Page 43 of Cruel Existence

“What’s this?” My father took the paper stained with drinks and food splotches. It hadn’t left my hand.

I had showered and shaved before appearing at the office. At least I didn’t look like a man who had been desperately lost.

“It’s from Lorenzo Amato,” I explained. “I told him it wasn’t an acceptable offer.” I waited for my father to read it. He folded the page, following the creases.

“He can’t have the Vieux Carre. Those tunnels belong to us.”

“I know.”

He shoved the letter in a drawer in his desk. “The Vieux Carre is critical.”

“I told him you will have the hotel. I don’t know what else to say. He’s not going to get it. There are lots of ways to make that happen.”

“His daughter, though? Interesting proposition. Have you considered it?”

It wasn’t a question I expected. I nodded. “I have.”

“And?”

“She’s beautiful. Smart. Young.” I looked at him. “Just graduated college. Not for this family, though. You’ve made it clear. So has Babushka.”

“Too bad the beautiful young girl has Italian mafia ties.”

“The hotel is the cornerstone for your entire plan. Trading Lorenzo’s daughter for that property isn’t a good move for you. Or me,” I couldn’t even bear to say Amara’s name out loud.

He crossed his arms. “The bastard isn’t going to have the hotel. I don’t care if his daughter is a goddamn Miss Universe playmate.”

“I know, Papa. It’s exactly what I said to him.”

“Wait.”

“There is more. Let’s put this discussion to an end,” I suggested.

“Are you saying that as my son or as my Sovietnik?”

I folded my hands in front of my waist. “As your Sovietnik. I have information about Uncle Ivan. You should prepare yourself.”

He rubbed the side of his jaw. His eyes looked weary.

“Where did it come from?”

“The prisoner,” I answered.

I hoped to present him with as much information as possible to keep the questions to a minimum. It was the only way to keep her safe. If there even was a way.

“Tell me.” His voice was hard and clipped.

“The reason no one knew who the assassin was is because he was not from here. Not from the families.”

“Go on,” he urged.

“I had to make sure we had the right man. I am aware of the consequences of going to war with the wrong family.” I felt my stomach turn to steel. “I vetted the information personally. The stakes are high.”

“Then tell me, son. Who killed my brother? Who brought this pain to my mother and to your dear Aunt Duscha? I will seekvengeance for my brother. He deserves to be avenged. We have the power to do that.”

“It was a hitman. An Italian hitman.” I knew when I spoke the words the entire picture would quickly snap into place for him.

My father’s eyes lifted to mine. “The Italian?” His voice was barely a whisper. “But… he wasn’t here yet.”

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