The only way I’ve been able to survive the summer is by staying busy.
If I stop moving, I think.
If I think, I feel.
And if I feel, I break.
So I don’t stop. I never stop.
And as luck would have it, I have too many things to do in the day to ever catch my breath let alone wallow in my suffering.
Since I’ve beenmade, I’m now officially working under my father, Dominic, as an enforcer to the syndicate, and getting my orders directly from theCapo Dei Capihimself.
The days of being told that I should go upstairs to my room while business was being conducted are long over. I no longer have to eavesdrop on conversations or stand outside my father’s door just to hear what the syndicate is up to. Now I’m in the room with my dads and Marcello. I’m at the table.
And all this pain and frustration gnawing at my insides?
I pour it out on the poor fuckers stupid enough to disrespect the Outfit.
It’s cleaner that way. Simpler.
Some guys mouth off to the wrongCapo. Others skimp on money owed to thefamiglia. Whatever their crime, I just nod and listen and give them a chance to fix their mistake.
If they don’t…
Well… that’s what the room in the basement of The Vault is for.
I don’t think about Kirill when I’m breaking noses.
I don’t think about Kirill when I wedge my heel into someone’s throat and watch the realization dawn in his eyes that he fucked up.
I don’t think about him when I lean over some half-conscious asshole and remind him that this is what happens when you spit on the Outfit.
I absolutely do not think about Kirill at all.
And I try to keep him out of my mind when I have to perform my duties at theBratvacasino too.
The riverboat has become my second home now. It used to be his. His domain. His project. His pride. Now it’s… mine. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m stomping around the decks in heels, clipboard in hand, double-checking numbers on the fly.
Since neither Kostya nor Kirill are here to make everything run smoothly, I had to be the one to step up. Sure, Kostya had the good sense to put one of Kirill’s most loyal soldiers in charge before they left for Russia, but the second I step on the boat, thesoldatknows who the real boss is. Thankfully, he does what he’s told and never argues with any of the decisions I make.
And there are many to be made to ensure this cash cow never stops giving.
“Miss Stella, we’ve got a guy counting cards at table six.”
“Miss Romano, the VIP in suite three is demanding a private game.”
“Boss, the numbers at the bar aren’t matching. You want us to—”
“I’ll deal with it,” I say, and I always do.
I spend most of my afternoons on the boat going over ledgers, moving people where they need to be, checking in with floor managers, and calming big spenders with the fakest smile I can muster. When I’m walking the floor, surrounded by glittering lights and chiming machines, with Fox River sliding black and lazy outside the windows, I feel in control. And whenBratvasoldiers start calling you boss, an Outfit enforcer, you know you’re doing the job right.
Their respect and the control I feel here are the only things keeping me from diving into the river to try to swim across an ocean to do something colossally stupid.
When I’m not working under my father or babysitting the riverboat, I’m atNonno’sgym.
The barn behind my house still stands, quiet and patient, full of old sweat and older memories. The gym inside it used to be my sanctuary. Now I go there less and less. It’s too quiet. Too full of ghosts. Too easy to imagine Kirill standing there now, arms folded across his chest, watching me with that heavy, hungry gaze from the silhouette I once used for target practice.
