Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1) (2 page)

Even so, he kept his composure as he said, “It was a mix up
of cars, and certainly not intentional on my part.”

Vasily met his gaze. “Nonetheless, you came too close.”

He had.

Even Alberto knew it.

“How do you intend to fix the little issue of your
brother’s interests, if they don’t fit with what you want, then?” Alberto
asked. “That’s a bit of a mountain to climb over, considering he’s the boss of
your operation.”

“
Pakhan
,” Vasily corrected. “We call him
Pakhan
.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“About the same as someone from the outside addressing you
as Don, Alberto,” Vasily said.

He wondered, if briefly, whether the Russian was intending
to be offensive, or if it was just his nature. “Understood.”

“And my brother … He seems to be a problem for us both,
no?”

Alberto took Vasily’s seemingly innocent statement in,
absorbing what the man might be alluding to. Often times, discussions where
business was forefront were held with a sort of vague secrecy surrounding them.
A man should never come right out and say what he wanted or needed done, but
rather, hint at it and let the other side draw its own conclusions.

“He’s certainly a problem for me, if he intends to make his
way any farther into Brooklyn than where he already is,” Alberto said. “As it
is, he’s severely cut off some ties my Capos have to warehouses that we use for
storing things needing to stay hidden for a while. I don’t like losing out on
money because someone wants to play keep away with my streets.”

Vasily chuckled. “You don’t have other storage facilities
to use?”

“None close enough to keep attention away from the fact
that things are traveling,” Alberto answered, not giving away much else.

His hand in the cocaine trade had long been a source of
debate between his syndicates and other Cosa Nostra families that he sometimes
did business with. Cosa Nostra liked to tote themselves as upholding standards,
but also keeping away from being the moral police.

Yet, when a Don decided to handle substances as a way to
make money, someone always took issue.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Alberto asked.

Vasily lifted a single brow high. “About what I intend to
do with my brother, you mean.”

“
Sì
. About him ...”

The Russian smiled again, in that cold way like he had
earlier. “I was hoping we could work something out that would be to both of our
benefits where Gavrill is concerned.”

Alberto stood a little straighter.

Were they actually getting somewhere now?

“Keep going,” Alberto pressed.

Vasily passed his son and Violet a glance before quickly
turning back to Alberto, his face a mask of passive indifference. “As I see it,
we really only have one option, Italian. You don’t want to keep fighting, and
neither do I. Given that this is a triangle with my brother being the peak, we
have to consider him, too.”

“He does want to keep fighting.”

“Yes.”

Alberto weighed his options, and the Russian’s actions.
Vasily had accepted the offer to meet. He’d followed all the rules—came alone,
brought his son, and was amicable.

Even respectable, to a point.

Vasily hadn’t needed to do any of that. His organization
was slightly smaller than the Gallucci syndicate, but as both families had
already proven, they were more than capable of making the streets of Brooklyn a
living hell. It needed to end.

Alberto finally found a Russian who seemed like he might be
willing to do just that.

“No problem is unfixable,” Alberto said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Vasily agreed. “And I know, being
the
Sovetnik
that I am to my brother and our organization, that not
everyone is happy with his … choices.”

“One more dead man might correct all of that.”

Vasily shrugged. “It could, as long as it didn’t create
problems within the
Bratva
.”

“And how would that work?”

“Don’t you already know, Don?” Vasily asked.

That time, Alberto could hear the snideness in Vasily’s
words. The man hadn’t even tried to hide it. He let it go.

“You want me to pave your way to the top, is that it?”
Alberto asked.

Vasily grinned. “Win-win, Italian.”

Would it be?

The fighting would stop.

No more dead men.

Alberto found his daughter sitting beside Vasily’s son,
ruffling the tulle layers of her pink dress under her long coat.

He would be able to breathe when his children left his
home.

“I will still take the blame for it, despite the fact
you’re asking—without really asking—me to do it,” Alberto murmured. “And that
concerns me, because that leaves me open to retribution when you suddenly
decide that your brother’s death needs avenging. Isn’t that how the mafia goes?
An eye for an eye.”

Vasily barked out a laugh.
“You do not have
very good insight into the
Bratva
, comrade. We are not like the Italians
and sometimes the one death is enough to end it all. We don’t feel the need to
keep spilling blood after it’s already stained the ground.”

Well, then …

“I want a guarantee, if I agree,” Alberto said.

