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I found myself smiling slightly at the thought. I could work with that.
“Look…” Boris hesitated. “The men keep talking about the Puerto Ricans. Do you have a plan for dealing with them yet?”
My smile slipped. The Puerto Ricans had been steadily eating into our gun-running profits for the last decade. They were a Netas chapter, the single Boston Pueblo, with plenty of support both back home and in the States. Formerly handling parts of the drug trade that we didn’t, they had stayed under our radar for a long time. But once cannabis had been legalized, the bottom had fallen out from one of their businesses, and they had branched out into areas we controlled to make up the shortfall.
They were a smaller chapter than our Bratva, and so far, our clashes had been brief and resulted in injuries, not deaths. I was reluctant to call for wiping them out, especially when they were so hard to locate and lock down. El Luchador, their president, was the only one we knew much about at all—and even then, no-one knew his actual name or what he looked like.
“I want to try for talks with El Luchador as soon as possible. See how reasonable he is.” Or how easily intimidated, if it needed to come to that. “We’ve shared the city without these problems for decades.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t running guns then. And we weren’t getting into fights.” Boris had close-set, dark eyes that made him look duller than he actually was. Right now, they stared at me probingly.
“They will answer for their offenses against us,” I reassured. “But the last thing we need is them calling in reinforcements from downcoast and touching off an actual war.” I considered the issue for a moment. “Perhaps we should get them in our debt.”
“How?” He had gone from wary to intrigued.
“We have far more power and influence in the region than they do, even in New York City. We control Boston’s ports. They’ve had to truck things in overland from downcoast this entire time. If we offered them port access, we could take our cut that way, while they congratulate themselves on fixing a decade-long problem.”
“Some of the men may see that as being soft on them,” Boris warned.
I sighed. Nobody from within our Bratva would ever have dared to challenge me, but if my own men had doubts about my plan, outsiders definitely would. I was trying to prevent any more funerals, but if that didn’t make me look hard enough in the public eye, I would have to change tactics.
“They are getting this one chance to remember who runs Boston,” I said firmly. “If they do not take the matter seriously, we will send them back downcoast. In boxes.”
***
I liked Cambridge. It was a breezy college town, dominated by the university and all the businesses that had grown up around it. Students mixed with residents young and old, crowding the streets three seasons out of the year. Classical architecture mixed with ultramodern. Parking was a pain in the ass, but I didn’t mind.
I found the auction house, Grant & Meriweather, and spent another ten minutes finding a space within easy walking distance. I had my briefcase with me and looked like any other businessman walking through the square, if a bit better dressed.
My head was full of thoughts of the auction arrangements, of Uncle Mischka, of the Puerto Ricans, and how badly I didn’t want there to be a war for Boston’s streets. I didn’t want to look soft in front of my men or anyone else, but the last thing I needed was a bloody conflict just to preserve my reputation.
My uncle had groomed me to become his successor since I left prison back in Russia and came over in my twenties. I knew I could do the job. He would never have had such faith in me otherwise. But now, it was time to step into his shoes. And I still hoped to do so without shedding any unnecessary blood in the process.
I was a block from the auction house when I saw an unforgettable head of wavy red hair coming out its door. I paused for a moment to look. Yes, it was her. Olivia. As beautiful as ever, if not more so—bright blue eyes full of merriment, hair escaping from her French braid beneath a burgundy beret. Time slowed as I watched her step out, the curve of her hips sparking a muscle memory beneath my fingers of the way she had felt. All the hazy recollections of that one night sharpened in my mind, and as I watched her turn to hold the door open for someone else, smiling down with a look of adoration on her face that I absolutely wanted directed at me, I could almost smell the faint, floral scent of her shampoo again.
Then a small boy, perhaps three, came skipping out and ran into her legs, wrapping his little arms around them and beaming up at her. She laughed and reached down to scoop him up. I couldn’t hear her from where I was standing, but I could see her. This was her auction house, the one she had been working for the day I’d met her. And now she had a little boy, one with jet-black hair, pale skin, and dark brows.
And green eyes. Pale green ones, very striking. Very distinct, as he looked at me curiously over her shoulder as she started walking away.
Now I found myself frozen to the spot for a different reason altogether.
I saw eyes like that in the mirror every morning. And I had never seen them elsewhere before.
I almost dropped my briefcase.
That boy. Three years old, perhaps a little older. Black hair, pale skin, pale green eyes. Like mine.
My brain did the math as I stared after them in astonishment. Could it be?
Had she taken something of me with her after that wild night together? Was I staring at the results across the distance, laughing and clinging to his mommy as she carried him?
I let my breath out in a rush and tightened my grip on my suitcase. My priorities had just been reordered. I still had an auction to discuss with whoever was left in the auction house while Olivia went to lunch with her—our?—son. But once that was done, I was going back to my men, and setting those skilled at information gathering to find out every single thing they could about her.
Chapter 5
Olivia
“You done with lunch, sweetie?” I looked across the little cafe table at Michael’s plate, which was bare except for the remnants of his demolished child-sized burger and apple slices. He was eyeing my fries speculatively as I smiled at him.
