“So suspicious.” Irina's lips began to smile before she covered them with her own glass. “As you are right to be.” She took a sip of what Alessia was going to assume was vodka. “No need to ask if you are enjoying yourself. Chistilishche, purgatory, is to be endured, not enjoyed.”
“The price we pay.” Alessia gazed out across the room at the sea of women that she would rather have avoided like the plague.
“Indeed.”
For the briefest moment, Alessia thought Irina sounded bitter, and she supposed she had earned the right to feel that way. She had never heard even the slightest rumor that stepping down as the active head of her family had been anything other than Irina's idea, but she supposed retirement might not sit well with someone who had wielded so much power. Her grandfather, after all, had never shown any intention of scaling back his own role in the family. He had slowed, but he would not give up.
Irina spoke again. “Your dedushka is well, da?”
“My husband?” Alessia did not know the word. She assumed it was common knowledge that she had no children, so she did not think Irina could be asking after non-existent offspring.
“No, your…” Irina shrugged. “Santo… your grandfather.”
“He is well. I will tell him you were asking after him.” She wondered whether Irina's enquiry had been a subtle threat.
“He will laugh. He will tell you old Russian women never stop meddling.”
“He's used to it.” Alessia shrugged. “Italian women never stop meddling, either. If my Nonna were alive, I think she would have persuaded him to retire by now. She certainly would not have stopped trying.”
“Perhaps it is good that he has not. New York has known peace for many years because of your dedushka. We have known much profit thanks to him.”
Alessia did not have much to say to that. It was true, of course, but she had not had a hand in any of it, not the way that Irina had. She had merely stayed in the background and benefitted from the work of people more powerful than herself, and she was acutely aware of that when standing next to Irina Volkov. They drank. Their silence was not strained while they observed the ebb and flow of the room.
“We are often in same place at same time. We are same now, you and I.” Irina spoke gently, a grimace twisting her face for a moment.
Alessia considered the point. They were opposites, and yet they were not. Irina had free choice in her life, Alessia did not. Irina had voluntarily stepped away from the vanguard of her life, but it looked as though maybe she missed the thrill and the action. Alessia had never had a chance to choose her life, but she understood. Irina was now as trapped as she was in New York society hell.
“Yes,” Alessia agreed with a wry smile. “I suppose we are.”
Irina nodded, her smile was conspiratorial. “They say ‘Politics make strange bedfellows’. She raised an eyebrow at Alessia, who she nodded to confirm that she had spoken the idiom correctly. Irina’s grin softened. “I think, this not politics; is more dangerous.” She waved her fingers around the ballroom, indicating the ostentatious decorating, the priceless crystal chandeliers, the half-drunk women dressed in their best day-time couture.
Alessia took another drink. “We are swimming with the sharks.”
Irina chuckled, a head or two turned in their direction. “Da. Have teeth, like shark. Big and white.” She stopped laughing. “Smell blood, like shark.” She arched a finely plucked eyebrow in Alessia's direction. “Best way to defeat shark is to swim together.”
Alessia glanced around. The heads that had turned in their direction had turned away again. They were being ignored. They were not the current hot topic of gossip. Neither she nor Irina – each for their own reasons - generally did anything worthy of notice. “You're right. They prey on the weak.”
“Whatever we are, we are not weak.” In Irina's cold tone, Alessia got a flash of the women who had decimated her enemies, who had built her own empire. “Your mother was not weak, but she was alone. She had no one to tell her how strong she was.”
Irina's comment caught Alessia completely by surprise. “You knew my mother?”
“Ditya,” Irina soothed, “I am as old as Santo is young. When you were born I send gift. Your dedushka was so proud he bring you to meeting of the Council. The men, they are unimpressed of course, other people's babies have no interest for them, but you were sweet child. I held you before you had a year. He is good man. I see much of him in you.” Irina tilted her glass to indicate around the room. “Even then, even as head of my family, as woman, I had to show my face in place like this. Not so often, is true, but the men played their golf while I played at charity. Your mother, she had same role in family as you. We meet, we speak sometimes.”
“I had no idea.” It startled Alessia to think that her mother had been friendly with Irina. It made her wonder again at her mother's struggles in her life.
While she had been speaking, Irina had caught the eye of one of the roaming waiters, who now presented them with fresh drinks and took their empty glasses away. Alessia was grateful for the extra alcohol, it dulled some senses and sharpened others.
“Your mother was not a happy woman,” Irina said.
“No. No, she was not,” Alessia agreed.
“To feel so lonely is terrible thing.” Irina paused and then smiled at her, a full smile. Alessia was struck by just how much this woman before her must have been underestimated in her life. She was the epitome of heart and warmth and generosity of spirit. How much was truth and how much was a disguise, though, was still up for debate. “I would not like to see you so lonely.”
A number of glib remarks came to Alessia, but she voiced none of them. She made no quips about painting each other's nails or shopping dates. She knew, without asking, that Irina did not have such frivolous activities in mind. Their families were allied in business, Alessia saw no reason why they should not be so in society.
