Which, ironically, she could arrange if she wanted to.
My best friend has discovered a talent for shaping narratives, for making the world see exactly what we want them to see.
“You look amazing,” she says, kissing my cheek. “That dress is killer.”
I smooth down the emerald silk. “Mikhail picked it out.”
“Of course he did.” She grins then lowers her voice. “The senator’s scandal is trending exactly as we planned. By tomorrow, he’ll be too busy defending himself to worry about that shipping legislation.”
“Perfect.” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll talk details later. Tonight is just family.”
Elena emerges from the kitchen, her red hair tucked behind her ears, a smudge of flour on her cheek.
She’s become so much more than our housekeeper. She’s our eyes and ears, our intelligence coordinator, the one who sees patterns others miss.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she announces. “Sophia, can you help me set the table?”
In the dining room, I arrange place settings while Elena brings out serving dishes. The table is massive, dark wood that Mikhail had custom-made. It seats twelve, though tonight we’re only seven.
“You seem happy,” Elena says quietly.
“I am.” I meet her blue eyes. “Are you?”
She nods. “I never thought I’d feel safe again. But here, with all of you, I do.”
Safety. It’s something we’ve all fought for in our own ways. Something we’ve built together, brick by bloody brick.
We gather around the table, and for a moment, I’m struck by the surreal beauty of it.
A mafia boss and his queen.
An enforcer and a brother returned from the dead.
A media manipulator, an intelligence coordinator, and a calculating strategist.
Not to mention our little bundle of joy who is still running around the table, from chair to chair and person to person, happily chattering away.
We’re not a traditional family, but we’re bound by something stronger than blood.
Mikhail raises his glass. “To family. To loyalty. To the empire we’ve built together.”
“To family,” we echo, and the crystal rings like a bell.
Dinner is laughter and stories, Elena’s incredible cooking, and wine that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.
Tony tells a story about a deal gone sideways that ended with him dangling from a fire escape, and Melinda counters with her tale of blackmailing a corrupt judge using nothing but his own social media posts.
Nicole chimes in to explain how her puppy got into the kitchen and found the flour, spreading the white stuff all around.
I watch Mikhail at the head of the table, his hand occasionally finding mine beneath the tablecloth.
He’s changed too.
The haunted guilt that once shadowed his eyes has eased, replaced by a quiet confidence.
He’s built something that transcends the regional crime family he inherited.
We’ve created a network that spans continents, that operates in shadows so deep that governments don’t even know we exist.
