Figures that the night I want to drag things out, we move quickly.
The Nero mansion rises up on East 72nd Street, six stories of limestone and iron, every window glowing. It's been in our family for three generations. My grandfather bought it. My father expanded it. Bianca rules it.
One day it'll be mine.
I'll probably gut it and start fresh.
The gate opens before we reach it. Bianca's security already knows we're coming. Everything about this house is controlled, monitored, perfect.
Like her.
I walk in without knocking. I don't need to. This will be mine eventually, despite what my mother thinks.
The interior is exactly as cold as the exterior suggests. White marble floors. White walls. Original artwork worth millions. Everything pristine, everything bloodless. Like stepping into a mausoleum.
"She's in her office," one of Bianca's assistants says, appearing from nowhere. Young, blonde, terrified. Probably one of her spies. Smart girl.
Bianca sits behind her desk, perfectly composed in a cream-colored suit, her dark hair pulled back in a chignon. My mother is sixty years old and still beautiful in that cold, untouchable way—like a marble statue.
"Adrian." She doesn't look up from the document she's reading. "You're late."
"I was handling our mole."
Bianca looks up. "And?"
"Leo is taking care of the names he gave us."
"And the individual?"
"He was taking money for his mother. I decided to take his eye and let him go."
Her lips press into a thin line, and I watch as she takes her phone and sends off a text. "We don't leave loose ends," she scolds. "I thought I taught you better than that."
An insult sits on the tip of my tongue, but I roll it back. There's no point in trying to go toe to toe here. My mother isn't incorrect that I should have killed him, and I would have had she not interrupted.
Not that it matters now. The man is likely dead as we speak.
"The Morozov family has been making moves in Brooklyn. Small things. Testing boundaries."
"So let me remind them what happens when they cross those boundaries."
"With violence?" She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting problem. "That's always your answer."
"Because it works."
"In the short term." She stands, moving to the window. Outside, the garden is dark except for strategic lighting. "In the long term, it creates enemies. Instability. We've maintained power through strategy, not brutality."
"We've maintained power through fear," I correct. "The Russians don't respect strategy. They respect strength."
"And you think you're strong enough to lead this family?"
Here we go. The same conversation we've had for three years.
"I am." Not arrogant. Just fact. "The question is whether you're ready to let go."
Something flickers across her face. Not anger. Calculation. She's wondering if I'm testing her or stating the obvious.
"When the time is right?—"
