At twenty-three, I should get to live on my own. I’d spent ages eight to seventeen living with my Aunt Ivanna and Uncle Igor. She was super smart, but was punished and sent back to Russia, along with her brother, when they tried to depose Felix. Unsuccessfully, of course.
Since then, I spent long breaks between dorm rooms at my Uncle Stefan’s house. My great uncle mostly kept to himself, and lived a quiet life, so that suited me fine. But I didn’t get to stay there, either.
Without consulting me, Felix decided I would be moving into Gregor’s condo after graduation. He was nothing like Ivanna, with her sharp wit, or Igor with his brooding silence. Gregor reminded me of the men around my father back in Russia. Loud and flashy.
Ivanna had drilled into me that being flashy only got you killed. Between her words about being a strong Russian man, and my father’s beatings when I asked if I could have a nesting doll, I had learned to hide all aspects that made me look weak. No bright colors or garish designs, my wardrobe consisted mostly of suits and knit pullovers in blues and grays. It fit after years at schools with uniforms, and what I’d be expected to wear working for the family.
Being what was expected would keep me alive and in good standing, but I wanted to make a name for myself as well. Ivanna had given me some ideas, though we didn’t get to message much anymore.
It may take a couple years, but I would prove I was worth more than running some dry cleaners or bar. I should be sent back to Russia to do bigger and better things.
“Basil? Vasily!” I thought I heard my name called out in Russian and English, but I ignored them. I would be seeing plenty of my California family.
Ducking through the crowd to the exit where I could catch a bus back to Uncle Stefan’s—to grab my few belongings—I successfully evaded their attention.
They could wait.
Unfortunately for me, they had other plans. They must have come straight home when I ignored the texts from Gregor about meeting up, because all of them plus a few other cousins and guards were present in Stefan’s narrow living room.
“Pozdravleniya! Congratulations!” Everyone yelled in an off-key chorus, mixing languages and tossing confetti at me. Fun.
After nodding along, accepting a shot of vodka, and answering their questions in one-word answers, I finally snuck away for my things. Mostly I needed quiet and a moment to myself. I’d been called a spoilsport and a brat over the years, but really, I was just not a people person.
No one had ever made me want to spend more than five minutes in their presence yet, and I chalked that up to their Americanness. Loud, too personal, overly sensitive. Ivanna and my parents had taught me those were traits to be avoided.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find a message from the very aunt I’d been thinking about. Freaky, but she was always two steps ahead.
Tetya Ivanna: Congratulations, nephew. Don’t forget. You need to prove yourself and get away from the den of sin in San Francisco.
Sighing, I threw myself back on the bed. Her congratulations were not as emphatic as the ones I’d received downstairs, and it felt weird. She had told me this same advice before, more than once, and my father said the same when he bothered to reply. But how?
Me: In what way? How do I do this, Tetya?
Tetya Ivanna: Kill an enemy.
CHAPTER TWO
GIORGIO “GEORGE” GRECO
The term “empty-nester”wasn’t one I’d ever considered for myself. As Don of the Greco family and West Coast mob, I’d always had men and guards in the house. Then, for eighteen years, my twins filled the cavernous halls with laughter and too-loud music. Their bedrooms were on the same floor as mine, and I held on tight after their mother, Angelique, passed in childbirth.
The house was another issue. Seven bedrooms and six-point-five bathrooms, not including the pool house and guest villa, were more than excessive. The Italian Villa style was a rare find in the Oakland hills, but the security wall around it was my favorite feature. Angelique picked it out, and it was made for a dozen people to sleep in.
We talked about having a lot of children, enough to fill a soccer team—orcalcio, as my cousins from Italy always insisted. We started off strong with twins, but all our dreams ended when she died after an emergency c-section. Instead of a soccer team, I had two infants to raise.
My children became my whole world, my reason for being ruthless as a leader.
While I was in charge, no one came near my children. I stepped in as enforcer if anyone threatened our peaceful bubble, and I reveled in those moments where I could let my baser instincts out. But I never wanted that for my bambinos.
My daughter, Angeligue, was named for her mother, but we only ever called her Angie. She had a mischievous streak a mile wide. Giuseppe got my middle name, passed down from my father, and I called him Beppino: my little boy. Beppino was always more soft-spoken, letting his “big sister” fight his battles. Angie was only three minutes older, and she acted every bit the older sibling. When he came out as gay at sixteen, Angie stood at his side, hand in hand, with shoulders squared and no fear in her eyes. She made it clear I would accept her twin for all that he was, or I would have to go through her.
“Giuseppe is gay,” she announced without preamble, standing over me with fire in her eyes. Jutting her chin out, Angie delivered another blow, “And I’m bi. So deal with it.”
I wish I could say my first reaction was one of love and acceptance, but some things are deeply ingrained. I’d swallowed back my questions and told them I appreciated knowing and needed time to think. It was the best I could do. They left and I’d broken down in tears.
Angelique and I had talked endlessly about our hopes and dreams while she was pregnant and on bed rest. A sweet daughter, who would never find a man I’d approve of, but also how I’d walk her down the aisle. Our fearless son, who would excel at sports and be a ladies-man. We talked about grandkids and their weddings.
Their confession felt like a knife in the chest, an end to everything their mother wanted for our children. Something else, hidden somewhere inside my consciousness, told me it went deeper.
