I see a city that wants to be under somebody’s thumb. It just doesn’t know it.
Yet.
I pluck my wallet from the nightstand, sliding it into my back pocket, and head out.
When I leave the hotel room, a drunk couple walking by lift their half-empty bottle of Mariya’s Revenge to greet me.
“Good shit, brother! Best yet!” the man bellows drunkenly. His girlfriend laughs and shushes him.
I ignore them and take the stairs down to the ground level.
Booming music from the hotel’s main ballroom shakes the floor. When I step into the ballroom, it’s a world of bad decisions.
My event coordinator, Anya, insisted on an orange theme to fit the celebration, given that we’re releasing our newest product: orange cream Mariya’s Revenge vodka. But all of the models dressed in shades of tangerine look repulsive under the lights. I should have kept a closer eye on the details, but Anya should know my expectations better by now. I’ll have to express my displeasure to her in the morning.
A man walks up to me before I get far. His baby face and spiky hair seem familiar, but I can’t place who he is.
“Quite the vodka, Mr. Alekseiev,” he says. “And quite the party. You should have these every week.”
“On whose dime?” I say coolly. “Maybe you should be the one throwing parties.”
He doesn’t have the demeanor of a businessman. Where do I know him from?
“Absolutely,” he says.
So, he’s rich.
“But it wouldn’t be good for my image to be throwing parties all the time. My publicist would kill me.”
Rich, famous, and can’t be seen partying consistently. That can mean only one man: Brett Russell.
I offer a wry smile. “Mr. Russell, everyone knows you’re an unkillable man. I’ve been meaning to thank you for letting us sponsor you for the cycling championship.” A tray of vodka shots stops by us. I take two of the shots and hand them to Brett, then pick up two more. “Here’s to success without compromise.”
Brett winces as he swallows the shots. I down them both before finding another caterer to pass the glasses off to.
“May I get you anything else?” the caterer asks, looking at me through a fan of eyelashes. Another one eager to bare all for me.
“More vodka.”
There’s a flicker of a frown on her face before she smiles again. “Of course.”
Brett raises an eyebrow at me when she’s gone and laughs. “Tell me, Lev: when you get to your particular tax bracket, does the IRS just start sending women directly to your bedroom?”
Before I can answer, Charles Schofield, the CEO of Everything Ice, comes barreling through the crowd to stop in front of me.
“Mr. Alekseiev!” He’s sweaty, out of breath, and more than a little drunk. He offers me his hand but drops it when I don’t react. “Ahem. Well. I’ve been waiting to meet you. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching how you’ve led your business to such a success in a short amount of time. As someone who’s been in this business for quite a while, I can certainly say you have a one-of-a-kind mind. With that mind and my vision, we could develop something truly great. I want you to consider how Mariya’s Revenge and Everything Ice could collaborate—luxury jewelry and luxury vodka. A sophisticated man puts a sophisticated necklace on his woman and they drink until they slip into bed together.”
His rambling speech falls on deaf ears. I try not to wince, but I drink two more shots to get through his business proposal. Then I send him off with a curt handshake and a vague promise to connect in the coming weeks, though I have absolutely no intention of following through. I didn’t get to my station in life by making ill-advised deals while drunk at a party.
Brett disappears sometime during Schofield’s babbling. When I’ve sent Schofield off, I go do my obligatory lap of the festivities, glad-handing and smiling through gritted teeth. I take shots with anyone I talk to for more than a couple of minutes and keep hoping that more vodka will ease me into a sense of comfort, but there are sharp edges in all of my thoughts that no amount of alcohol seems able to dull.
A hand claps my shoulder. I turn, all those sharp edges ready to cut someone, and release a slow breath when I see Ilya Sevostyanov. He always appears a bit sickly—pale skin, pale hair, shadows under his eyes.
Some think that a right-hand man should be made of sterner stuff. But Ilya is loyalty personified. Nothing is more important in my business.
“Duilio Colosimo and Siro Vozzella are at headquarters,” he says.
“Fuck,” I mutter. Not the report I was wanting to hear. I finish my last shot and set it down. “Let’s go then.”
He nods, and we depart.
* * *
Duilio Colosimo clasps his hands on the long conference table at Mariya’s Revenge headquarters. Between his massive bulk and the city lights glaring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s easy to miss his consigliere at his side. Siro Vozzella is a skinny little nobody with a protruding Adam’s apple that’s begging to be torn out.
“There’s no reason for us to trust you, Lev,” Duilio drawls. “You have a lot of men with blood on their hands and I have a lot of grieving widows.”
I shrug. “Let them cry. I don’t see how that’s my problem or yours.”
His upper lip twitches. “The Calvino Mafia is … creating complications. They’re not as powerful as your Bratva or as influential as my own enterprise, but they’re a problem nonetheless. I might be willing to forget what has happened between us in the past if Gio Calvino was dead. You know how certain deaths can offer a somewhat, shall we say, comforting amnesia.”
“If you want him dead, kill him,” I say. “I don’t understand what the complication is.”
He smiles. His teeth are small and yellowed. “Allow me to explain. The Calvinos won’t mess with the Alekseiev Bratva. But they will aggravate my family, if
