Page 158 of For a Price

The war left our numbers in America depleted. Dozens of the men loyal to my predecessor died the night we crashed the event at the Winchester. It will take us years to rebuild our ranks and even some of our standing among the Five Families.

Salvatore Mancino is giving us the space necessary to recover. A new ally even in the aftermath of the war that went on, he visits me one afternoon in my office.

I nod in greeting. “I’m not sure I remember you ever visiting the last pakhan.”

He’s composed, surveying the open space that’s my office. The handful of men he’s brought with him stand obediently behind him like a wall. “Your memory serves you right,” he answers. “I never visited him because he was an asshole.”

I laugh gruffly. “So am I.”

“You have a self-awareness he didn’t. You’re also not a power-hungry lunatic.”

“You think?”

He sticks both hands in his pants pockets and gives a shrug. “I’m a good read on people. If you are, you know the consequences.”

“You and your men decimated his men. Northam—or any of the surrounding cities—are not the bratva’s to own. We have our territories, yes. But we will always see Russia as ours.”

“It sounds like we’re on the same page.”

We part on a mutual understanding, with the bratva maintaining its place within the Five Families and the territories we still have in place.

It’s what should have happened in the first place had the pakhan not manufactured a war so he could grab hold of more power and eliminate threats.

I rise from behind my desk and glance out the window.

My office overlooks the terrace and the rest of the lawn behind the house. Relatively new, it’s only been home for the past two months.

But every day since, I’ve enjoyed the view from my window.

Now is no exception as I stand by and watch Katerina down below. The sound of her laughter plays beautifully off the sound of Lucero’s. The two of them are attempting yet again to teach him to ride his bike without training wheels.

The small boy always crashes within seconds of her letting go.

She guides him along the cement path and then gently prepares him to pedal by himself. She stands back as the bike wobbles forward and he tries his best to steer. A grin spreads on my face watching him make it farther than he ever has before.

“Look!” he yells. “Kat, look at me!”

“I see you, Luc! Keep going!”

The small, dark-haired boy makes it several more feet before he loses balance and crashes down, landing in the grass nearby. His helmet and knee and elbow pads further cushion his fall.

I leave the window and make it downstairs in time to catch him bouncing up and down and bragging to Kat about how well he did.

“I had it! I could ride around the block,” he boasts excitedly. “I could make it!”

Kat notices me approaching and shares a smirk with me before she answers. “You basically did go around the block. But how about you try again here? I want to see you go again.”

He rushes to grab hold of his bike and push it back toward the starting point.

I stop at her side as we watch him. “He’s gotten better.”

“Slowly… but surely. Were you spying on us again?”

“Maybe,” I answer, grabbing her by the hip. “It’s good to see him smiling.”

The days haven’t always been so bright.

When a young boy loses his mother, it’s a tragic, traumatic experience. It was no different for Lucero, who spent the first few months in our custody holed up in the bedroom we reserved for him, refusing to do anything young boys tend to do. He wouldn’t even eat unless we forced him. He and Kat grieved together over time, sharing memories of Rosita and even visiting her grave to keep the flowers fresh.

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