I swung my legs over the edge of the staircase, glaring down at the dinner table like it was an interrogation scene in a bad movie.
"You're getting married?" I called to Grace before even touching the last step. "Why? You're not even in love. Who is he?"
The adrenaline that had powered my magnificent exit from my workplace wore off the second I hit the familiar, oppressive silence of the family mansion. It wasn't silent because no one was home; it was the heavy quiet of a place where conversations were always conducted in low, measured tones and everyone knew where the listening devices were.
I rushed straight from my room to the dinner area, not because I was excited about dinner but because I was feeling the urgent need to Grace about getting Married.
Grace looked up from her perfectly folded napkin, serene and impossibly graceful, like she had been trained by angels to smile through everything. "Nicole, must we always ask questions about everything?" she asked, voice smooth as always.
Two years younger than me, but the only daughter the world knew or acknowledged. She was composed, beautiful, and carried herself with the perfect, restrained poise of a true princess, the kind who always knew which fork to use and never, ever spoke out of turn.
I rolled my eyes. "Apparently, yes. Because this is insane. Who even decides on a wedding without love?"
Mama's eyes flicked toward me, sharp as knives, lips tight. Disgust, judgment, and all the unspoken reasons she hated me concentrated in one look. The kind of look that made me want to spit.
But then I saw him.
Papa.
The moment I spotted him at the head of the table, my questions evaporated. My doubts, my sarcasm, my annoyance at Grace's brushing a wedding off like it was casual, all gone.
He was in the dining room, already seated at the head of the impossibly long, dark mahogany table. Dimitri Ferraro. The untouchable Pakhan, the head of the Russian Mafia.
(Pakhan: Boss or crime lord.)
My heart surged. I didn't walk; I practically flew down the remaining steps.
"Papa!"
He looked up, and the stern, guarded expression he maintained for the rest of the world dissolved instantly. His dark eyes the same shade as mine, sharp and intense, softened into something purely devoted. He rose from his chair, a massive man whose presence commanded a room, and met me halfway.
I launched myself into his arms, burying my face in the expensive wool of his suit jacket. He smelled like tobacco, expensive cologne, and safety. He squeezed me fiercely.
"My girl," he rumbled, kissing the top of my head and holding me at arm's length to examine me. "Only you rush me like a peasant girl running after a trolley car. I was worried sick about this trip."
"You always are," I said, grinning up at him. I was his favorite. Everyone knew it, even if no one acknowledged it. I think mama would have had me shipped off by now if not for him.
"Dinner's ready," Mama said, her voice coated in something I could only call venom. "Sit. Don't ruin the table with your antics, Nicole."
I ignored her. Papa's hand on my back guided me to my chair besides grace and we sat to eat.
The atmosphere was typical: heavy silverware clinking, low-toned Russian flowing between Papa and mama, and Grace maintaining a serene presence.
"So, malyshka," Father said, turning his attention to me after a few bites of pheasant. "How was your week at work? Did you keep that miserable little corporate job of yours?"
(malyshka: Baby)
I paused, chewing slowly. "Funny you should ask, Father. I actually quit today."
Mama made a choking sound and dropped her napkin. "You what? Nicole, you cannot just—"
Papa raised a hand, silencing his wife instantly. He looked at me with an excited gleam in his eye, already sensing a story. "Tell me everything."
I recounted the entire confrontation, omitting nothing, the kneeling clara, the injustice, the pin-drop silence, and the boss's icy command. I described the moment he told me to "shut the fuck up," and the resulting explosion that saw me insult his looks, his character, and his mother.
Mama was rigid with fury. "This is exactly why you cannot be presented! You have no sense of decorum, no respect! You behave like a vulgar child of the street!"
"Katya, enough," Papa warned, one of the few times he did call her by her name. I didn't dwell on it because his focus was still on me, so I still had to talk.
Grace just sighed, shaking her head. She hated too talk much.
"It really wasn't my fault," I countered both her and mama, then moved to the climax of the story. "When I finished, I told him to go to hell, picked up my bag, and walked out. But before that, one of his black suits, a huge guard took a step forward, and was about to pull out a gun on me."
Papa froze, his fork midway to his mouth. The knife clattered onto his plate. The calm was gone, replaced by a sudden, terrifying volcanic fury.
"What??" he roared, the table shaking under the force of his hand slamming down. "Someone dared lay a hand on my daughter? I swear, I will find him. I will find him and his entire lineage and have them eliminated slowly for the audacity—"
"Woah, Papa! No, stop!" I cut him off quickly, leaning forward. "He didn't! I said the guard was going to, but he stopped him. The boss, raised his hand and froze the guard. I think he thought I wasn't worth the trouble."
Papa slowly lowered himself back into his seat, breathing heavily, the raw, deadly rage still simmering just beneath the surface. He glared down the table. "They are lucky, then. You tell me the name of the man who dared to look at my daughter with violence, and I would make his name dust."
I grinned. "Exactly what I told him my Papa would do."
Mama's sharp inhale sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "Nicole…" but I ignored her again and looked back to my food as I felt a surge of warmth and intense love for my Papa. This was why I put up with everything else, the power, the danger, the secret life. He would burn the world down for me.
Mama looked absolutely disgusted by our affection, while Grace just shook her head, a familiar pity in her eyes for my lack of control.
I hesitated for a moment knowing no one would like me bringing it up. Then, with a scoff, I asked, "Wait… Grace. You're really getting married? Why? Who is this man?"
Papa's face went serious. "For alliances."
"Alliances?" I asked, incredulous. "What about love?"
"There is no love in this world," he said flatly, gaze sharp enough to pin me to my chair.
Grace's soft voice cut in: "I don't mind. He's powerful enough."
"Who?" I pressed, leaning forward.
Papa's voice dropped, deliberate: "Leonardo Greco. Heir to the Italian mafia."
The name hit me like a thunderclap. Greco… I swear I'd heard that whispered around my office. Italians. Mafia. Brush it off, Nicole. You're probably mistaking.
Papa's eyes softened on me, like he could see the storm spinning in my mind. "We're trying to make peace."
I let out a slow breath, the words catching somewhere between awe and curiosity. "Peace with the Italians…" I muttered under my breath.
Papa leaned back, his tone suddenly casual: "Don't worry about arranged marriages, Nicole. You can marry whoever you choose."
Mama's sharp, venom-laced voice cut through the room: "You're irrelevant to this family anyway."
"Katya!!!." Papa slammed his hand on the table.
She looked like she was going to say something else but was silenced by papa's hard glance.
I looked between them and wondered, not for the first time, why Mama hated me so much. Even if I was technically adopted… I was still her daughter.
Grace reached across the table and squeezed my hand, small but grounding.
And in that moment, my mind went to Leonardo Greco. The heir to the Italian mafia. Cold-blooded, feared, untouchable. Someone I have heard papa complaining about numerous times.
Was that what Papa wanted for Grace?