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I’d always had a not-so-secret weakness for Italian luxury.
Still—to be spoiled like this on a summer day—it’s impossible not to feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Under the pale wash of a Chicago summer sky, August sunshine glinted off the custom cherry-red paint job of my graduation present, a Maserati Levante X Class. As I wove through traffic, the V8 engine purring and the cream leather wheel soft under my fast turns, heads spun as I flew by. I couldn’t help but giggle. It was a ridiculous vehicle, all sleek lines and precise handling, as though it had been dropped off from the future and not my father.
Daddy pulls it off with the big presents,I thought to myself, trying to hold onto a feeling of warm affection and not trepidation, as I swung down the tree-lined street that led to his industrial park offices on the edge of the city. My father hated austerity and the glitz of modernism, so he purchased several acres in western Chicago and spent a fortune on landscaping to create a green oasis. The massive stone walls in front of his squat office building, however, screamed Soviet architecture.
Knuckles rapped on my window as I pulled the car to a stop and the hulking brute on the other side scowled until the tinted window rolled down enough for Yegor to see me sticking my tongue out at him.
“Blyat,” Yegor crowed as he laughed.No fucking way.“Little Fedulova,gluppy.” He smiled as he called me silly. “I should’ve known. Who else would driveital'yankacandy?”
“Exactly,” I said, fighting back a laugh at Yegor’s rumbling disdain when he’d saidital’yanka.Italian. “Do you like it? It’s my favorite color.”
“Dramatic,” he said. His deep North Russian accent seemed to get thicker as he continued. “Glitzy. I’m surprisedshefwould buy you such bright automobile.”
A faint chill went over me at the use of “shef.” Meaning “boss” or “old man,” it was a title that only the most senior and loyal Bratva got to call my father, regardless of rank.
Just another reminder that here, Viktor Fedulov wasshefor Boss first and foremost.
He was mydadone day a month.
If I’m lucky.
Thatwas something I’d never had any choice but to go along with as a “Bratva brat.” Never mind how I'd come to understand my father's organization over the years—how, despite being less organized than their Mafia counterparts, the Bratva considered themselves ten times more loyal and ruthless than the Sicilians. Or from one glance, I could tell the placement of a man on the Fedulov food chain, from the lowestvoror “thief,” to thebrigadiersor “captains.”
I bit back asigh. I'd let myself forget about this world and what it meant to come home over the last few years in California. The scrape of the metal gate as it opened, Yegor's smile gone as he looked around the street with cold calculation, and the men swarming forward, hands resting on their holstered guns or holding massive rifles were all enough reminders.
Yegor must’ve caught something on my face, because his expression softened and gave me a quick grin as I drove forward and obediently parked in the spot that a frowningShestyorka,or “security” of the Bratva, pointed to.
The door was opened before I could turn off the engine and I hastily tried to grab everything as Bratva swarmed my car, checking it over for bugs and bombs, while theShestyorkaby my door tapped his foot and clicked his tongue, continuously glancing at his heavy gold watch.
I knew there was no point in telling my father’s men that they were wasting their time even though no one in Chicago knew who I was. No one knew I’d been in California, never mind that I was now back in Chicago employed as a remote consultant for tech start-ups.
Most people had no idea that Elena Fedulova existed.
Moreover, even on the slimmest and most improbable chance they did know who and where I was, no one in their right mind would come near the daughter of the “silentpakchan.” Especially since most people thought the silent Russian “boss” was nothing but a sadistic urban legend floating around Chicago.
No one would believe that such a man could have a daughter, least of all me.
I shivered as a question whispered through my mind.
If the father’s a phantom, what does that make the daughter?
“Little Fedulova, you must move,” theShestyorkaurged, and I snapped back to reality.
Apologizing in clumsy Russian, since I’d always been better at understanding it than speaking it, I slipped out of my car and hurried to the door. My heart pumped faster; in mere minutes, I’d be with my father. I knew I had to take what little time he could afford me, even if over the years, I felt greedier and greedier for every second.
He likes going out with me,I reassured myself.It’s a nice break.
Taking a deep breath, I went to go inside when I remembered that I’d left my overpriced iced coffee sweating in the cupholder.Dammit.
As much as I didn’t want to wade through Bratva muscle and the twitchyShestyorka,I didn’t want to let it go to waste or risk it getting spilled on the interior.
Before I could turn around, a deep and familiar voice, called out, “There you are,lisitsa.”
A flash of irritation and amusement went through me as I turned. Only one man called me “she-fox,” in his deep voice, with that edge of “city-boy” Russian, as the other Bratva called it.
He offered me a familiar smirk as he approached. “Forget something?” He held up my coffee and my irritation faded as I returned his smile.
