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He doesn’t speak much English. Or any English, rather.
As we merge into traffic, I'm struck by the vitality of Saint Petersburg. Cars, buses, and pedestrians all jostle for space while imposing Soviet architecture towers above. We pass babushkas bundled against the cold and street vendors praising their dishes.
The enticing aromas of shashlik and pirozhki wafted through the window.
My pulse quickens thinking about my purpose here. To sing on the stage that launched my mother's storied career. The little that my parents learned from my uncle was that my mother had been a prima donna of the Mariinsky, her soaring soprano infusing the classics with passion.
I clasp the locket bearing her photograph, drawing strength from her memory.
The opera house comes into view just as grand and imposing as in the old photographs. I imagine my mother gliding through those gilded doors, filled with anticipation for the performance ahead. Soon, that will be me.
As we pulled up to the ornate brick hotel, the driver opened my door and handed me my luggage. I thank him in the clumsy Russian I learned online, eliciting a smile. Wheeling my suitcase inside, I check in at the front desk and receive an old-fashioned key.
Up in my room, I take in the plush bed and marble bathroom. Out the window, the Kryukov Canal is visible in the distance. I'm here, Mum, I've made it.
Chapter 17
Philippe
I sit at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, feeling weighed down by the responsibilities that now rest on my shoulders. I want to hunch with my elbows on the table and put my head in my hands.
But instead, I sit up straighter, the years I’ve spent under my father’s tutelage kicking in. Never let them know how you feel. Never let them see your weak points. To me, Father always was a formidable figure, a brute force of strength.
Now I wonder, did he also suffer like I do now? Carrying the sole responsibility for a group of people numbering in the thousands? Did I ever really know how he felt for all those years?
The room is dimly lit; shadows dance along the walls, reflecting my tumultuous thoughts. My men are present, waiting for meto speak, but all I can think about is how lonely this is without Father here. This is his desk, his people, his business.
His essence still lingers in the air - the stale smell of his cigars, his wisdom, his care. I crave his presence more than anything, yet here I am, trapped by the constant demands of my mafiosos, allowing me not a single moment to grieve alone.
"Philippe," Enzo, one of our trusted consiglieres, says softly, "we need your decision on the delayed shipments."
I drag my thoughts back to the matter at hand, forcing myself to focus. They need their Don strong and unwavering, not a damned, grieving fool.
"We've got a problem,” Enzo repeats. Port customs confiscated our shipment of Vitalin and weapons, citing incomplete paperwork, expired permits and other such fabricated nonsense."
“Damn,” Dario’s shoulders sag, "What do we do now?"
Everyone is looking around questioningly. There is a lack of clear direction. We need a definite strategy. I can almost hear their thoughts - the previous Don Accardo would have known what was to be done.
"Alright," I say, clenching my fists under the table. "Let's discuss the best course of action. Do we know what triggered this?"
Giacomo shrugs, “Could be the Russians. Sticking it to us to make sure they stay out of our business at the docs? Or a newly promoted official looking for an easy payday in the form of bribes?”
I reflect for a moment, “Of course, bribes have always worked in the past. But let’s do some due diligence and check out the current team of officials. No point in playing into the hands of some undercover sting operation.”
"So, what's the plan then?" Enzo inquires.
“Let’s give the government our full cooperation: importing licenses, medical distribution licenses, health-and-safety checks; whatever they can dream up, we’ll deliver.”
All around the table, eyebrows shoot up. “With respect, Boss, getting through that red tape is going to take damn long," Dario speaks for everyone. “The Vitalin will most likely reach its expiry date before they’ll release it to us.”
I lean forward, cross my arms on the table, and stare each man in the eye. "So, we recover our merchandise faster than that."
“We find out who else has confiscated goods that are being kept at that warehouse. Then, please send in an undercover team with false documents or counterfeit IDs who want to sort out their customs issues. Create a distraction and substitute our valuable shipments with whatever will do. We 'liberate' our goods from right under their noses without drawing any attention to ourselves. Thieves, if you'd like to call them that."
"So you're saying we steal our shipment back?" Giacomo’s eyes widen.
"That’s exactly what I’m saying," I lean back now, a smile on my face. "We recruit some of our more desperate borrowers. Please send them in to swap the goods. If they're arrested, we'd post their bail and get them out in a few months. Ensure the cops never find out we're behind this, and generously reward the citizens we send in by canceling their debts."
