Chapter 3

Riccardo

“So what do you think?”

Paolo glances at me with raised eyebrows. It’s been twenty minutes of silence in the car, so I guess he has the right to be surprised. “About what?”

“About Jorge.” I meet Paolo’s gaze, silently reminding him about the interrogation. “Do you think it’s worth keeping him there?”

He catches my thoughts right away—like he always does—and hums. “He knows more than he shows. We have to give it another shot tomorrow.”

I nod to myself and turn away to the glimmering width of the ocean running behind the car window. Looks like Mamma has chosen a pretty place for my wedding. Well, I should’ve expected that. I lean back into my seat as my thoughts drift away and my fingers start scratching the surface of the cup holder. They’re still sore from working my dagger into the skin of the Mexican, and there’s just a bit of dry blood under my thumbnail.

Damn it. I curl my hand into a loose fist and look up at the windshield. I should’ve finished with him today. Why the hell do I even need to be there in person? As if the whole deal with the Russians hasn’t been decided already. I click my tongue, unable to keep my frustration at bay.

“What, are you thinking about your happily ever after?” Paolo asks with a smirk in his voice, and I quirk an eyebrow and look at him.

See, he’s too good at reading me. I don’t know if it’s because we’re brothers or because our lives are tied to each other so tightly. Paolo has always been by my side—in every operation, every family gathering, and every piece of business we work on. Even before Father died, we’d been everywhere together, and since I took over our family business Paolo has become my right hand.

“I’m thinking about how to get it over and done with,” I say with a low voice, but Paolo doesn’t buy it. He only chuckles and eyes me for a moment.

“Aren’t you excited to spend the rest of your life with a Russian princess?”

Princess, huh? I scoff and look into his eyes. “You sound almost jealous. Would you like to take my place at the altar?”

Paolo immediately bursts out laughing, and I can’t help a smile of my own as I watch him. He’s only a year younger than me, but I’ve always felt as if the difference in our ages was larger.

“I wouldn’t get involved with those whitewashed freaks even for a chance to spit at them.” He shakes his head, mindlessly watching the cars passing by, and the smile on his face quickly turns into a grimace of disgust. All I can do is breathe out slowly and look away.

Russian Bratva has always been a nuisance in our lives. When I was a child, Father used to warn me about people with blond hair and gray eyes that would watch me on the streets sometimes. Other times, they would try to hurt or kidnap me, but well, growing up as a member of the Messina clan is never easy.

The older generation of our family hates Russians. They had to fight them with sweat and blood to get our territories and establish control over the Eastern part of Chicago, and naturally, I grew up with the same thoughts. Russians are enemies, and the only deal we can have with them is the one written with their blood.

But you know, life is changing—especially when you have an enemy to share.

Over the last year or so, the underworld of Chicago has been growing unstable and hard to handle. There have been fights and disagreements between gangs outside of our control. We’ve kept losing our people in the slums, and whispers of new rivals have been louder than usual. But my father—Cassio Messina, the Don of Messina Clan—didn’t pay attention to those signs of upcoming betrayal, and I will never forgive myself for not forcing him to listen to me.

Three months ago, I came to Father with information about a gang of Mexicans that had gathered too many people and too much power. I tried to warn him, but Father chuckled and chose to look the other way. Russians are our biggest concern, he said—but it was Mexicans who killed him a month later.

They had found their way even into our family. One of the cooks, who had spent her life working for us, chose to betray our trust for promises of money, power, and drugs. She told them about Father’s favorite restaurant, and on the only day in a year he chose to go there—my mother’s birthday—the Mexicans blew the whole place up. Seventeen people died there. Cassio Messina was among them.

It took one night for the Mexicans to turn from a nuisance at the back of my mind into the most important prey for me and my family. On the day of Father’s burial, Mamma, my brothers, and I swore to each other to wipe out every last Mexican daring to step into our territories and wash the soil of Father’s grave with their blood.

But it turned out to be harder than I had thought. While we were distracted by quarreling mobs and Russian spies, the Mexicans had gathered enough strength and connections to become a serious force. I refused to admit it at the time, but they did become the third largest syndicate right under our noses.

Could we defeat them on our own? At first, I believed we could. The heritage of my father and the strength of my family blinded me, and I made a few reckless moves that cost the lives of our men. It was only after my cousin got injured that I came back to my senses and realized that the war with the Mexicans required more than muscles and guns.

As the new Don of the Messina Clan, I had to keep my head cool and find a solution that would save our place and the lives of my family. I was the first to think of the Russians as a source of help. We had been enemies for too long, and the heat of our hatred had died down by the time I grew up. Perhaps, Yuriy Pushkov would agree to help me—but even if he did, would I be able to trust it?

I shared my concerns with Mamma over a glass of wine in her house. After some thought, she hummed and asked about the person I had been trying so hard to forget: Elena Pushkova.

Everyone knew that she had long disappeared from all our radars, and even if Bratva still kept an eye on her, chasing Elena was too much of a bother for us. I was surprised that Mamma still remembered her. Why would she bring up Elena all of a sudden?

Because the Russian and Italian families needed a tie to make it work, and the only way to find trust in each other is through blood— whether on your hands or in your heart.

In the life of the Mafia, it’s as simple as that: you either kill or marry to prove your intentions. Not that love has anything to do with our business. A marriage of convenience is nothing more than that—a convenience for both sides. A final seal on the deal that merges two families into one. That was exactly what I was looking for, so why was I so reluctant to agree with

Mamma?