“You're suggesting we should be friends?” Irina nodded. Alessia smiled. “I think I would like that. I think I would like that very much.” She was speaking honestly, and since she could not boast even a small circle of her own associates, somewhat gratefully.
“Blagoy, good. I will be in touch. We should have lunch soon.” Irina's features twisted in distaste. “Somewhere better than this, I think.”
It was a damning indictment of one of the most prestigious venues in New York. Alessia raised her glass and shook it so that the last of the liqueur sparkled against the crystal. “I'm guessing I don't need to give you my number.”
Irina laughed, that throaty sound of enjoyment turned heads again. “True. You do not.” The attention focused on them was completely inconsequential to her. “I go now. These trinkets do not interest me.” She was referring to offerings worth hundreds of thousands of dollars as if they were nothing. She was right, the weekend breaks on exclusive islands, the pampering sessions in fashionable spas, the brunches with movie stars, none of it was important. More than that, either woman could have purchased any of the offerings at any time that they chose, although Alessia knew she would have had to ask permission, whereas Irina would not.
“I'll wait for your call.” Alessia finished her drink. If Irina was leaving, she saw no reason to stay.
“You will not be waiting long, ditya.” Irina grinned, and her eyes sparkled with mischief before she set off across the room, leaving her glass on one of the tables as she passed. She was wearing a pantsuit, a thigh-length tunic and loosely tailored trousers. The long embroidered scarf that she wore draped over one shoulder, a flash of magenta against the grey silk, flared with her movement, fluttering in her wake like a regal train.
Alessia watched until Irina had left the room, then she finished her drink in one fiery gulp and followed the same path. She had no idea if Benito would approve of the arrangement that had just been made, but she did not care whether he thought it suitable or not. This was her choice. She stepped out onto the street and took a moment to enjoy the rush of the spring bree
ze as it swirled around her while she waited for Roberto to bring the car around. A new season was beginning, and for once Alessia felt that it might not pass her by.
CHAPTER TWO
The Council meeting had been tedious, much as they ever were, but the meetings were necessary. That everyone made the required effort to attend proved their commitment. If they stopped taking their meetings seriously, if they were to break the routine, they would leave the alliance vulnerable, the factions would begin to overstep their bounds. In peacetime, the gatherings were very much like a shareholders update, a meeting of the board. They were grown adults; if they wanted permission to cross territories, they asked each other politely, there was no need to drag the mundane grind of their business to the table. Only rarely were there decisions to be made or votes to be taken. The groups that were represented worked well with each other. They had not been forced to the table, although some had needed to make adjustments to take their seats.
The Volkov family had been one of those that had made adjustments, as had the Medvedevs. They were the only Soviet factions at the table. Nikolai bristled whenever they were both referred to as Russian; he was Russian, Ilya Medvedev and his brood were Ukrainian, the difference was distinct. Both families, however, had recognized the potential benefits of at least learning to live with each other, and they had not allowed their pride to be their downfall.
Nikolai had attended the meeting with Luka, his cousin and his Sovietnik, his right hand. Such was the tradition of the gatherings that the heads of the families brought their advisors. Also, despite the many years of peace, it was not safe for Nikolai to travel alone so far from Manhattan. The meetings were always in Brooklyn, the home of Don Santo Tosetti, the creator of their group and the cement holding it together. On his turf, they were assured safety, but while Santo controlled the majority of the borough, he did not own all of it. The coastal areas were the domain of the Medvedev Bratva. Beyond that immense polished walnut table in the conference room of a business indebted to the Tosetti clan, immunity was not to be taken for granted.
He would have preferred to leave Brooklyn as quickly as possible, but Nikolai wanted to buy pastries for his grandmother, and there was only one bakery that he would consider getting them from. He didn’t relish a trip into the depths of Brighton Beach, but his babusya had spent the afternoon playing the genteel society matron at some ridiculous event; the minor inconvenience of the detour was a small price to pay to bring a smile to her face.
This area of New York, known for decades as Little Odessa, had been the first place that Irina Volkov had settled her family after leaving Russia. She had soon found it was not to her taste, too many people clinging to the old ways, unwilling to move on and adapt to the brave new world they found themselves in, free from the shackles of Communism, and too many enemies that had followed them from the old country. Irina had relocated her family to Harlem, a melting pot in which she could forge her own identity. From those tenements, they had moved to a more prestigious address, but they had never left their borough.
Their driver parked their car illegally outside the door of the shop Nikolai wished to visit, paying no heed at all to the shouted profanities and blaring horns from the stream of traffic on the street. Nikolai climbed out of the car, half-jogged across the sidewalk, and pushed open the door to the bakery. He was smothered in the thick scent of sugar and baking dough and immediately felt better. The aroma was the scent of his babushka, the scent of home. The temperature was high enough that the window to the street was fogged. He could make out only the vague dark shape of the car. Nikolai unbuttoned his jacket and shook it loose, not bothering to hide the Glock holstered at his ribs.
