by Sophie Lark
“No,” she says. “I don’t want to watch a movie at three o’clock in the afternoon, because I’m not a fucking child. I have work to do.”
“Right,” I say, nodding my head. “I forgot that you’re the secretary for your whole family. Really important stuff.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Riona says with icy dignity.
“Oh.” I give a fake grimace. “Sorry about that. Well don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.”
Riona shifts the heavy folders against one hip, cocking her head to the side so she can look me up and down with that patented mean-girl stare.
“That’s right,” she says softly. “Everything is a joke to you. You get traded like a baseball card and you don’t care, right? You don’t care that your family abandoned you. That they sold you to us.”
That puts a sick little knot in my stomach, but I’m not going to let Riona see it. I force myself to keep smiling and even pop a piece of popcorn into my mouth. It feels as dry as cardboard against my tongue.
“At least I’m a Topps Mickey Mantle,” I tell her. “I doubt you’d be an ‘86 Jose Canseco.”
Riona stares at me, shaking her head.
“You are so fucking weird,” she says.
Eh . . . that’s probably true.
She shoves past me, hurrying down the hallway.
I head into the theater, settling down in my favorite seat in the middle row.
Riona’s a bitch. Her opinion means less than nothing to me.
But it keeps bothering at me, all the same. I can’t even pay attention to the dulcet tones of Sir Ian McKellen, my favorite old-man crush.
The truth is, I do feel abandoned. I miss my father. I miss my brothers. I miss my own house, which was old and shabby and stuffed with ancient furniture, but I knew every bit of it. It was safe and comfortable, with memories attached to every surface.
I eat my popcorn without tasting any of it, until I can finally lose myself in the fantasy world of elves and dwarves and good-hearted Hobbits.
Around 6:30 p.m., I figure I should start getting ready. I shut the movie off and head upstairs to see what monstrosity Callum has laid out on the bed for me.
Sure enough, when I unzip the garment bag, I see a tight, silver-beaded dress that looks stiff and dowdy and fucking awful. Right as I’m wrinkling my nose at it, Callum comes into the room, already dressed in a spotless tux, his dark hair combed back and still damp from his shower.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” he says angrily. “We’re supposed to be leaving in twenty-five minutes. Jesus Christ, you haven’t even done your hair yet.”
“I’m not wearing this,” I tell him flatly.
“Yes, you are.” He scowls at me. “Put it on. Immediately.”
“Did you steal this out of Imogen’s closet?”
“No,” he snarls. “I bought it specifically for you.”
“Good. Then you can return it.”
“Not until after you wear it tonight.”
“Not happening,” I tell him with a toss of my head.
“Get in the shower,” he barks. “We’re going to be late.”
I walk toward the shower, moving deliberately slowly just to annoy him. I don’t need more than half an hour to get ready; I’m not a fucking pageant queen.
Still, I’m tempted to stand under the warm water forever just to let him stew. I’m definitely not wearing that dress—I can wear the yellow one that I wore to the engagement party. Though Callum will probably pop a blood vessel at the idea of a person wearing the same outfit two entire times.
When I step out of the shower, I see that he picked up the clothes I left in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor. Nice.
I wrap a big, fluffy towel around myself—say what you will about the Griffins, at least they have excellent taste in linens—then I stroll into the closet to find my dress.
Instead, I see that my entire side of the closet has been completely cleared out. Empty hangers dangle at odd angles—some of them still swaying from the wild stripping that occurred here.
I pull open the drawers—empty too. He’s taken every last stitch of my clothing, down to my underwear.
When I turn around, Callum’s broad shoulders are filling the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and smirk on his handsome face.
“Guess it’s the dress or nothing,” he says.
“I pick nothing, then,” I reply, dropping the towel in a puddle around my feet and folding my arms across my chest in imitation of his.
“Understand this,” Callum says quietly. “You’re coming to that dinner tonight, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a caveman. You can be wearing the dress when I do that, or I swear to god, Aida, I will haul you there naked and make you sit in your seat in front of everyone. Don’t fucking test me.”
