Luca
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is take two aspirin for the throbbing headache that threatens to split my skull, courtesy of too much whiskey the night before.
The second is to call the number that I know will put me in touch with Viktor’s right-hand man, Levin. There’s no number to speak to Viktor Andreyev directly, but this is almost as good. And I need Viktor to know I’m serious.
“Yes?” The thick, deeply accented voice comes over the line after one ring. “Who is this?”
“Luca Romano. Don’t hang up,” I say sharply. “You’ll want to listen to this.”
“I doubt it. But please, continue.”
“I need to meet with Viktor.”
There’s a snort on the other end of the line. “And why should theUssurimeet with you? Tell me, please, why you are so worth his time,underboss.”
“Well, for one,” I say coolly, “I’m no longer the underboss. As of yesterday, I have taken over Rossi’s place as don. I would have thought Viktor’s eyes and ears would have heard that already.”
There’s a momentary silence on the other line. I’m sure someone will bleed tonight for not finding that information out sooner. But that’s not my problem.
“And Rossi?” Levin’s voice is guarded now.
“In the hospital. He’ll live, but he’s angry. He wants war for his wife’s death. As I’m sure Viktor expects that he might.”
“And you don’t?”
“No,” I say evenly. “I don’t. So I wish to speak to Viktor and see what we can do. I don’t want there to be more bloodshed if it can be avoided.”
“Bold words from a man who recently painted a hotel room red with our men.”
“You stole something that belonged to me.”
“Viktor would say she ought to have belonged tohim.”
That startles me, but I’m careful not to let Levin hear it in my voice, or falter in the slightest. If I’m going to achieve what I want, I have to be certain that the Russians sense no weakness.
Not even Sofia.Especiallynot Sofia.
“I’m sure if Viktor and I speak, we can work this out. I don’t wish for anyone else to die. We can stop this now, if we can come to terms. I also want him to agree not to take further measures against us today. Giulia Rossi’s funeral is this afternoon, and I think it’s not too much to ask to allow us to lay her to rest without the fear of further attacks on our women and children. We men can fight another day if need be.”
There’s a long pause, and I almost wonder if Levin’s hung up. Finally, his voice comes over the line again, crackling slightly with static.
“I’ll relay the message. But no promises.”
And then the phone goes dead.
Well, better than nothing, I suppose.If Viktor insists on war, it’ll be difficult to stop. I need to nip this in the bud before he can take any additional steps, or Rossi can recover enough to do anything to make matters worse.
An hour later, I’m freshly showered and dressed in the suit that Carmen sent over; I pick at the tray of breakfast that room service sent up as I check my emails on my phone. It occurs to me that I could have one of the guards connect me with Sofia to see how she’s doing. I could even just check in with them and make sure that she’s alright. But I push the urge away.
If there had been even a hint of danger last night, I would have been alerted. And I don’t know how she’ll react to my absence last night or what she’ll say to me today. All of my focus needs to be on negotiating with Viktor and ending this threat.
I steel myself for the day ahead of me as I settle into the car to be driven to the funeral home. Since I received the news of Giulia Rossi’s death, I’ve had a slow-simmering anger building in my gut that’s been difficult to hold back.
I knew Giulia since I was a child, of course. My father didn’t try to keep his family apart from the mafia dealings the way Giovanni did. Then again, my father married a good Italian woman, the daughter of the former Los Angeles underboss just before he passed away. My mother didn’t love the life, but she’d been born into it and raised knowing what her place was. We had many dinners over at the Rossi’s grand mansion; occasionally, they even deigned to come to our smaller brownstone.
Giovanni Ferretti was at those dinners often, of course, but always without his Russian wife and half-Russian daughter. It was an unspoken rule—he’d gotten away with marrying her, but she would always be kept as out of sight as possible.
Sofia’s father failed to prepare her for an inevitable future as a mafia wife in so many ways because he was an unusual man. Even before his marriage, he’d been almost monk-like, refusing to take part in the sex, drinking, and gambling that most of us enjoy. He’d had as much wealth as any of us and plenty of power as Rossi’s third, but he’d kept to himself, preferring books and music at home over late nights out and picking up women.