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“What?” I ask.
“That sounded to me like we’re taking you for a night on the town at Danza this weekend.” Tori smiles.
My shoulders relax in relief. The distraction of nightclub dancing with my girls sounds perfect right about now. “I’m in.”
13
ILYA
The Shulaya Bratva is thriving with our enemies crushed into nonexistence and my quick learning curve aspakhanseeming to have finally leveled out. Even after a week-long business trip to the motherland to ensure my ties there are strong and my connections are staying true to our partnership, I came home to see the books in such a solid state. My men performed their jobs seamlessly in my absence, and as I listen to their updates, I’m pleasantly surprised to hear we’ve gone another month without conflicts–even from our most trying customers.
Artem finishes with his report, and the room falls silent as my captains wait for my response. Each seasoned leader’s expression is respectfully attentive–something I had to earn the hard way in the years after taking up my father’s mantle. Finally, I have started to feel worthy of the title, a leader in my own right. And it seems my men would agree.
“So, what you’re telling me is, once again, I won’t have the opportunity to step in and remove any fingers to send a message? My bolt cutters are starting to get rusty from disuse,” I say dryly in Russian.
Quiet chuckles issue from around the council room table as my captains exchange amused glances.
“Very good. You’re dismissed. Take the weekend to spend time with your families. It’s my sister’s final weekend before school starts, and I plan on surprising her with an unannounced visit.” A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I think of the look on Bianka’s face when I show up. I haven’t seen her in far too long, and now that she’s living closer to Rosehill campus, she hasn’t stopped by for her typical shopping spree fashion show.
My men rise and depart, offering head bows before they turn to go. Though I never would have wanted to take over aspakhanat the age that I did, if I’d had the choice, in many ways, it has made me a stronger person. And surprisingly, my men seem far more loyal to me, despite their rocky start, because I had to prove my abilities as a leader when our clan was so suddenly without one.
But now that business is done, I plan on thoroughly enjoying my weekend, first with a surprise visit to see how Bianka’s getting along. Changing from my suit into a more comfortable Henley and jeans, I head out to my car a short while later.
Driving myself to Northern Chicago has become such a practice over the past year of visiting Whitney at her college apartment that I hardly think twice about leaving my typical protection behind. Not that my guards have ever proven necessary. And I’m sure I could more than handle myself in any kind of brawl. They are more to discourage any potential threats from trying to do something like, say, bury a bullet in my chest–like the Temkin did my father. My guards are meant to serve as a last line of defense between me and a gun, to lay down their lives if necessary to ensure our Bratva has a leader. But they wouldn’t be welcome in Marchetti territory. And honestly, I’ve come to enjoy the certain sense of freedom that comes with driving myself exactly where I want to go, when I want to go there.
Hopping onto the I90, I head north toward Wirtz Residential off of Lake Shore Drive, where Bianka’s penthouse apartment looks out over Belmont Harbor. She’d insisted on a location near Lincoln Park and Lakeview so she could enjoy Chicago’s nightlife to its fullest while still being close to campus.
The high-rise building is beautiful, the rooms spacious, and the doorman is polite as he greets me, recognizing me on sight, though I haven’t been here more than a handful of times in the past year. It’s a nice spot, and once again, I’m struck by my kid sister’s good taste. She has a keen eye for things, and if I even had the inkling to buy a property in Lakeview, I would strongly consider something in this building.
I ride the elevator up to her nineteenth-floor apartment and step out into the quiet entryway. I can hear Bianka’s laugh as I raise my fist to knock on her door, and it brings a smile to my face. Clearly, she’s not wanting for entertainment. But I’m about to break up her Saturday fun. I rap on the pristine white door and wait as feet shuffle on the other side, growing steadily closer.
Bianka opens a moment later, dressed in her stylish summer-chic garb of white high-rise shorts with a flowing floral top tucked into the waist just above the row of buttons. Her reddish brunette curls fall around her face as they escape her casual updo, and her light makeup accents her smattering of freckles perfectly. Green eyes widen in surprise, and then she bursts into a broad grin.
“Ilya! What a surprise!” Stepping out into the hall, my sister throws her arms around my neck, and I respond instinctively, giving her a squeeze.
“A good surprise?” I ask, releasing her.
“Of course. I always love seeing you.” That being said, she doesn’t open the door to invite me into her apartment. If anything, she tries to subtly pull the door closed behind her so we can speak in the hall.
I raise an eyebrow pointedly. “Bianka, what’s going on?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just have a few friends over is all.”
The hint of color that blossoms beneath her freckles tells me she’s not giving me a full picture.
“Wonderful. It’s been a long time since I’ve met your friends. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
Reaching past her, I push open the door and stride into her spacious apartment. Dark wood floors and white walls hold modern gray couches and glass tables. The light fixtures match the decor perfectly, hanging from the ceiling from thin wires so the translucent-white Venetian-glass lampshades almost appear to be suspended midair.
Sprawled casually across the couches are none other than the Marchetti twins, looking perfectly at ease as they pick from the charcuterie board on the glass coffee table before them. Champagne flutes filled with mimosas occupy the table as well. Clearly, they’ve been having a fun time.
Anxiety spikes in my chest as I consider the implications of their presence in my sister’s living room. Nothing good can come from her mingling with the Marchetti family. Not when our alliance has always been rather shaky, considering our territories border one other. Irritation spikes as I recall having a conversation with my kid sister about keeping her head down and a low profile if she wants to attend school in Northern Chicago.
As I walk deeper into Bianka’s apartment, two sets of hazel eyes in identical faces turn my way, and both boys rise politely from their seats, earning a modicum of my respect, as does their well-put-together appearances. At least they’re not being slobs in my sister’s presence. Bianka’s sandaled feet patter lightly beside me, and I can hear the nerves in her voice as she introduces us.
“Ilya, I think you’ve met Lucca and Cassio Marchetti before, haven’t you? Lucca, Cassio, this is my older brother, Ilya Popov.”
“Pleasure,” I say shortly, extending my hand.