“That’ll embarrass you more than me,” I snap, but I can feel the color rising in my cheeks. Callum’s eyes look wilder than I’ve ever seen them. I actually think he’s serious. That’s how determined he is to bend me to his will over this stupid dress.
The seconds tick by between us. Seconds that are making us later and later for this fundraiser, but Callum isn’t budging out of the doorway. This is the hill he’s choosing to die on: that ugly beaded dress.
“Fine!” I bark at last. “I’ll put the stupid dress on.”
The smirk on his face makes me want to take it back immediately. Or else punch him in the eye. If I have to go to the dinner in that lame-ass dress, then he can go there with a nice fucking shiner.
I’m so mad I’m almost shaking. I step into the stiff, scratchy dress and stand there while Callum zips up the back. It feels like he’s lacing a corset. I have to suck in my tummy and then, once it’s zipped, I can’t let it out again. Which makes me kind of regret all that popcorn I ate.
“Where did you hide my underwear?” I demand.
I feel Callum’s fingers pause at the top of the zipper.
“You don’t need any underwear,” he says.
That fucker. He’s getting off on this! I knew it!
Sure enough, when I turn around there’s a hungry look on his face, like he wants to rip the dress right off me again. But he won’t do that. He’s going to savor watching me walk around in it all night. Knowing that he’s making me do it. Knowing that I’m not wearing any panties underneath.
I’m so infuriated I could scream. Especially once he holds up the shoes he expects me to wear.
“How am I even going to get those on?” I shout. “I can’t sit down in this fucking straightjacket.”
Callum rolls his eyes.
Then he does something that surprises me.
He gets down on his knee in front of me, placing my hand on his shoulder for balance. He lifts my foot and slides the stiletto onto it, like he’s Prince Charming and I’m Cinderella. His hands are surprisingly gentle as his fingers touch the arch of my foot. He buckles the strap, then puts the other shoe on my opposite foot.
When he stands up again, we’re close to each other, so much that I have to tilt my head to look up at him.
“There,” he says gruffly. “I’ll send Marta up to help you get ready.”
Marta is a catch-all personal assistant to the family, and she also happens to be good with hair and makeup, so she frequently helps Riona and Nessa get ready for events. Imogen does her paint job herself, or else goes to a salon.
“Whatever,” I say.
Callum heads downstairs to find Marta, and I start hobbling back to the bathroom on the sky-high heels.
I don’t know if it’s the lack of underwear or something else, but I can feel an uncomfortable wetness between my legs. Every step I take in that tight dress is making my pussy lips rub together. I’m warm and throbbing, and I keep thinking about that look of arousal on Callum’s face. How stern he was when he ordered me to put on the dress.
What the fuck is happening to me?
It must just be the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in over a week.
“Aida?” a voice says behind me.
I yelp and spin around.
It’s just Marta, holding her makeup bag. She’s about thirty years old, with big brown eyes, dark bangs, and a soft voice.
“Callum said you needed a little help getting ready?”
“Right. Yes,” I stammer.
“Take a seat,” she says, pulling a chair up in front of the mirror. “We’ll have you ready in no time.”
14
Callum
Aida comes down the staircase, gingerly and clinging to the railing, twenty minutes late but, frankly, looking stunning. Marta pulled Aida’s hair up into a slightly retro updo that plays up that classic bombshell look. Her eyes are lined with kohl, which highlights their exotic shape and makes them look almost as silvery as the dress.
I like the fact that Aida can barely walk in the stilettos. It gives her a vulnerable air and makes her cling to my arm for the walk to the car.
She’s quieter than usual. I don’t know if she’s annoyed about me stealing her clothes, or if she’s nervous about the night ahead of us.
