“And that’s the only reason I let him live this long,” I snap and drain the rest of my wine. “But he used up all of his credit.”
“Rafael—”
“I called him. A month or so after we got to the States. I called our dear cumpari and I begged him to take you under his protection.” I meet Guido’s shocked stare. “He refused.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I was afraid you’d fucking starve if you stayed with me.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“It was. But I managed to find a way to get us out of it.”
“By swearing fealty to the Albanian clan. You did it because of me.”
I set the glass on the tabletop and look at the pair of crossed daggers with a snake coiled around the blades inked on the inside of my left forearm. More images surround the tat, so it’s not as prominent as it once was. Still, someone who’s walked the darker paths in life will know what it represents.
“Why haven’t you removed it?” Guido asks, glancing at the Albanian gang mark on my arm.
“It’s in the past now,” I say, scrutinizing the inked design. I could’ve had it covered up, but I’m not ashamed of anything I did so I could feed my brother.
I lean back on the chair and fix my gaze on the distant fishing boats scattered across the sea. “I’m going to call Roman Petrov and tell him I have his daughter with me.”
“What?!” Guido leaps out of his chair. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
“Nope. I’m sending Vasilisa back to the States.”
“Why? Don’t get me wrong, I was against this crazy idea of yours from the start, but—”
“I’m in love with her, Guido.”
He gapes at me. “And you’re letting her go? That makes no sense.”
“You know . . . when I was a kid, I loved playing behind Mom’s house, trying to catch butterflies. There was a southern white admiral that was always fluttering around the roses. I tried to capture it for days, absolutely fixated on that poor thing because I wanted to have it for myself. I spent hours next to a thorny flower bush, doing whatever I could to trap the creature, but it always slipped away. Until one day, I finally caught it. I put it into a marmalade jar and set it in my room, by the bed.”
“A determined son of a bitch, even then.” Guido snorts.
“It died the next day. Maybe I squeezed it too much when I caught it, or it just couldn’t live in a fucking jar. When I went behind the house to look for another, there weren’t any. I never saw another admiral back there again.” I tilt my head to the sky and close my eyes. “Vasilisa reminds me of that butterfly. I can’t force her to stay with me. I thought I could, but it wouldn’t be right. She’s going back to Chicago tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow?”
“With Calogero planning retaliation as we speak, I can’t risk putting her life in danger. I almost got her killed once. There won’t be a second time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Do you believe in destiny, Guido?”
“Destiny? Like shit that was meant to happen?” He raises an eyebrow. “Of course I don’t. It’s just mumbo jumbo for superstitious idiots.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Remember my last job for the Albanians?”
“As if I could ever forget. They told me you probably wouldn’t make it. That butcher they took you to barely managed to stitch you together. I hope that kid survived, because you nearly died playing the hero.”
“She survived.” I nod. “She’s currently sleeping upstairs in my bed.”
My brother’s face pales. He slumps on his deck chair, staring at me in shock. “That’s . . . not possible.”
“Yeah. Fate has a weird sense of humor.”
“Does Vasilisa know?”
“No.”
“You should tell her. You saved her life. Almost died because of her. Use any means at your disposal to keep her. Even Petrov wouldn’t object to your relationship. You know how seriously the Russians take a life debt.”
“And have her tied to me because of some sense of obligation?”
“Why would it matter? You love her. And you want her to be with you.”
“I thought you didn’t like my little hacker.”
Guido looks away. “The way you’ve been acting since she arrived here . . . Having her wear your clothes, getting the staff, leaving damn love notes for her all over the house—”
“Drawings,” I point out. “Not love notes.”
“Please. I don’t recall seeing you hold a fucking pen in the last decade. And you’ve had your assistant booking ‘dates’ with your hookups for longer than that.”
I smile. “Maybe they are love notes, after all.”
