I cross to the shower, turn it on and strip down angrily in front of the mirror. In my head, I’m thinking of a way to kill Vince and make it look like an accident. I don’t actuallymeanit, of course, but it’s become a hobby of mine. Self-care and all that, you know. Seems like ever since Antonio chose to only manage Neptune and step away from the mafia side of our family business, I have become the counterpoint of all Vince's pent-up anger.
Antonio used to get this sort of pressure on him because of his age and position. He was meant to lead parts of the mafia that I didn’t even know needed tending to. I’m like a chicken without its head, running around trying to figure out how I can be accommodating so that no one points the blame at me. The Russians are still antagonistic as hell, though Tito and Antonio swear up and down that they signed a peace treaty. But I’m being blamed for the death of people I didn’t know I was meant to protect. Blamed for the lack of progress in this New Era because we just don’t know how this shit is supposed to look— when to fight, flee, sign peace treaties. It's a headache and a half, but I do want to help.
Let’s not forget that I do enjoy mafia shit. It’s not like I’m out here trying to weasel my way out of it. Not like Antonio did. I want it to work, but I also equally want to model. The fact that it sounds stupid in my head is only because of Vince. He’s continually making me feel as though I’m ridiculous and irresponsible for wanting my own life, too.
Why should that be so difficult for him to comprehend? Probably because he’s always followed the family rules. Ever since he was a kid, he’s taken on the responsibility of being the stable one in the family. I should say, ever since mom died. Even talking about that shit makes me want to run and never stop.
I can’t think about it too much. Pops has pretty much favored Vince our entire lives, and he would argue with anyone who said that to him, but it’s true. Vince was the golden child, and we were all just living in his world, rotating around him like planets around the sun. And you know what? I don’t like being controlled by him. I want to be my own galaxy for once. Make choices that satisfy me entirely.
I step into the shower and quickly wash off, letting the heat of the water sting my skin and forcing myself to stay under. Feel the burn of it rolling down my body because this I can control. This I can feel. Other than the pain, all I feel most days is rage. If I’m lucky, it’s nothing. Nothing at all except what I desire.
My youngest sister, Olive, tells me I’m numb. That I’ve been this way since mom died, since Vince became a second parent to me, fucked me up real good along with a string of other unfortunate events.
She might be right. And maybe I am a little fucked. But at least I’m not stuck being miserable, trying to control everyone else because I’m too afraid to face the reality of my own shortcomings. No. That’s Vince. If feeling less makes me a dick, then I’ll proudly take that over being a controlling narc my entire life.
I step out of the shower, the heat of the water still rising off my skin as I reach for my towel and dry myself. I grab my phone off the floor, where it fell when I took my pants off earlier. It’s almost dead, but I use the last of the battery to read a text from Vince.
“Mission tonight at 6 p.m. Meet by the cars at 5:55 sharp. No fucking excuses or no Paris fashion week.” I grimace, grit my teeth, and slam my phone down on the vanity. Fuck me. This is the fucking worst. I should have just kept my mouth shut and acted like I was unaffected by his stupid accusations. But now I’m stuck because he has every resource to keep me from going to Paris, and I don’t have much of a say because all of my security answers to him.
Tonight was supposed to be the cherry on top of my incredible news. Me, Lydia, and every hour of the night to ourselves. A date that I know would have ended in us fucking for hours. I breathe in deeply, letting the air fill up my lungs before I hiss it out in frustration.
Maybe I can make this work. Speed the mission along and send everyone home early. Usually, night missions last until sunrise. I’m assuming this one will be to deliver a bomb. That’s how the Old Era was, anyway. Typically, delivering bombs doesn’t take all night, but scouting the area and gaining intel does. For my sake, I hope it’s a bomb planting thing and not some stupid New Era scouting mission.
Quickly, I go to the wardrobe to grab my mission clothes. It’s still cold in LA during the nights—end of winter thing. So, I change into an all-black outfit. AMIRI thick-knit sweater with a turtleneck underneath, fitted slacks from Miu Miu with a bit of stretch for typical mission movements, and my black Prada combat boots, great for outdoor shit. I grab my black trench coat, already souped-up with guns, knives, and ammo, then head out to the top of the stairs.
As I’m walking, I grab my work phone and send a text to Lydia. Both of my phones— modeling and mafia— are synced so that my contacts will carry over. I don’t think about this before I hit send, or else I would be less confused when I get a text back asking who this is.
Romeo.I text back, slightly irritated, and I thump down the steps.
Oh! I saved your other number. You have two phones?
“Shit,” I say under my breath before typing back a response.
I apologize. I have a work phone and a personal phone.
Which one would you like me to respond to?She texts back right after I hit send, and I like that I have her full attention.
Either.I send and slide my phone back into my pocket, taking a seat on the bench by the door. I somehow managed to kill a couple of hours with my bout of rage and long shower. It’s nearly time for us to leave, so I decide to wait here. Get myself in the zone and figure out a way to make this mission go as quickly as possible.
I don’t have time to give Lydia yet, but if I could guess— and have faith in my ability to be persuasive— I can have us back here by 10 p.m. Late for a date anywhere else, but in LA, I can swing it. I pull my phone back out to see that she hasn’t texted me back yet. I purse my lips as I carefully word a text to her.
Will it be okay if we meet at 10 p.m.— scratch that. I delete the terribly passive message and type a new one.
Meet at Nobu, 10 p.m.I read it in my head, consider whether it sounds too aggressive, then get annoyed that I’m even thinking this deeply about a couple of words and hit send.
5
KIRA
Ten p.m. is pretty late for a date. I did think I hooked Romeo a little better than that, but I have to take what I can get. It’s not like I have any choice in the matter, so I’ll play his games. I can wait a couple of hours to respond to him; after all, it’s only 5:30 p.m. now. He can break a sweat a little as he waits for my much-anticipated response.
I glance over at Patrov, who is fully invested in the movie he’s chosen. It’s some old war film in another language, German, I think. Black and white, bombs going off that don’t even look real, and the main character with much to improve upon physically if he would ever hope to make it in Hollywood today.
“Why are you looking at me?” Patrov side-eyes me, suggesting something I didn’t intend it to. I snort a laugh at the ridiculous insinuation of his words and swat my hand dismissively.
“No.” I shake my hand and puff out my bottom lip as I stand with a laugh.
“No,what?”