Contents

Reunification

Life, filled with perpetual opposition to hegemony, slowly turns into a rejection of any norms and authorities imposed by society ─ this realisation came to me as a child, when, as a child with an angelic pale face on which glassy blue eyes resembled two of the rarest sapphires, looking up timidly through strands of blond hair, I stayed behind the strong wooden doors, behind which men discussed important issues. My father had taught me to ignore the words of the men around me, constantly rebuking and condemning ─ his cruel words became lessons to me, every tear I shed after his shouts like a hammer hitting the young iron, forming a sword. He was from sunny Naples and, having fled to misty London with his family after a police investigation, had become a hostage to greyness and primness, melting inside a rotten hatred of all that was legal and right. A genetic predisposition towards Italy eventually caught up with me on the day I entered university in my father’s homeland, the same day I got a tattoo on my right wrist ─ the sign of Mars¹ as the planet of masculine energy, strength and assertiveness, which they tried to eradicate, to beat it out of me. Growing up in a conservative and traditional family, even before I was born, I was destined to marry, have children and spend the rest of my life pleasing my husband, hiding the bruises of his beatings ─ this was fundamentally different from my nature: the submission, indulgence and unconditional consent inherent in the women in my life were signs of the weakness and victimhood that my father hated so much. Having chosen a side, I became Mars (or Ares), who destroyed in a bloody battle all those who opposed me, I turned them into the horror of war, the likeness of my cruel father. (¹ ─ ♂)

Returning home had always been difficult for me. In the last years that I lived in Italy, I managed to adapt there and create something more than I was allowed to do here, in London, where I spent all my childhood and youth. I lifted my head, noticing my deputy’s intent gaze on the folder of documents he took with him on the plane. A few strands of his blond hair fell over his eyes, making it difficult for him to read. I turned my head to the left, looking out the window: a private jet was approaching the London airport, which means it brought me closer to my family. The faint smell of sandalwood mixed with leather created the familiar work atmosphere that I am always in ─ old offices in mansions, luxury car showrooms drowning in piles of documents.

“The Empire was set on fire yesterday,” Thomas said, sipping his coffee. I furrowed my brows, turning sharply to the man, eyes wide. He slowly lifted his gaze from the papers and continued: “The third and fourth gambling halls burned down completely,” Thomas held out the papers to me, and my eyes began to run between the lines. The insurance company’s damage report showed that one-fifth of my restaurant had been seriously damaged by an unforeseen fire. Photographs confirming these words were attached below, in colour, though the rooms had turned into huge black patches of ash, resembling the cauldrons of hell. My fingers crumpled the edge of the sheet and my jaw clenched harder ─ I knew it was arson. It would take a huge toll on me, knowing that the insurance agency would not pay compensation, or would demand such a bribe for it that it would be cheaper to rebuild at my own expense.

“This,” my finger pointed at the papers, “will attract the police,” I said, pursing my lips. This had already attracted a lot of the noise the patrons of my establishment dislike so much. “This is the second fire in the restaurant in the last two months.” I put the papers down and pinched the bridge of my nose as Thomas went back to studying the insurance.

“So be it,” the man replied, gathering all the papers into one stack and pushing them aside. He pulled a cigarette case and lighter from his jacket pocket, then took a sip of espresso, “if the insurance company confirms it’s arson, then their expertise will be useful to us.”

I felt anger creep up my throat like nausea, which made me swallow. My legs crossed under the table and began to shake, which I tried to hide by putting my cold palms on my knees. It felt like the blood in my system had turned to hot lava, burning me from the inside out; I tried to breathe slower, to make my heart stop beating so fast, and to make the anger pass as quickly as possible. Closing my eyes, I slowly exhaled, listening to the sounds around me, then took a deep breath, remembering why I was on the plane. Bad news like the second casino arson in a month was a frightening omen before my little brother’s wedding.

I could take a legitimate weekend off and spend a happy holiday with my family without thinking about work, if I lived by the rules in this world. To stay alive, I had to be constantly aware of what was happening to my possessions, to my people ─ otherwise I could easily become a victim. However, I didn’t want to ruin my brother’s idyll with his newlywed wife ─ I didn’t have time for the marriage registration as I was so busy explaining powers to my partner, so I only got to attend the celebration. My brother is very reverent about the event, this was clear from the soft and protective tone with which he informed me of his decision, from which any mention of business would have made him upset and angry. I had been sceptical about his intentions to tie his fate to a girl I did not know, as I thought he would shun Mafia tradition, but my brother had convinced me that she knew nothing about our business.