“I’m listening.”

“The Markovic
Bratva
stays out of Brooklyn, barring
Little Odessa, of course. Even your businesses and your men’s businesses. I
know you simply use Little Odessa as the home base to your operation. You don’t
need territory, being an arms trafficker, Vasily. Most of your work is done out
of state and country.”

“I’m fine with that demand,” the Russian said. “As long as
Coney Island can remain a no man’s zone. No one owns it, so to speak. And while
Brooklyn remains your territory, I want a guarantee we can still come and go
for personal reasons …
safely
.”

It didn’t escape Alberto’s notice that Vasily hadn’t
confirmed or denied his hand in the arms trade, but he didn’t bother to call
him on it.

“Of course, I’ll steer clear of you and yours, and this,”
Albert said, and gestured around them, “will never have to happen again.”

A nod from the Russian.

What Vasily was asking for, would be no easy task to
complete. Alberto knew firsthand the level of protection one needed as the
boss. If Gavrill were half as smart as Alberto thought he was, the man would be
surrounded at all times. It wouldn’t be easy, what Alberto was agreeing to, but
if it meant his city would finally sleep, he was willing to take the risk.

That, and more.

Alberto also knew that no one could ever know about what
had transpired between him and the Russian in this cemetery with their children
playing just feet away. It would look shameful for an Italian Don to work with
a Russian for any reason, even if it was to his benefit. And he strongly believed
that Vasily would feel a similar shame from his people, should it come out that
he had worked with an Italian to have his brother killed so that he could take
the man’s spot in his organization.

No one could know.

“I’ll see it done,” Alberto said.

Alberto extended a hand, waiting for Vasily to accept and
seal the deal between them. With the slightest of smiles, if the dark amusement
on his face could be considered one, Vasily gripped his hand. For the first
time, Alberto noticed the spider inked on the back of his hand.

It was only a second before Vasily was pulling his hand
away, but the sight of it sent a shiver of apprehension through him.

Along came a spider
…

Alberto had only heard the saying once, but it had never
resonated in him the way it did just then. Some spiders were innocent, but
others ... others were deadly. The Russian’s chiming phone had him stepping off
to the side.

Alberto quickly made his way off the path and strolled
toward his still-animated, happy daughter. She was kicking her legs to and fro,
her head tipped back, and her smile was so wide it could outshine the sun. The
boy at her side was smiling, too.

“It does not,” he heard the boy say.

“Does too,” Violet said in her sing-song way. “Brown, red,
orange, and yellow. Everywhere.”

Alberto stopped walking, confused. What was his child
doing?

“What about the sky?” Kazimir asked.

“Gray—like your daddy’s eyes.”

Kazimir’s brow puckered. “But the grass is still green?”

“Very green. Like your jacket.”

Violet closed her eyes, still kicking her legs and smiling.

“Where is the sun, then?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Violet laughed. “I closed my eyes, so now I can’t see it,
either.”

“But you were supposed to be helping me see, Violet.”

Alberto watched his daughter’s eyes pop back open
instantly.

“It’s hiding behind the clouds,” she said. “But we’ll find
it again.”

Alberto didn’t quite know what to think. Children weren’t
like adults. They didn’t understand the boundaries between cultures, and surely
not ones as difficult as Cosa Nostra and
Bratva
.

But there his girl was, helping a Russian boy to see, in
her own little way.

It was still time to go.

“Violet,” Alberto called. “It’s time to go have some
gelato.”

Kazimir frowned.

Violet jumped off the bench without argument. “Next time,
Kaz.”

“Okay,” the boy agreed, his frown fading.

Alberto didn't correct the children.

Life would teach them.

It always did.

H
er father was going to
kill her, if the alcohol didn’t first.

Violet Gallucci had waited for this day—the day she finally
turned twenty-one—counting down until she was able to taste the freedom that
her birthday brought. Until now, she had been confined to the places her father
deemed appropriate. And when it wasn’t him breathing down her neck, it was her
brother, Carmine.

And she had toed the line, doing exactly what was asked of
her, even as she had rebelled in small ways.

But tonight, she was pushing the boundaries as far as they
would go, teetering on the edge. Violet might have known what her father would
say if he knew where she was headed, buckled into the backseat of the cab with
two of her best friends, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Amelia was to her left, texting away on her phone. She was
oblivious to everything around them, her brows drawn together as she read
whatever excuse her boyfriend, Franco, was feeding her as to why they wouldn’t
be able to hang out later.

