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Just then, my phone rings. I stare at it in shock. I haven’t seen my older brother’s name, Ivan Zolotov, flash across the screen in seven years.
And yet, here it is.
I pick up the phone with trembling hands, and my brother’s voice comes through in a deep baritone on the other end. “Did you see the news?”
“Brother, hello,” I say in a deep whisper.
“Privyet,” he greets me in Russian. “The Bratva needs you, Mikhail.”
I clench my fists. After all this time? My heart begins to race, a speeding train trying to get away from reality.
The memories come flashing back. All four of us as kids—Ivan the oldest, Vlad the middle, then me, and then Sergei, the youngest. Those cold Russian winters, with snow seeping in through our bones and our mother making us warm milk mixed with water. The poverty-entrenched daily struggles that took my mother’s life when my father couldn’t afford medicine.
Our father, joining the Bratva, rising up the ranks to eventually lead his own organization and establish the business and our lives in the US, an angry man who vowed to never be poor again. The same white snow, now steeped in blood as Father killed for the Bratva and made us watch so we too could take our rightful place as his heirs.
Our family’s rise as the largest crime syndicate and with that, my childish dreams withering away. Only Ivan saw me suffer, yearn for a life beyond all that violence, to have the future Mama always wanted us to have.
And when Father died, Ivan took the helm. He let me go to follow my dreams in architecture and construction. “Never come back to Philadelphia,” were the last words he ever said to me. “And don’t call us. You’re on your own now.”
In exchange for a life of freedom, one free from crime, I signed away access to my only living family. For a while,I was angry at Ivan. But then, I came to realize it wasn’t him I was angry at. My rage was misdirected away from the true perpetrator—the system under which the Bratva ran. Had my brother released me from familial loyalty and duty yet maintained brotherly affection, his power would have been diminished in the eyes of those who worked for him and he would forever be viewed as weak.
And there is no place for a weak man within the Bratva.
“Mikhail?” he drawls, when I don’t answer. “As I said, the Bratva needs you.”
“Is there another way, brother?” I ask, one last attempt to stay free.
“There was. Your brother. Look what happened to him. He burned almost everything I built in America to the ground, and now he’s dead. You tell me, Mikhail. Who else do I have? Sergei…”
He’s right. Sergei is not prepared yet.
I sigh and stare out of the window at the towering hotel into which I’ve placed all my energy for the last year. I think back to the past seven years and everything I’ve accomplished. The highs and lows, the joys and pains. It’s been a ride of a lifetime and in this very moment, there’s only one person I can thank for ever having the chance to go on this journey—Ivan.
His question burns in my mind because he speaks the truth. Who else does he have? After all he’s given me, how can I deny him my aid in his hour of need?
“Brother,” I say at last, “tell me what you need.”
“Return to Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia?” My breath catches in my throat.
“I’ll send you the plane.”
He ends the call and I throw the phone aside. Dima watches me and asks if I’m alright.
I have no choice but to lie. “I’m fine. We’re going to Philadelphia tonight.”
The truth is, I’m anything but fine. I promised myself, years ago, that I would never set foot in Philadelphia whileshestill lived there. And I wonder where she is now…and how she’s doing since I left her and shattered her dreams of spending a lifetime together.
Chapter 2 - Caterina
The black town car idles in front of the imposing brick facade of the Dalton School, Philadelphia’s most expensive private prep school, exhaust fumes rising in the cold winter air. I stand on the sidewalk, arms crossed, flanked by Luca and Vinnie, two of my father’s soldiers, here to be my bodyguards. But I know the truth. When father says bodyguards, I hearspies. My breath frosts as I scan the crowd of children bursting through the heavy wooden doors, searching for one face.
There she is. Emiliana bursts into the chill afternoon, her riotous black curls flying behind her like a dark flag. Her bright green eyes find mine and she breaks into an adorable, dazzling grin.
“Mamma!” she cries, barreling toward me. I sweep her into my arms, breathing in her sweet scent.
“Cara mia,” I murmurmy darlinginto my six-year-old’s windswept hair. For a moment, I forget Luca and Vinnie looming behind me and lose myself in Emiliana’s embrace. She is my light, my joy. I would do anything for my daughter, even endure my father’s dark world—one I’ve wanted to escape since I was just a few years older than she is now.
