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“But you know Mercy?” Nikolai questions.
“That’s different.” I stare at the size of the immaculate house. “I couldn’t picture myself or Mercy growing up here.”
Uncle Vito answers the door and welcomes us in as if we’re dear friends and not estranged family members. He ushers us inside with open arms, and I crane my neck around to get a better look. The grand staircase spirals up before dividing in two, and a crystal chandelier cascades in the center of the hall. The walls are adorned with traditional artwork, mostly reproductions, and the marble floors shine under our feet. The Lanzzare mansion is a symbol of luxury and wealth, a pristine reflection of the family’s dirty businesses.
“Welcome. I’ll show you to your rooms, and you can get cleaned up.” Vito smiles, his eyes warm despite the tension racing off Nikolai.
“We are not staying,” Nikolai states firmly.
Vito nods, avoiding eye contact. “You can leave at any time, but you may want to clean up before you meet with Christian Genovesi.” He has a point as I glance down at my wrinkled clothes. The three of us look as if we walked here.
“Thank you, Uncle Vito,” I respond, trying hard to sound friendly as I compensate for Nikolai’s grim expression.
“Our cousin Christian is the acting don of the Lanzzare Mafia now,” Vito explains, leading us down a lavish hallway adorned with priceless porcelain vases. “He agreed to this meeting out of respect for your late mother.”
Dad’s throat bobs, but he looks straight ahead as he walks. I focus on the beauty surrounding us—the thick, spotless white carpets and the gold leaf accents on the walls—and keep my feelings to myself. Nikolai remains indifferent, and his mind is solely focused on our purpose here. We’re shown to separate rooms, and I’m a bit put off when two maids appear to help medress. The older woman runs a bath for me while I lie down, and I’m shown a selection of evening gowns to wear.
“The don dresses for dinner,” she explains. “And he expects you to do the same.”
“Isn’t it late for dinner?” I ask, but she doesn’t offer an explanation, so I play along without a fuss. I pick a short emerald dress that complements my hair, and I’m pleased with how it fits.
After an hour, we are led to an ornate living room, where Christian Genovesi waits for us. He’s the same age as my father, but they’re complete opposites in attitude. Whereas Dad has done everything to blend in with suburbia, Christian Genovesi stands out.
Tall with broad shoulders, his face has a stoic expression, conveying the power he holds. His dark gaze is direct, and his jet-black hair is slicked back off his face. He’s dressed immaculately in an expensive tailored tuxedo, polished shoes, and a crisp white shirt. He stands by the mantelpiece as if posing for a portrait.
“Eden,” he greets me coolly. “At long last after so many years.” He pecks the air beside my cheek. “You have your mother’s hair.” His eyes assess me like a hawk.
Is he comparing me to my late mother?
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Genovesi.”
He laughs at my stiffness as if I’ve committed a social faux pas. “No, please. We’re family. Call me Christian.” He looks past me, and his smile tightens as he stares at Nikolai.
Smiling, I take a seat on a couch nearby. I feel as if I’ve been dismissed as the men square off. Nikolai and Dad are wearing borrowed tuxedos, and I wonder how much arguing occurred before they agreed to put them on. My cousin is a smart and sneaky man. I suspect having us change out of our clothes is a discreet way of making sure we’re not armed.
Dad makes the introductions, and it’s only then that I realize Uncle Vito is missing. Nikolai and Christian shake hands, gripping each other’s hands through clenched teeth, as if they’re both trying to break each other’s fingers.
Dad wastes no time in starting the meeting.
“How is Emilio?” he asks as they take a seat.
“Emilio Lanzzare has fallen into a coma,” Christian explains, his voice devoid of emotion. “But I agreed to this meeting with Mr. Starukhin for his benefit.”
I hold my tongue, knowing better than to correct him. Nikolai’s body tenses beside me on the couch, and I sense his anger simmering beneath the surface. I keep my hands in my lap,
“You will need our help, Mr. Starukhin.” Christian poses like a picture of wealth in a high-back chair, steepling his fingers. “Our friend Zakhar can be unreliable,” he nods in Dad’s direction. “Who knows what motivates his loyalty? It changes according to what he needs.”
I bite my tongue again, fighting the urge to defend my dad, but he seems oblivious to Christian’s acid charm as he stares straight ahead. He understands the underlying comment, as we all do. Christian knows how much Nikolai needs his cooperation.
“Christian, you don’t have the information I have,” Dad points out. “We have the same objective—to save an innocent member of our family—so play nice.”
“Or you’ll take your ball and go home,” Christian scoffs. “We have the manpower to do this without asking you Russians for help.”
Nikolai’s silence speaks louder than any words could—he came here seeking help, yet he’s met with nothing but contempt. I watch him from the corner of my eye, hoping nothing will happen, but I suspect it will. Like a bully on a playground, Christian Genovesi is doing everything he can to pick a fight, while Nikolai is doing all he can not to be baited.
“I never thought I would be present for this occasion,” Christian continues. “A Starukhin at my feet, begging for help. Enemies do make strange bedfellows,” he laughs, but no one joins in. “I swore I would avenge my Aria. And you, Nikolai… Didn’t you have a brother named Matvei?”
At the mention of his brother’s name, Nikolai’s control breaks like a twig snapped in two. He lunges forward off the couch, fury igniting in his eyes. Men appear out of nowhere and descend on us while Christian laughs. I grab Nikolai’s arm, desperate to pull him back before the situation spirals further out of control.