Then there was Nicole to her right, whose gaze was rapt on
the passenger window, watching the city pass them by as they sped toward the
outer limits of Brooklyn to Coney Island. She was the quietest of the three,
and the one most anxious about where they were going, but being the good friend
that she was, she’d dutifully come along.

And right in the middle, was Violet. She had been nervous
before they left, but a shot of raspberry tequila had fixed that and now she
was just bubbling with excitement. It wasn’t just the club they were heading to
that had her adrenaline flowing, it was the risk—the thrill of something she
knew was against the rules.

But
, she never outright
broke the rules her father had set forth, merely bent them a little.

“Franco is an asshole,” Amelia muttered with a frown as she
locked the screen of her phone and dropped it in her lap. “Remind me again why
I put up with his shit?”

“Because you love him?” Violet asked.

“Because he’s the only one of your boyfriends that your
father approved of,” Nicole supplied, finally looking away from the passing
scenery and to her friend.

“That’s not entirely true,” Violet said. “He liked … what
was his name, Ben?”

Amelia made a face. “Because he was a political trust fund
baby.”

Violet shrugged. “He still approved.”

Amelia scowled as her phone buzzed again, her attention on
whatever message had come in. Nicole tossed Violet a look, rolling her green
eyes.

“Still loves him,” Violet said, too quietly for Amelia to
hear.

Nicole shook her head. “Not the kind of man to love.”

Amelia didn’t seem to notice her friends’ discussion, or
she just didn’t care, with her phone in her hand and Franco giving her his
time.

The three girls had been friends for longer than Violet
could remember. She had memories of playing in the middle of a giant pile of
tulle ballet skirts, dressing up with her mother’s shoes, and stealing the
makeup from her vanity. All those memories featured Nicole, Amelia, or both, in
some capacity.

In a way, her best friends had been picked for her.

Violet knew it was true.

Alberto, her father, kept Violet on a leash that was
shorter than anyone actually knew. Sometimes it didn’t seem like it was there,
but it was. Her friends were just one example of that.

The Gallucci family had a lot of rules, but only one was
really important for Violet to follow: she didn’t see, hear, or know a thing.
From the time she was young, she knew that was the only thing her father really
cared for her to learn. The rest of the rules came along after.

But some things couldn't be ignored. And with readily
available Internet at Violet’s fingertips, and her family being a sort of
dynasty in New York, there was only so much pretending she could actually do.
When new people learned her name, or even her father’s, she answered their
questions with a shrug and a smile.

She knew who her father was.

She knew what he did.

She just wasn’t supposed to.

Cosa Nostra wasn’t meant for girls, after all.

Both Nicole and Amelia were the daughters of her father’s
right and left-hand men. And because of that, they had been placed in Violet’s
path from the time she could walk. They were respectable, acceptable, Catholic,
Italian girls that understood the secret, sometimes smothering, lifestyle that
Violet was surrounded by.

They lived it, too.

“So … where’s your brother tonight?” Nicole asked.

Violet passed her not-so-subtle friend a look. “I don’t
know. Why?”

“Curious.”

“You should drop his ass before it becomes a habit,” Violet
said.

Nicole lifted a single shoulder in response. “He makes it
easy.”

Because he was easy.

To anything with legs and tits.

Violet forced herself to swallow those words back. She
wasn’t particularly close to her brother, being that he was six years older
than her, but his attitude didn’t help most days. Carmine felt like it was his
personal duty to make sure his sister was staying out of trouble and keeping
her nose clean.

Nothing irritated her more.

Nicole was the perfect example. If it was Violet who was
running around with some guy, her brother would probably take offense. But his
choice to run around with a girl was perfectly acceptable and none of her
business.

Not that Violet wanted to know what Nicole did with her
brother.

“You’re not telling Franco where we’re going, right?”
Violet asked Amelia.

Her other friend glanced up from her phone again. “Why, so
he can gain himself some brownie points with my dad and yours by ratting us
out?”

“Just asking.”

“Don’t worry,” Amelia said. “I was only trying to get him
to meet up with me later.”

Violet checked out the window, looking for a sign of how
close they were to their destination. It couldn’t be far—maybe another ten
minutes.

Then she could forget about how she was failing several of
her classes, how her father was going to flip when he found out, and about
everything else that was stressing her out.

