate forms of business to sustain his gluttonous lifestyle.

When he makes no effort to fill the silence, I leave the room without his dismissal, an offence most men have gotten a bullet for.

But I’m not most men.

Damiano’s waiting for me on the mezzanine. Our gazes meet and he dismisses himself from his conversation with Jenissa Dupree. Looping an arm through mine we descend the iron stairs together and into the madness that awaits us below.

“I thought you didn’t like Vaughn’s daughter.”

“I don’t,” he turns and flashes a smile in my direction. “But who wouldn’t like an invitation to the White House?”

Damiano may look like a golden cherub but his mind is as corrupt as sin. Jenissa Dupree is his newest conquest—daughter of Vice President-Elect Vaughn Dupree who’ll be sworn into office in a few weeks. Dupree will make history as the country’s first Black Vice President but will serve under a geriatric white man whom everyone knows made his way into the White House by default. The Republican candidate this past election season was so deplorable his own party turned against him.

The Velluccis and the Duprees have history and Vaughn’s precious daughter seems like an easy target for Damiano’s vendetta.

“What did Li say?”

“Li was Li.”

Damiano escorts us to a private booth toward the far-left corner of the club. Behind us, the landscape of Manhattan glistens under the moonlight, the city’s east side and the coast of Brooklyn and Queens winking back at us. This past winter has been the coldest in a decade, a true feat considering global warming is setting the world on fire. Most of the East and Hudson Rivers have frozen over and right now, the 59th Street Bridge looks like it’s sitting on a tray of glass rather than hundreds of feet deep in water.

“Where’s Rian?”

Damiano’s gaze darkens, one eye gold and one eye blue. His jaw clenches and when a waiter passes, he waves them over, picking up glasses of champagne for both of us. “Antonov’s here.”

I can’t help the abrupt laugh that leaves my lips. “Well…this should be fun.”

“You shouldn’t laugh. They’re more likely to come to blows over you than their fucked-up history.”

“Hey! I didn’t know they were brothers when I hooked up with Sasha,” I defend.

My friend rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

Rian O’Neil.

Twenty-nine-years-old, fourth generation New Yorker of Irish descent, related to the distinguished Cahills and Fayes through his affluent, old-money mother, Orla. Related to three past governors and two senators, most of the O’Neils’s wealth came from bootlegging during prohibition before politics became the new family business. Now they’re “contractors” filling up most of the Long Island City skyline with glittering skyscrapers and condominiums visible from Manhattan. His mortal nemesis?

Sasha Antonov.

Born in Moscow to Melor Antonov, first cousin of Lukyan Maslov through their mothers, the infamous Belov sisters. Heir to the Maslov fortune, he will one day inherit a multibillion dollar arms and defense corporation, left to him by his childless cousin and Godfather, Lukyan. Distantly related to a number of defunct Russian noble houses through his blue-blooded paternal grandmother, his matriarchal lineage was largely unknown until last summer.

His mother? Orla O’Neil.

“Where’s Alyssa?” Damiano changes the subject.

“Still sick. You should visit,” I hint. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

“Unfortunately for me, the only man your best friend has eyes for is⁠—”

My phone pings with a message and I cast a glance at the name on the screen. The letter A flashes back at me and before I can shove my phone into my purse, Damiano snatches it up.

“Is this Daddy Warbucks?”

“Not funny.” I fling myself across the booth and try to grab my phone. “Give it back, Dami!”

“Are you ever going to tell us who this mysterious benefactor is?” He chuckles and lowers his hand, teasing me, before once more lifting it out of reach. “I hope you know, it’s absolutely killing Rian.”