It was quiet in the beige leather cabin of the private jet; Thomas had asked the stewardesses in advance not to disturb us during the conversation, from which the silence after his words was diluted only by quiet jazz. I stared at my empty cup of espresso, beside which stood an ashtray with two smoked cigarettes.

“You know,” I began gloomily, pulling away from my thoughts and looking into the grey eyes of my companion, whose face had well-disguised apprehension on it. I understood him ─ my reactions were unpredictable, more often than not, even to myself, which made Thomas ready for anything. It was moments like this that made me feel sorry for the people closest to me, as if they were communicating with a bomb, so the severity of my self-control increased manifold, “I bought this plane for work, but so far I haven’t heard any good news here,” I shook my head disappointedly, feeling my legs stop shaking under the table and the blood rush to my palms. “Does Antonio know about the restaurant?” I asked slowly, touching my long dark hair.

Antonio Pelegatti was my business partner in Italy (our regions bordered — the territory of Napes was under his control), but also an Italian man who always obeyed his mother. Our ideas about the management of the provinces were fundamentally different, Antonio could cornily cause irreparable harm to my business, although he’d be sure that he did everything right. This was the main difference in our ideas about management: while Antonio was devoted to his Italian blood, I recognised the leadership of Japan’s achievements and put the knowledge I had gained at university into practice. The differences were minimal ─ instead of organisation, I had the entire province under my authority. I genuinely believed that the Japanese management model adapted to Italian mores was more sustainable than the ones I had encountered in my experience: relations based on respect and cooperation, focus on quality, reduction of bureaucracy. Although the risk I took in leaving the province for another manager was a deliberate one, I had my doubts about the staff’s reaction to the situation. Nevertheless, I didn’t have anything business-related planned for the next few days in Amalfi, from which I was able to attend my brother’s wedding. Nevertheless, I needed my deputy here, in London.

“No,” the man said, “and I’m not sure he should. I nodded silently ─ he was right. I respected Antonio with all my care and devotion to Italy in my blood, though I realised that this man could turn my misfortune to his advantage ─ that was how my world worked. Pelegatti was the first people I worked with in Naples (Thomas was the second), we were on an equal footing then and we both worked for his father, and years later we maintained our friendship which has ensured a warm partnership over the years; he was the one who helped to keep my province under control when I could not.

Thomas sighed heavily taking another sip of coffee, “I’ll work until the end of the flight. You can sleep,” I told my deputy, to which he nodded, going to the other end of the plane. He took off his black jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing his tattoos. I knew he’d had them done while he was still at the police academy, some of them even drunk ─ I’d forgotten in the last few months of uninterrupted work how swaggering Thomas could be. Exhaling disdainfully, I took my laptop from the next chair and opened it, immediately taking up the work I had left.

Among a lot of unnecessary information, I found several letters from the police that my father worked with, they wrote about “suspicious missing luxury cars”, impudently hinting at an increase in my donations to the personal lives of each of the employees.

I was surprised by the news of the burning of restaurant in London; it had already burned before, without causing much damage as now. However, my people still didn’t find anyone who could be involved in this case — it was clear that the work was done by a professional, so it wasn’t easy to catch him. The Empire has always been full of guards and the security system was top notch. It was very delicate work to avoid it. I knew that this man, who was behind all this, could do much more than an innocent arson of the. The text scattered before my eyes, I couldn’t concentrate on work, no matter how much I wanted to. Out of anger, I slammed the laptop lid shut, fingers squeezing the septum of my nose. Thoughts could not be structured in my head, as if each part was thinking about its own: about a brother and his hated bride, about an expensive gift that was supposed to make amends for such a long absence, although I was sure that it would only make Jensen angrier about work. I bit my lower lip, throwing my head back against the back of the chair and closing my eyes.

I opened them in a car, while Thomas was driving me to the castle, where my brother decided to have a wedding. It was not safe at all: outside the city, an open aria, everything could end with a bloody wedding, which nobody wanted to, so I hired a few dozen more security men who would keep aloof and not appear in front of the guests, so as not to frighten them away. I did not know my brother’s bride personally but I had found some information about her. Lynette Carbyn was a twenty-year-old science student at a university in London. She comes from a poor family, as after her parents died, she was left with her sister in the care of her grandmother. In her final year, she created a chemistry-related project, for which she won a grant to attend a prestigious university. Lynette has not been seen in the police or the courts, moreover, she is not connected in any way to the illegal world.

“Is my present ready?” I asked Thomas, touching up my black tight floor-length dress that I’d worn on the plane before I left; I didn’t have enough time to fully think through my outfit, so I left my hair loose, tucked back and the casual makeup I’d done at five this morning. At the thought of seeing my brother’s wedding as just another meeting, I needed to show up for, I felt a prick of guilt in my heart ─ it was important to Jensen. But another part of me insisted that they would be divorced soon ─ the bright crush that had followed the proposal would fade as quickly as it had ignited.

