Page 14 of One of Them

Somewhere along the way, out of fear or simply to exercise their egos, these events became more of a show. Just another excuse to display wealth, influence, and power. To parade under everyone’s noses.

Today was no different.

The party took place in a Bratva-owned hotel. A buzz of activity drew attention to the entrance, where expensive cars dropped off guests straight onto the red carpet. Legit, I kid you not, a red carpet cushioned the dirty sidewalk, intentionally laid out for the superficial vultures to parade on, preserving their pristine designer shoes.

A photographer greeted the guests, no doubt hired by the couple. What a thoughtful idea to keep a digital memory of their celebration. Wrong. I saw it for what it was: a perfect opportunity to gather evidence, keep a guest book, and, if you got lucky, collect a little blackmail material on the side. Yet no one dared to question the innocence of the photographer. After all, this was an event celebrating the Pakhan, their beloved leader.

Feet dragging painfully slow, the guests made their way down the carpet, flashing perfect smiles at the camera, occasionally waving to passing pedestrians. Leadership shut down the hotel for the event, allowing only invited guests inside.

A handful of Ilya’s men, ones I recognized from the compound, stood at the door on high alert while staff members requested each name upon entry to double-check against the guest list. Once again, the simplest actions presented yet another opportunity to pull out your status card and flash your importance. Sure enough, many expected their names to be recognized by simply showing their faces. Some even dared to act insulted if the staff couldn’t identify them. Their big mouths shrank quickly when there was no option but to introduce themselves.

Rolling my eyes at the entitlement, I skipped to the front, not bothering to spend a second among the movie-star wannabes. Years among people like them and I still wasn’t used to the game of politics.

The photographer stayed away after an accidental nudge on my part when he aimed the camera my way. Stating my first name, the security guard held the giant door open as I stepped in. While they monitored every move, none were brave enough to submit me to a pat-down.

Since the hotel was the primary location for all events of importance, the rooms were grand, built to accommodate enormous crowds. Velvety curtains and dark wooden furniture greeted you, staff attending to all needs. The higher you placed, the looser the morality. For a few crisp bills, the options stretched far beyond their job’s responsibilities.

Bratva members mingled with representatives from the Italians. As a sign of respect, they now attended each other’s events. According to the peace agreement, weapons weren’t permitted past the reception area, but there was no doubt they all had at least one gun hidden in their tailored suits. Me included.

Life prepares you for even the strangest of circumstances. Being unprepared equals being an easy target. Soon you’re carrying a gun or two, a couple of knives. You’re a light sleeper, noticing every exit when you enter a room. Strategically positioning yourself with your back to the wall becomes a default setting.

You never look at life the same after you’ve experienced danger.

I threw my hair over my shoulder, straightening my back. If there was one thing I cared about, it was dressing up. Even on the job, I made sure to look my best, no matter the situation. Caring about appearances felt like my way of controlling who I was and how people saw me. Though I wasn’t referring to the clowns outside, but rather those with real importance.

The number of times people underestimated me, especially as a woman in this profession, was laughable. Mainly men, but women alike. They all possessed the same false confidence until they were on their knees, begging for their lives. Rough were the beginnings, navigating as a young adult thrown into the arena with wolves. But I wasn’t a nobody anymore. Though a reminder every now and then was still needed.

In the main salon, I got the usual stares from the wives, no doubt for my scandalous choice of color, and the occasional nod of respect from the men, mixed with looks their wives wouldn’t appreciate. The truth was, everybody slept around. Married or unmarried, it made little difference.

I was a far cry from the girl in pigtails. I’d trained my body into solid muscle, and with long, wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, I’d grown into what many considered an attractive woman. Add in the confidence and it wasn’t uncommon for people to take notice. Not that I had any interest in any of them. Although I couldn’t say for certain what attracted them more: my looks or the gossip that always seemed to follow me around.

Not in the mood for any propositions, I advanced deeper into the lavish room. At the bar, I spotted Enzo, another man of importance.

Lorenzo ‘Enzo’ Artuso led the Sicilian Mafia and his level of crazy matched mine. The Sicilians had their territory and businesses, but the scale of their operations didn’t allow full independence, making Enzo the Underboss within the Cosa Nostra. Whether they agreed or not, they still answered to the Don of the Italian Mafia, the highest man, a position Enzo often had to step into, given their current leader wasn’t one for public appearances.

“Aren’t you exquisite?” He greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks, his words dripping with Italian charm.

Guests passed us by, women walking purposely slow, desperate to catch the gaze of the chocolate eyes set on me.

“You’re not bad yourself. But you already know that,” I grinned, well aware of our surroundings.

He smiled. A rare Enzo smile that made women weak in the knees. To me? It was the closest public display of loyalty I’d known. Or that this world allowed.

When I sat down, joining him at the bar, Enzo immediately used the moment to point out the obvious. “Am I the only one who thinks this was a bad idea?”

“What?” I let out a soft laugh. “All these gangsters under the same roof or Ilya getting married?”

“Both.”

“Trust me, you’re not the only one.” I had tried to talk to Ilya about his reasons, but he shut me down every time.

“His life,” Enzo concluded, raising his glass.

Drinks in hand, we saluted instead of clinking glasses. Vodka for me, whiskey for him. Though we both knew he was a wine lover.

Not here. Not among them.

As the liquid burned a familiar path down my throat, I turned to him. “What now? Is there a guide for these things?”

---