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Of course, my parents still found theVogueunder my bed one day and mocked me for being a fairy. They said I was weak. They asked if I really wanted to be afaggotand told me I’d never be a real gangster.
“Oh, were you looking for a pretty dress that you could wear to the ball, Cinderella?” my dad said, mocking me.
My mom sipped her red wine and laughed so hard she snorted. I was only 14-years-old but I remember it like it was yesterday. ‘How could I give birth to such an embarrassment? And to think, our only son turns out to be more like an only daughter!’
And so I decided I’d show them they were wrong; I’d dedicate my entire life to my career in the mafia. I’d show them just how strong I was. My profession became my everything.
I took that issue ofVogueto the shooting range, plastered it on a target, and shot that shit to smithereens. From then on, I studied nothing but the history of the Russian mob. I spent any and all free time lifting weights and going for runs. I was going to become a soldier with one focus: being the most hardcore mafioso I could be.
But fucking Nikolai—he was already consuming my mind. I couldn’t fight against those freckles, which reminded me of both his father and mother. I remembered that lovely woman so clearly, even from the first day I met her, when I was just a child myself and she slipped me some raspberry candy under the table while my parents met with her and her husband. I’d so admired the two of them and had even wished they could have replaced my own parents, who weren’t half as kind-hearted. And now, Nikolai, the only remainder from his parents left on this planet, was standing in front of me, and it was taking every fiber of my being to not wrap my arms around him, to kiss his cheek, to hold him and tell him that yes, today would be a shock, but that I would make sure he was safe, even if my life depended on it.
I felt ridiculous for even having the thought.
As far as my own parents, well, I hadn’t seen them in years. They’d gone over to “the dark side,” let’s say, and frankly, I didn’t exactly miss them. They’d never been particularly loving and just constantly put me down. They called me “a little bitch.” They told me I’d never amount to anything. All they cared about was their ranking in the mafia, and as far as they saw it, I was a liability.
They disowned me years before they even left me for “the others.”
I watched while Nikolai shook each person’s hand as they introduced themselves to him. Svetlana managed a small smirk, which was the biggest smile I’d seen on her face in what felt like decades. Surely Nikolai would be attracted to Svetlana, her slim and beautiful figure hugged so tightly by that black dress. And just wait till he saw her with a gun; to a straight man, which I assumed Nikolai was, she was undeniable.
Then Igor approached Nikolai, using his massive and muscular hand to completely swallow up that of our guest. I wanted to warn Nikolai that Igor was always a bit of a grump and not to take anything personally. That giant of a man was here for one reason—they all were—and that was to protect Nikolai. The birthday boy shook his hand slightly after Igor released it, surely trying to get the feeling in his fingers back.
Admittedly, I had once been attracted to Igor, back in the days when I craved a massive man like that to take care of me. But now, I could think of nothing except taking care of Nikolai, but only in the appropriate way. Falling for the boy I was there to protect was completely out of the question. It was dishonorable, especially to the boy’s late parents. I would have to stay professional, respectful, focused on my mission, which in my opinion, would decide New York City’s fate. I had to prove my parents wrong.
Lastly, Roman the groundskeeper introduced himself to Nikolai. Roman explained to him how he’d been taking care of the grounds for decades now, beginning with: “I was hired so many years ago by your—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, reaching out my hand. Roman understood he’d spoken too soon, shook Nikolai’s hand once more, and backed away from the boy.
Chapter 3
Nikolai
“Come talk with me,” Damien said smoothly. He turned away from the small gathering of misfits and began to walk out of the room.
“Nice to meet you all,” I said, bowing my head slightly and awkwardly, not quite sure how to address a potluck of people who were probably career criminals. I followed Damien into a large living room, which immediately exuded an air of opulence and antiquity. The walls were adorned with intricately patterned, blood red wallpaper that had aged gracefully over the years, casting a warm, vintage hue throughout the space. Maroon velvet drapes hung over the large windows, allowing only a subtle stream of wintry natural light to filter in.
Damien sat himself down on a brown leather sofa next to the fireplace, with a fire lit and crackling modestly under the ornate green marble mantle. Light from the flames cast dancing shadows across his face, as well as the richly patterned Persian rug that sprawled across the ancient hardwood floor.
“Come have a seat,” Damien instructed, patting the spot on the sofa next to him. I passed a vintage bar cart, stocked with an impressive array of aged Russian spirits and crystal decanters. As I walked closer to him, I couldn’t help but yearn to simply plop myself down on the man’s undeniably welcoming lap, to simply throw myself at him and have him explain that everything would be okay—that I had no need to worry. I behaved myself instead, lowering my body to sit by his side, allowing my right leg to touch his left, but just barely—like a whisper of a contact.
“Nikolai,” Damien began, “Let me explain. I knew your father. And your mother.” “From where?” I asked.
“My parents worked with your parents. Well, they worked for your parents, you see.” “So your parents were car salesmen too?” I asked.
“No,” Damien said, smiling as if he were on the verge of laughing. “My parents are gangsters.” A piece of wood in the fire cracked loudly, as if lightning had struck a distant tree.
“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“Your parents ran the Russian mafia, Nikolai. Your grandfather”—Damien turned and pointed toward a painted portrait towering over the fireplace in a golden frame—”Mr. Obolensky was the boss, our Pakha. When he passed away, of natural causes, praise God, your mother—what we call a Mafia Princess—inherited the business. But she felt uncomfortable running it alone, and so she asked your father to run the business alongside her, and he obliged.”
I was stunned. The fire continued crackling, combatting the long break in dialogue between us.
“There’s no way you’re talking about my parents,” I said. “They were car salesmen. I’ve been to their dealership multiple times. I’ve seen my father sell cars with my own two eyes. The mafia? You must be out of your mind.” I stood up and began to leave, adjusting my leather coat and beginning to zip it back up. “I need to go home. My grandfather’s going to worry. The school will call him if I don’t show up.”
“We’ve called your grandfather already, Nikolai,” Damien said. “We told him you were safe with us, and that we’d return you safely as well.” I turned around. The fire seemed to be roaring now, some wind from the chimney sucking the flames upward maniacally. “He knew this might happen at some point, no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He just didn’t know when. Come, sit back down and I’ll explain everything to you. Especially the part about your parents not being car salesmen. That’s a joke to their legacy. You need to know the truth.” Begrudgingly, I decided to sit back down. I did not feel like I could actually disobey Damien. In fact, I didn’t even want to. I just felt incredibly confused by the entire situation.
Could this be a dream? Or a nightmare?
The door to the living room swung open and the butler came in carrying a tray with an old brass teapot, the type of ornately designed piece I’d seen in pictures of the brasseries in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, and some equally fancy tea glasses. He set them on the wooden coffee table as the conversation paused.
