I shrug out of my leather jacket and drape it around her shoulders. “Tell me exactly what Ruslan said to you.”
“That he and Leonardo Valenti came to an agreement to unite the bratva and the mafia through marriage. He said something about a…” She scrunches her nose. “Phantom?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “He means the Ghost.”
The first strike was twelve days ago. Two trucks full of our guns hijacked from a rest stop upstate. Our crew was ambushed, four men killed, millions in automatic weapons gone before anyone could call it in. At the time, we assumed it was an old enemy or another family out for our territory. We increased security across the board and kept up business as usual.
The second hit came five days ago and made the first look like child’s play. Eight of our men in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, moving 3.5 million in cash. We were ready this time: armed escorts, multiple vehicles. It didn’t matter. Someone cut the power and turned it into a pitch-black tomb. Sixty seconds of chaos. When the lights flickered back on, the money was gone and three of our men were dead.
We pulled back after that. Paused most operations, tried to regroup while we figured out who the fuck we were dealing with.
We’ve considered every enemy we’ve made in the past thirty years. Every rival family, every deal gone wrong, anyone with a grudge and the resources to pull off hits this clean. Nothing fits. It would make sense if they were targeting one syndicate, taking territory or sending a message. But this Ghost is hitting all of us. The Irish, the mafia, the Yakuza.
That’s why we think the Ghost is an outside crew trying to take over our city. Destabilize all of us, weaken our hold on New York, and move in when we're too busy bleeding to fight back.
Apparently, my father’s solution is to throw my sister at our oldest enemies and hope binding our families through marriage makes us a powerful enough force to take down this threat.
“Come on,” I say, leading her toward the stairs. “I’ll talk to him.”
She wipes her face again. Dark brown gaze lifts to mine. “I don’t think he’s going to change his mind. Not about this.”
“Leave it to me,” I promise her. “I have a plan.”
I don’t actually have a plan, but the spark of hope lighting Katya’s face is motivation enough to figure it out. I always do.
She disappears to her room and I head toward my father’s study. Same house I grew up in, yet nothing like it. When my mother was alive, there was warmth here. Flowers on the tables, photographs on the walls, color in every room. When she died, my father stripped it all out within a week. Furniture gone, photographs packed away, her soft colors painted over with stark neutrals. I don’t think he was trying to erase her. Maybe he was trying to survive the only way he knew how, by making the house as emotionally barren as he forced himself to become.
Without our mother, there was no one to tuck Katya in at night or help Matvey with his homework or teach Dem to ride a bike. That responsibility fell to me, and I’ve been carrying it ever since.
When Katya got sick, her small body fighting cancer, Ruslan stayed absent. Caring for her landed on me and my brothers. We took shifts sleeping in chairs by her hospital bed, reading her favorite books until she drifted off. Matvey did ridiculous voices for all the characters to see her smile. Dem taught her card tricks between chemo sessions. I held her when she cried because she was tired of being sick, tired of hurting, tired of being brave.
My father looks up from behind his massive desk when I enter his study. His pale blue eyes, so much like mine, narrow with annoyance. He’s got a decent head of hair for a man pushing sixty, silver threading through dark strands, and a gym-toned physique maintained through twice-weekly sessions with a personal trainer. Even on a Saturday morning, he’s wearing a three-piece suit, because Ruslan Baronov is nothing if not professional.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. I plant my hands flat on his desk and lean forward. “You’re not marrying Katya off to Elio Valenti.”
He sets his pen down and leans back, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. “We don’t have a choice. The Ghost is making us look weak, and weakness gets you killed. Joining forces with the Italians makes us invincible, but Leonardo won’t commit without blood ties.”
My hands curl into fists. “Elio is twelve years older than her and a fucking psychopath. Remember Mara Castellano? His girlfriend senior year. She disappeared after he got her pregnant and was never seen again.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Rumors and speculation. The Castellanos probably sent their daughter to a nunnery in Italy to avoid the shame.”
He rises and moves to the window, pulling back the curtain to stare out at the grounds. “You know what this shutdown is costing us. Not the money, but our reputation. We are one of the most feared families in this city, and the Ghost is making us look pathetic.”
I pull the coin from my pocket and turn it over in my palm. Silver, about the size of a quarter, a symbol etched into both sides: a bird of prey with spread wings. It’s the symbol of the Ghost. A twisted calling card they leave after every attack.
“You’ve spent decades keeping the Valentis out of our business. Now is not the time to cut them into the deal.” I roll the coin between my fingers. “The Ghost problem is temporary. Mixing bloodlines isn’t. Give me twenty days. I’ll find them, eliminate the Ghost, and Katya doesn’t have to marry thatsvoloch.”
It’s a bold promise, but I know my father. He doesn’t want to share power with the Valentis any more than I want to share my sister with them.
He studies me for a moment, something shifting behind his eyes. “Bold of you. And how do you plan to take down an enemy we haven’t been able to identify in two weeks?”
“You trained me, didn’t you?” I cross to where he stands at the window. “Let me prove it. I can end this.”
Prove myself.
My words hit the mark. My father’s always worried I’m not serious enough about the crown, that I don’t have the stomach for what being pakhan demands.
He plucks the coin from my palm, turning it between his fingers. “You want to lead? Fine. But being pakhan is about sacrifice. Putting the bratva first.” He sets the coin down between us, deliberate as a gauntlet. “Are you willing to do whatever needs to be done?”
