Chapter 1 - Dante
The thing about these charity events is that in our world, they’re never just about charity.
I adjusted my cuffs as I stepped into the bustling ballroom that would have impressed most people, but hardly made a dent on me. The room was beautiful, no doubt. It was the tuxedos too tight on bloated egos that I had a problem with.
On the surface, it was about giving back by funding foundations to help those in need. Underneath, however, the most dangerous criminals in New York were here tonight, playing at being philanthropists. Half the funds expected to flow in during the event were already earmarked to disappear through shell NGOs and offshore pipelines that would fund our less-than-legal enterprises, while the other half would go to whatever causes they’d been pushing; sick kids, homeless vets, endangered fucking pandas.
Clean on paper. Dirty as hell where it counted. Just the way this world liked it.
Genius, really.
I straightened my black tie and searched the crowd, looking for someone useful, and maybe a drink strong enough to make this charade bearable.
Truth is, I wasn’t here to play philanthropist. I was here to collect intel. The Espositos were getting reckless again. After what they pulled with kidnapping my sister-in-law Autumn’s sister, Megan, and throwing my brother Federico into a bloody frenzy, I had no doubt another move was coming our way soon. Tonight was a chance to read the room and watch who shook hands too long and see who didn’t look us in the eye.
My father had been sending my brothers and me to these things since I was twenty-one, before he passed away, of course. Now, at thirty-seven, I could navigate them in my sleep. Although I made it a point to avoid these as much as possible
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne. I snagged a glass and downed half of it in one go.
“Thirsty, Lebedev?”
I turned to find Viktor Romanoff, a mid-level player in the Russian faction, wearing a cold, ugly smile.
“Just preparing myself for an evening of bullshit,” I replied, clinking my glass against his. “How’s business?”
“Can’t complain. The import taxes are killing me, but what can you do?”
Import taxes. Cute code for the increased police presence at the docks.
I nodded like I gave a shit. “Same old, same old.”
What I didn’t say was that I knew his operation was struggling. The Espositos had been pushing into everyone’s territory lately. I wondered if I could ask him questions about that, but as of now, I didn’t know whether Romanoff had cut a bargain with the Espositos or hated their guts.
Ask the right questions to the wrong guy, and I’d have gifted those bastards a cause for war.
So I stayed mute and bid a polite goodbye.
Viktor drifted away to kiss the ass of someone more important, and I continued my circuit of the room.
I made my way through the exhibits lining the gallery—paintings, sculptures, wine collections, vintage watches. Each had a small plaque explaining what “cause” the donation wouldsupport: clean water, orphanages, and education funds. In front of each display was a printed donation sheet. No auctioneers and distasteful live bids. You just wrote your name and the amount, and the highest donor wins the item.
A few of the usual sharks were already lingering near the high-ticket items, scribbling down their numbers like this was foreplay. I tried not to roll my eyes as I walked past them.
A large abstract painting, full of harsh red slashes and black circles, caught my eye. Honestly, it looked like someone had a seizure while holding a paintbrush, but it was exactly the kind of thing that my younger sister Beatrice would love.
“That’s a Reznikov original,” a woman’s voice said behind me. “Starting bid is fifty thousand, can you imagine?”
I turned to find a petite redhead in a dress that left nothing to the imagination. She was giving methelook. The one that said she knew exactly who I was and what I was worth.
“Is it?” I asked, pretending to study the painting more closely. “Looks like something my five-year-old nephew could paint.”
She laughed a little too hard. “You’re funny, Mr. Lebedev.”
I tried not to roll my eyes at how fake she sounded.
I wrote down $200,000 on the bid sheet. My name would be going on every sheet before the night was done. Not because I gave a damn about the painting, but because I needed to maintain appearances. The Lebedevs were known for their generosity at these events. It kept people thinking we were the good guys among the bad.
Which, if I could say so myself, we oddly were. Most of the guys in here were known monsters.