I feel calm and more focused than I’ve been in weeks. Just as my father predicted, the Italians are throwing their full support behind me now that Aida and I are officially married. La Spata is sunk, and I’ve already dug up some fantastic dirt on Kelly Hopkins from her college years, when she was neck-deep in a cheating ring, selling ready-made thesis papers to wealthier and lazier students. Poor little scholarship student, forced to compromise her morals to get her degree.
That’s what you always find in the end—no matter how pure people pretend to be, when the screw gets tight, there’s always some place they crack.
That’s going to shoot an arrow right through her pretensions of moral superiority. Which leaves the field clear for one candidate alone: me.
The election is only a week away. Almost nothing can fuck this up for me now.
As long as I can keep my wife in line.
I see her sitting across from me in the back of the town car. She looks calm enough, watching the buildings stream by out the window. But she doesn’t fool me. I know how unruly she is. I might have slipped a bridle over her head for the moment, but she’s going to try to buck me off again the moment she gets the chance.
The crucial thing is to keep her in line during this party. After that, she can mutiny as much as she likes. Several Italian business owners, CEOs, investors, and union reps will be here tonight. They need to see my wife at my side: obedient. Supportive.
We drive to the Fulton Market District, which used to be full of meat-packing plants and warehouses and has now gentrified into hotels, bars, restaurants, and trendy tech companies. The fundraiser is at Morgan’s on Fulton, in the penthouse at the very top of the building.
We make our way toward the elevator through the art gallery on the main floor. It’s stuffed floor-to-ceiling with paintings of various styles, in varying levels of skill. Aida pauses by one particularly hideous modern piece in shades of peach, taupe, and tan.
“Oh, look,” she says. “Now I know what to get your mother for Christmas.”
“I suppose you prefer that,” I say, nodding toward a dark and moody oil painting of Cronus devouring his children.
“Oh yes,” Aida says, nodding somberly. “Family portrait. That’s Papa when we leave the cupboards open or forget to turn off the lights.”
I give a little snort, and Aida looks startled, like she’s never heard me laugh before. She probably hasn’t.
As we reach the elevator at last, somebody calls, “Hold the door!”
I put my arm out to stop it from closing.
Then I immediately regret it when I see Oliver Castle push his way inside.
“Oh,” he says, spotting us and giving an arrogant toss of his head. His hair is longish, thick and sun-streaked. He’s got a tan and a hint of a burn, like he’s been out on a boat all day. When he grins, his teeth look too white by comparison.
He looks Aida up and down, letting his eyes crawl over her body, which looks lusciously hourglass-shaped in the tight, beaded dress. It pisses me off how blatant he’s being. My arrangement with Aida might not be romantic, but she’s still my wife. She belongs to me and me alone. Not this overgrown rich kid.
“You really went all out, Aida,” he says. “I don’t remember you dressing up like that for me.”
“Guess it wasn’t worth the effort,” I say, glowering at him.
Oliver snorts.
“I dunno. Guess Aida was just using her effort for other things . . .”
I get a vivid image of Aida sliding her tongue up and down Oliver’s cock like she did to mine. I’m hit with jealousy like a sack of wet mud. It knocks the air out of me.
It takes everything I have not to grab Castle by the lapels of his velvet dinner jacket and throw him up against the elevator wall.
I might have done it if the elevator didn’t give a lurch at exactly that moment, stopping at the top floor. The doors part, and Oliver saunters out without a look back at us.
Aida’s watching me with her cool gray eyes.
I don’t like this new quiet Aida. It makes me nervous, wondering what she’s up to. I like it better when she blurts out whatever she’s thinking as soon as it comes into her head. Even if it really pisses me off in the moment.
The penthouse is a large, open room, currently stuffed full of potential donors getting sloshed on free liquor. Of course, it’s not really free—I’m going to try to milk every one of these fuckers for every last bit of support I can get out of them. But in the meantime, they’re welcome to gorge themselves on high-end cocktails and fancy finger foods.
One whole side of the room is composed of sliding glass doors, currently thrown open to the rooftop deck. The guests can mingle back and forth, enjoying the warm night air and the breeze off the lake. The open-air deck is strung with glowing lanterns, and it offers a striking view of the city lights below.
