“In answer to your first question. Lucia De Lucci.”
Silence over the line. “Wait, is she…?”
“Dominic De Lucci’s sister and Luca Moretti’s niece.”
“She nearly ruined the Zahkarov bratva!” he spat.
“Ruin is overstating it. It was a mere inconvenience.” With the bonus of my father stepping down and me ascending to the pakhan role.
“Didn’t you put a contract on her head?”
“I did.”
“You’re going to fuck up that girl and cause problems between me and Moretti. That’s probably why he’s blowing up my phone.”
Ah, if you only knew, Peter.
“And in answer to your second question, I’m pakhan now. I need a wife.” Before Peter could interrogate me further, I cut him off with, “I really need to go. And no word about my engagement to anyone.”
“I can’t avoid Moretti’s calls forever.”
“Why is he calling you anyway?”
“He’s probably worried about what Viktor would do to Davenport.”
“All the more reason for me to set the stories straight. Do not under any circumstances tell anyone that I have Lucy. You only know about Viktor’s unfortunate encounter with the state trooper. I need to go.”
I didn’t wait for Peter to end the call. I was pakhan. He was pakhan. We were equals now.
Forty-five minutes later, Anya Davenport led me in through the back of their Long Island mansion. Anya was three years older than my thirty-six. Together with Kolya, we grew up together on the outskirts of Siberia. Kolya. My brother, not in blood, but my brother in every way and probably the only person besides my sister who I found acceptable to care about. Kolya was in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Another reason I wanted Lucy De Lucci dead. I had the evidence to set him free, but weagreed to wait a while longer. Finding advantage in disadvantage had always been my expertise. It was a lesson I learned early in life when my father exiled me to Siberia.
“Oh, thank God you’re here.” Anya’s face greeted me in the darkness of the kitchen. She remained naturally beautiful, with rich, thick, golden hair and features untouched by a plastic surgeon’s scalpel—or so she swore. A pinch of stress lines appeared below her violet eyes. Eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Did she love Davenport? After she married, I ceased thinking of her in a way a lover should. Or I should say, I didn’t care enough to think about her other than if Davenport was treating her right. Anya always said my father had removed my heart and replaced it with a block of stone. She couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Where is he?”
Sato appeared by the kitchen entrance. He was a lean man of mixed race. Russian and Japanese. He was not tall at five-nine, but he could take down a juggernaut with a few jujitsu moves. I discovered him at an underground fight. Second to Kolya, I trusted him to take care of important jobs that required meticulous execution.
“I’ve positioned him in his study. He hadn’t gone full rigor mortis, and I was able to stage it like an overdose.”
I entered Davenport’s office. I’d been a visitor here over the years. He was Peter’s associate more than mine and had dealings with my father. My connection to him was through Anya. Bruce Davenport was bisexual, and for six years, he and Anya had had a satisfactory marriage. The problems started with the lack of an heir. Davenport blamed Anya for their inability to have children, and Anya blamed Davenport. Eventually, that led to Davenport shedding his straight-guy skin and resuming his use of male escorts until he’d fallen in love with one of them. Anya wanted topick up where we left off, saying her husband wouldn’t care since he had his own distractions.
I had no desire to become anyone’s distraction. Both of them had been discreet in their affairs until Davenport became enamored with his latest lover, just before his senate run.
I hadn’t seen his body earlier, but now as I scrutinized his pitiful form, I derided how he had let love destroy him. He had billions in generational wealth. He was a partner at a prestigious law firm. In case his bid for Congress failed, a whole future awaited him. He was only forty-five, and he threw it all away.
But then again, the heartbreak of others worked in my favor.
Anya clasped my elbow and leaned against me. I caught a whiff of her familiar perfume. Rose and oranges. Was I supposed to comfort her? Was that what she was expecting? I was honest enough to know that empathy didn’t come naturally to me, but I was shrewd enough to pretend how to fake it to benefit me in situations.
I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her temple. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she sniffed. “We had our problems?—”
I released her, and turned her around and pierced her with my eyes. I clasped her shoulders for extra emphasis. “No, Anya. Now is not the time to talk about your problems. You will play the grieving widow in a loving marriage to the hilt, understand?”
“But, you and I?—”