He didn't go to the shelves. He headed straight for the counter. He wasn't about to purchase a present for his babusya that had been sitting out for an hour or more, he wanted fresh goods. He had phoned his order through, along with the time that he would be picking it up, so he wasn’t surprised to find Ilya Medvedev waiting for him. The baker and his wife, both manning the counter, darted nervous glances between the two men. The wife bustled through a door to a back room, probably to collect Nikolai’s order, and to send up a quick prayer that the two powerful parkhans didn’t decide to shoot each other in her shop. This was not his area of the city, it was Ilya’s, but he was known, his family had their own history in Brooklyn.
Ilya was leaning against the counter. The shop was small, and Ilya was a similar height to Nikolai, both of them well over six feet tall, the effect was almost claustrophobic.
“Nikolai.” Ilya smiled with false sincerity. “Did you get lost on your way back to Manhattan?”
“Not at all.” Nikolai returned the smile, with as much genuine affection that Ilya had offered. “I’m simply picking up a gift.”
“Ah, do give Irina my regards.” He motioned around the shop and the various fragrant and, no doubt, delicious goods on display. “You have made a good choice, this is the best bakery in the city.”
“My grandmother agrees with you. She tells me they must have volshebnitsa cast spells on their ovens.”
“Ah, izvini.” Ilya’s smile dropped. “I forget sometimes how well she used to know this area.”
Nikolai fixed his expression of pleasant interest. “Her memory is still strong, and I don’t think Odessa has changed so very much.”
The baker’s wife returned holding a large brown paper bag, which she held out to Nikolai. He took hold of the warm sack, filled with fragrant Tula gingerbread and apple pirozky, and tried to give her the payment in return. She shook her head and waved her hands, muttering in frantic Russian that there was no need. He left a twenty dollar bill on the counter anyway.
Ilya had been watching the exchange but said nothing. He would not make a gift of the goods to Nikolai, and even if he had, Nikolai would not have accepted it. “If you don’t mind,” Nikolai lifted the bag, “I wish to get these back to my grandmother before they are cold.”
“Of course, of course.” Ilya’s smile had not returned. “Have a safe journey back to Manhattan.” He inclined his head and swept his arm towards the door. It was an obvious dismissal, a show of superiority. Nikolai bit the inside of his cheek and refused to snap at the bait.
“Spasibo.” Nikolai thanked him for his good wishes, however insincerely meant, and tried and failed to stifle the twitch between his shoulder blades as he turned his back on his fellow boss. The two men were not at war, but they were competitors. It would damage the peace if they were to attack each other, it would bring down the wrath of all their alliance, but only a foolish man would turn his back on his enemy and trust him not to take advantage.
When he stepped out onto the street, Nikolai found Luka leaning back against the body of the BMW, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking as relaxed as a person possibly could be out in the open in territory not their own, ignoring the passing stream of hustling people with casual panache.
“Everything okay?” Luka asked.
“Da. Ilya was waiting. He sends his regards.”
Luka scowled but asked no further questions as they slid back into the car. Their driver, who had been listening and waiting, pulled away almost before the doors had slammed shut.
~o0o~
Nikolai had always preferred Manhattan to Brooklyn, even from his earliest years in the city. Brooklyn seemed somehow provincial. The people there always seemed to be clinging to an idealized vision of their home, or of how they thought America should be, and nowhere more so than Little Odessa. Manhattan was different, it was a borough that looked to the future, it was full of possibilities; it moved forward constantly, it did not crave the past.
After moving away from the Beach, their first homes had been made in the thick of the city, following the same path that thousands of other immigrants had taken. By the time Irina had relocated her family, the area was no longer the tenement slum it had once been - the East Village effect was spreading - but it was still not a part of to
wn for the faint of heart. When the gentrification turned to pretentiousness, Irina had purchased their first Fifth Avenue property. Money purchased exclusivity. Exclusivity all but guaranteed privacy. His grandmother did not tolerate fools gladly.
It had been Nikolai's choice to move once more. He had acquired two apartment blocks on opposite sides of one of the streets that intersected with Fifth Avenue. The blocks overlooked Central Park. With some renovation, they had become the perfect base for his family. They offered visibility and prestige without being ostentatious while making it possible to maintain security and routes of escape. Most importantly for Nikolai, Irina approved.
His grandmother would never live in the penthouse with him. To her, the grinding poverty of the Soviet Union was ingrained into her bones. She would have preferred to live in a tent before she lived in an apartment block, but she had made do for many years. Still, apartments would always call to her mind the overcrowding of Magnitogorsk, where only the gods of society did not live one atop the other. To her, the penthouse was not a status symbol, it was the floor that required a mountainous amount of stairs to reach, a home which you risked being stranded from if the elevator did not work, the floor that leaked when the rains came. She would have preferred a house with open acreage, but Nikolai knew - and Irina admitted as much - that she didn’t want to give up the buzz of living in the middle of the city. Nikolai worried that she would stagnate if she retired to the estate she had always dreamed of. They had found a compromise, two of the middle floors of the block they lived in had been remodelled to give Irina the feel of a mansion without having to relinquish being in the centre of the action. She had the superb views of the park, space to wander as she pleased, and little of the inconvenience of a grand house and more land than she could reasonably manage.
Stand (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 7) Page 38
