12
Aleksandra
There’s a soft rap that echoes against the wooden door.
I don’t respond, but it doesn’t matter. The door clicks and is opened by one of the young women from downstairs.
“Can I help you?” I ask tersely. It’s not like she got lost on her way to her room and ended up in the wrong suite. The door was locked from the outside by one of the guards.
Besides, I haven’t heard a sound from the nearby rooms on the third floor. The other guests are probably being kept on a different floor.
“I’m Nikki,” the young woman says, introducing herself. Her long black hair and deep-set amber eyes are striking. She’s a bit older than I am, though probably not by much.
“Aleksandra,” I say, although she likely already knows my name. I’d imagine I’m the talk of the town. Well, downstairs anyway.
It’s not every day that a Russian associates with an Italian.
“Do you mind if I come in?” Nikki asks. Her hands are clasped in front of her. She’s wearing a black pair of leggings and a dark maroon sweater that goes down to her knees. It’s oversized and looks relatively warm and comfy.
“Knock yourself out,” I say and gesture for her to come in.
Do I even have a choice?
What does she want?
She strides across the room like she owns the place and leans against the edge of the windowsill.
“Did Antonio send you up here?” I ask. It would make sense to try to get information out of me. I’m not looking to make friends while I’m here. It’s not like I want to be here, cooped up in this room, locked in the Italian compound.
“He gave me permission to come and visit you, but it wasn’t his idea for me to come upstairs,” Nikki says.
She appears genuine, but I’ve just met the woman. Earlier, she was downstairs with the other guests, but I had done well to keep to myself and avoid an uncomfortable conversation. Which it seems I’m now going to have to endure.
“Plan on telling me I’m a horrible person for consorting with the Russians?” I’m anticipating a fight. The girl didn’t come up here to mingle and make friends. She has plenty of that downstairs.
“They’re your family,” Nikki says. “No one can fault you for the family you were born into.”
Why do I get the distinct feeling that she does fault me for consorting with the Russians? Even though they are my family, I choose to be with them instead of what—on my own?
“What would you know about that?” I glance her over. “You’re married to a don. Am I right?” I don’t have to know who she is to see the power she exudes. While I can’t remember her husband’s name, I’d recognize him after witnessing the two of them chatting earlier.
Does she think I’m a threat now that I know all the Italian families?
If I wanted to betray them, return to the Russians, I’d have information on the dons, their spouses, children, and close associates.
But I’m not out for blood.
I want my kids safe and to return home.
“Dante didn’t always love me. When we met, we were enemies from two different feuding mafia families,” Nikki says. She pushes herself off the windowsill and paces the length of the room from the locked door to the window on the opposite side.
I roll my lips together, silent. I let her speak.
“I left my family, chose Dante over my blood, because he had my best interests at heart. My father was a monster, threw me into his trafficking operation and was willing to sell me to his enemy, to get me off his hands.”
“My brother isn’t like that.”
Nikki stops pacing. Her gaze locks on mine. “Good, because I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, even my worst enemy,” she says.