“Break his legs,” I spit out. “Make him talk. I want to know who got what’s supposed to be mine.”

“Already did. It was Artem Voloshyn. He offered Ramirez a forty percent cut.”

Fucking Ukranians. I thought I was done having to deal with those assholes two decades ago.

“There’s more,” Nikolai continues. “One of my guys caught Artem’s dealer in West Town last week.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

My office door suddenly bangs open, and my wife barges in, flushed and breathing heavily as if she ran here at breakneck speed.

“What have you done?” she chokes out, eyes distraught and flaring.

“I’ll call you back.” I throw the phone on my desk and lift my hands up in defense. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me. I swear, malysh.”

I have no idea what could have distressed her so much, but I know it can’t be anything I’ve done. I would rather cut off my own hands. And legs. Slit my own throat. I’ll have to consider a proper order, but the sentiment remains the same.

“You sent Sergei to kill Vasya’s Sicilian!”

Oh. Well, I guess that was me. “That fucknut is not hers. De Santi is a hitman who’s kidnapped and held our daughter hostage for over two months. You didn’t actually expect me to let it go?”

Nina rushes across the room. “Please, Roman. You need to call Sergei and tell him to abort.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Vasilisa is in love with him, kotik.” Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, she practically thrusts her nose against mine. “You’re calling Sergei off. Now!”

“What? No, she can’t be in love with him.”

“She’s planning to return to Sicily!” Nina yells into my face while shaking me. “I tried to convince her to tell you the truth, but she was scared this is exactly what you would do!”

I stare at my wife while a firestorm rages inside me. My baby girl can’t be in love with a goddamned De Santi, can she? I’ve already arranged dinner, inviting my accountant and telling him to bring his son. The boy works in the records management department of a retirement home. A nice, safe guy. One who’s the same age as Vasilisa. Not a fucking assassin-for-hire who lives on another continent.

“Nina, baby, she’s just confused.”

“She’s not fucking confused! She loves him!” My sweet little wife is now roaring so loud that I fear the windows may shatter. “You can’t do this! Her father cannot kill the man she loves! It will destroy her, Roman! And it will destroy you!”

“Vasya deserves someone nice. Someone who will keep her safe.”

“Don’t you understand? She doesn’t want nice. She wants him. And he’s kept her safe all along. Even when you couldn’t.”

I furrow my brows. “What are you talking about?”

“The mall. The explosion twenty years ago. Rafael De Santi is the man who saved our daughter’s life!”

That’s . . . that’s not possible. But . . . Oh fuck. As much as I want to deny Nina’s words, somehow I know it’s the truth. Since the moment I met De Santi more than decade ago, I’ve always wondered what happened to him. I never made the connection.

Vasya.

I leap out of the chair and grab the phone.

The needle on the speedometer is hovering over the one-hundred-miles-per-hour mark. I press the gas pedal harder, swerving between the other vehicles on the road. It’s five minutes after seven. Rafael’s plane just took off. Without me. Doesn’t matter, I’ll take the first commercial flight I can get on, as soon as I know the man I love is safe. There’s still time. My uncle prefers to work during the night. I take a calming breath, but the air suddenly gets caught in my lungs, and I almost plow into the car in front of me.

The time difference. I forgot about the goddamned time difference! Sicily is seven hours ahead of Chicago. It’s two in the morning there right now. No. No. No!

The streetlight in front of me changes to red. I hit the gas harder. A pickup truck approaches from the side road, and I barely miss it as I fly through the intersection. Our neighborhood is just a mile away. I call Rafael again. And again.

No answer.

Slamming on the brakes in our driveway, I’m shaking so much that I can hardly open the car door. I don’t bother shutting it, just take off at a run, taking the stone steps to the front door two at a time.

The door of Dad’s office is ajar. I stumble inside and stare at my father. The words are stuck in my closed-up throat. Dad is standing next to his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. Mom is in front of him, clutching his shirt.

“Sergei.” My father’s deep voice breaks the silence. “Abort.”

A choked sound of relief leaves my lips. I lean back on the wall because my legs are threatening to give out. My eyes stare blazingly into my father’s. He’s still holding the phone to his ear. The muscles of his jaw are tight, and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“Mне он нужен живым, Сергей. Понимаешь?” he barks and lowers the phone.

I don’t even breathe as I wait for the great Roman Petrov to say something.

“Dad?” I whimper.

My father takes a deep breath, his eyes downcast. Avoiding looking at me.

15 minutes earlier

My phone rings as soon as I turn it back on, and just as I’m reaching for the front door. The pilot’s name lights up the screen. I take a look at my wristwatch. Five minutes after two.

“We’re ready for takeoff, boss.”

“Alright.” I nod, even though he can’t see me, then wait. I can’t bring myself to ask for confirmation of what I already know.

“She didn’t come. I’m sorry, boss.”

Slipping the phone back into my pants, I head to the kitchen. My steps sound hollow in the huge space, echoing off the walls, the sound eerie in the darkness of the house. I don’t bother turning on the lamps as I cross the room. There’s enough moonlight illuminating my way to the fridge.

Some people say that it’s a sacrilege to drink red wine cold rather than at room temperature. I’ve always found it tastes rather bland that way. Grabbing a stemmed glass and then a bottle out of the fridge, I walk through the living space and stop at the threshold to the terrace. How many times did I have those workers paint these French doors? Four? Five? The guys certainly made plenty of noise while doing it. Just as I ordered them to. All so my vespetta could feel more at home.

Funny thing, how I spent over twenty years making heaps of money, building my empire. The entire time I was convinced that it would bring me happiness. Too late did I realize that all of it was nothing but dust in the wind. All my wealth couldn’t help me attain the one thing I want most. Vasilisa’s love. Just like none of the expensive jewelry I gifted her ever garnered a smile on her face, unlike the silly doodles I’ve sketched for her. And here I am, at the pinnacle of my success, owning so many things . . . Yet possessing nothing of value.

Warm wind blows into my face as I step out onto the terrace and take a seat on the deck chair at the far end. The tiny lights of distant fishing boats are scattered across the dark expanse of the sea, twinkling as they ride the waves. I pour myself a glass of wine and watch them.

“Getting reckless in your old age, De Santi?” a man’s voice says from the shadows to my left.