She just wanted to party a little.

That’s what being twenty-one was for, right?

Who cared if Coney Island was no man’s land and off-limits
for a
principessa della mafia
?

The loud crunch of bone was enough to make even the
strongest of men flinch, but as Kazimir Markovic—or Kaz, to those that knew him
well—straightened, flexing the fingers of the fist he had launched into the
man’s face, he didn’t look bothered at all.

“Was that really necessary?” Abram asked from his position
in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he regarded the scene with
thinly-veiled amusement. “He was just about to tell us the good news, isn’t
that right, Marcus?”

Kaz and Abram both looked to the man sprawled on the floor,
one hand cradling his face as he groaned in pain. His shirt was wrinkled from
Kaz’s former hold on him, and spattered with his own blood. His nose had
already been broken, the soft cartilage giving way beneath Kaz’s strength.

Contrary to popular belief, Kaz wasn’t as violent as people
made him out to be. He much preferred using rationale and reason to get the
things he wanted from others, and that had served him well over the years.

But tonight, he was in no mood.

The last thing he wanted to be doing was tracking down men
like Marcus to find out where his money was. He liked to think he was a patient
man, giving those that owed him a chance to pay their debts before he came to
seek them out.

Except, Marcus had chosen to duck and dodge him for the
last three weeks, practically a ghost in a city where no one could hide—at
least not from Kaz.

When he had gotten the phone call from Abram that Marcus
had been found and instructions were needed, Kaz had to postpone the meeting
with his brother to deal with this bullshit.

And if there was one thing Kaz hated, it was being late for
a prior engagement.

So, no. His patience was gone, and the last thing he wanted
to hear from Marcus was another excuse.

“I-I’ve got your money,” Marcus stuttered out, holding an
arm out in front of him, as though that might help ward off any more blows from
Kaz. “Please, I can get you—”

“
Zatknis
’—shut up.” Reaching into his coat pocket,
Kaz pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, tossing it down on the man. “Clean
yourself up.”

The portly man rushed to obey, his hands shaking with fear
of what Kaz might do next.
It wasn’t often that a man broke your
nose, and then gave you something to clean up the blood.

“Here’s how this works. Abram here is going to escort you
to your office, your home, or to wherever the fuck it is you keep your money.
You hand him over what you owe, plus twenty percent for wasting my time, and I
won’t cut off your fingers. Understood?”

Marcus nodded, still holding the handkerchief to his face.

“Good.”

Kaz glanced back to Abram, who looked far too amused by it
all and gestured with a tilt of his head for the man to follow him toward the
exit. Neither had to worry about Marcus trying to make a run for it, though it
would have been entertaining to watch.

“See this done. I have a meeting I’m overdue for.”

Abram nodded once. “Right. Take it easy, Cap.”

Kaz frowned as he watched the man head back toward Marcus,
whistling beneath his breath. He had always hated that nickname, ‘Cap,’ but
Abram insisted on calling him that—his idea of showing him respect since he was
a
brigadier
—or Captain—in the Markovic
Bratva
. And no matter how
often Kaz asked—or demanded, depending on who you asked—he still did it.

Putting Marcus out of his mind for the time being, Kaz
headed out into the night, breathing in the cold air as a wind blew over the
vacant parking lot. Across the way sat his baby, the one thing that never
failed to make him smile. It had been a present to himself after he’d received
his stars.

A matte black, fully customized Porsche Carrera GT.

It was ostentatious to say the least, and when his father
had seen it for the first time, he hadn’t approved, but he didn’t bother trying
to tell Kaz to get rid of it—he knew the request would go unheeded.

Hitting the unlock button on the fob he carried, Kaz slid
inside. He slid the key inside the ignition and started her up. The low hum of
the engine was like music to his ears as he pulled out of the lot, heading
toward his brother’s nightclub in Coney Island.

It was rare that Kaz visited him there, especially when
Sonder was open for business. He wasn’t usually one for the nightlife scene,
but whatever his older brother asked of him, he usually provided.

He owed him that much …

Kaz had only been driving for a handful of minutes when his
phone rang. He took one hand off the wheel, dug his phone out, and read the
name that flashed across the screen. He thought of not answering and letting it
go to voicemail, but Vasily Markovic was not one to be kept waiting. And even
if he did ignore the call, Vasily would just call back until he answered.