Right now, neither the flawless set-up nor the excellent turnout of guests is giving me any pleasure. I march over to the bar and ask for a double shot of whiskey, neat. Aida watches me down it in one gulp.
“What?” I snap, slamming the empty glass back down on the bar.
“Nothing,” she says, shrugging her bare shoulders and turning away from me to order her own drink.
Trying to get the thought of Oliver and Aida out of my mind, I scan the crowd, looking for my first target. I’ve got to talk to Calibrese and Montez. I spot my mother over by the food, talking to the state treasurer. She’s been here for hours, overseeing the set-up and greeting the first guests as they arrived.
Then I see somebody who definitely wasn’t invited: Tymon Zajac, better known as the Butcher. Head of the Polish mafia, and a major fucking pain in my ass.
The Braterstwo control most of the Lower West Side, right up to Chinatown, Little Italy, and the wealthier neighborhoods to the northeast that are controlled by the Irish—aka me.
If there’s a hierarchy to gangsters, it goes something like this: at the top you’ve got your white-collar, gentrified gangsters who use the levers of business and politics to maintain their control. That’s the Irish in Chicago. We run this city. We’ve got more gold than a fucking leprechaun. And we make as much money legally as illegally—or at least, in that nice gray area of loopholes and backdoor deals.
Which doesn’t mean I’m afraid to get my hands dirty. I’ve made more than one person in this city disappear forever. But I do it quietly and only when necessary.
On the next rung down the ladder, you’ve got gangsters with a foot in both worlds—like the Italians. They still run plenty of strip clubs, nightclubs, illegal gambling, and protection rackets. But they’re also involved in construction projects that form the bulk of their income. They have heavy sway in the unions for the carpenters, the electrical workers, the
glaziers, heavy equipment operators, ironworkers, masons, plumbers, sheet metal workers, and more. If you want to get anything built in Chicago, and you don’t want it to burn down halfway through, or get “delayed,” or your materials stolen, then you have to hire the Italians as your foremen, or else pay them off.
Then, lower down still, you’ve got the Polish mafia. They’re still participating in violent crime, in loud and obvious and attention-grabbing shit that causes problems for those of us who want to keep up the perception of a safe city.
The Braterstwo are still actively running drugs and guns, boosting cars, robbing banks and armored cars, extorting, even kidnapping. They get their dirty deeds published in the news, and they’re constantly pushing the boundaries of their territory. They don’t want to stay in Garfield, Lawndale, and the Ukrainian Village. They want to push into the areas where the money is. The areas I own.
In fact, Tymon Zajac showing up here at my fundraiser is a problem in and of itself. I don’t want him here as an enemy or a friend. I don’t want to be associated with him.
He’s not exactly the kind of guy who blends in. He’s nearly as broad as he is tall, with wheat-colored hair just starting to gray, and a craggy face that might be scarred from acne or something worse. He has hatchet-like cheekbones with a Roman nose. He’s carefully dressed in a pinstripe suit, with a white bloom in the lapel. Somehow those natty details only serve to emphasize the roughness of his face and hands.
Zajac has a mythos around him. Though his family has been in Chicago for a century, he himself came up on the streets of Poland, operating a sophisticated car-theft ring from the time he was a teenager. He singlehandedly tripled the number of exotic car thefts in the country, until the wealthy Polish hardly dared buy an imported car, because they knew it would disappear off the streets or even out of their own garages within the week.
He rose through the ranks of the Wolomin in Warsaw, until that gang became enmeshed in a bloody turf war with the Polish Police. Around the same time, his half-brother Kasper was murdered by the Colombian drug lords helping to smuggle cocaine, heroin, and amphetamines into Chicago. The Colombians thought they could start dealing directly in the city. Instead, Zajac flew into Chicago for his brother’s funeral, then organized a two-part retaliation that left eight Colombians dead in Chicago, and twelve more slaughtered in Bogota.