“Yes, Alana,” the man gave me car keys, “exactly the same model you’ve asked.”

I left the car, when Thomas, as a gentleman, opened a door, and I walked on the high heels to the castle. I stopped for a moment, looking at the building my brother rented: a stone two storied building in the Gothic style with several dark pinnacles, as well as four gargoyles that looked at me as if with animal interest, even though they were cold and unreal. The doors of the castle were open, and I could see they had done the same with the doors to the backyard, the guards had already informed me that a table had been set in the garden, at which the guests had gathered. Taking a deep breath and frowning, I entered the building, knocking thin heels on the stone floor, with a brisk step I covered the distance between the entrances, again went outside. Stopping a step away from the bend behind which my brother’s wedding was hidden, I listened to the conversations at the table, which were difficult to make out because of the music in the background.

I did not want to undermine my older sister’s authority, but despite my affection for my brother, I desperately avoided this meeting. It was easy to guess that the new woman changed him: he began to work less, taking over the entire economic part of the business in the Empire and his small bar, but thankfully, as Thomas informed me, Jensen had not told his fiancée about the Wollstonecraft family business. My wedding was not as beautiful as this one, I was forced to hide and conceal my marriage from my father ─ I had no dress, no hair or make-up like Lynette, on whom the white silk fabric flowed like moonlight on a watery surface; my clothes were more suited to the long and painful road and, having registered the marriage in the United States, we went straight to Georgia, while Antonio and Thomas covered for me. Though I could now afford to buy myself jewellery at any price, stones the size of my head and red diamonds in unlimited quantities, the rings my husband had bought on his teaching assistant’s salary still seemed the most beautiful ─ white gold with a fine line of cubic zirconia in the centre. My breathing slowed and my chest heaved heavier, an unpleasant weight pressing down on my stomach; lowering my eyes to my pointy-toe shoes, I frowned, blinking rapidly to get rid of the uninvited tears. Suddenly I felt a burning sensation on my right shoulder, and turning my gaze to the inside of my elbow, I stopped at a wide stripe, a scar that, though over a year old, hurt as much as it had that day. I exhaled, shaking my limbs, and taking a step forward with a confident grin. All those present immediately paid me attention and only after a few seconds Jensen realised who was standing in front of him.

The melodies of our souls sounded similar, but had so many differences that it was hard to believe we were siblings. We both had blue eyes, only mine were dimmer, the darker colour of his skin, the deadly blue patches under his lower eyelids, and the smoky dark shadows. His irises were literally illuminated by the short blond hair, becoming so bright that they could replace streetlights, his smile was radiant and kind, and the freckles that he disliked so much made him look younger than his twenty-four. But he didn’t have a bright mole on his upper lip like me. This pure, unconditional and eternal feeling that lives in my heart and allows it to beat faster at the mention of his name, this strong and unbreakable soul bond, this oasis, this trust in his blue eyes. The care Jensen showed in his every word, action, touch ─ that security I was deprived of in the world around me. His smell was the most beautiful thing in the world, the most intimate; his voice the most melodious; his touch the most loving.

“I thought you wouldn’t come at all,” he said derisively to the top of my head, squeezing his palms tightly around my shoulders.

“I can’t help but be with you in this day,” I replied, slowly pulling back and making eye contact with the man.

“But you are late,” he raised his eyebrows as if scolding me, but he also quickly broke into a smile, placing his hand on my lower back and pushing me to the table, “Lynette is looking forward to see you,” he whispered, bending down to my ear, to which the smile immediately disappeared from my face, and the hand immediately rested on his torso.

I look up at him, “Are you sure? The last time we spoke you mentioned that she’s afraid of me,” but Jensen quickly walked over to the table, introducing me to the guests. The idea that Jensen kept his wife in the dark about our business on the one hand ensured the safety of not only my secrets, but also the girl herself from detractors who can use as profit, and on the other hand it was the appearance of disrespect ─ it would be better if she knew what she was going for. With an appraising glance, I walked over all those present, noticing the talking sisters of Carbyn, a man unknown to me and people whom I never wanted to see in my life again.

“Inessa,” I stretched out my hand in a cold greeting to this woman, whom she also quickly shook and looked away at my brother behind me. Her short, thin build made her look even more pathetic than she really seemed; her face was riddled with wrinkles that not even a beautician could help, her blue eyes and soft smile were the same as Jensen’s, and her short blond hair with untrimmed ends was the reason for my dyeing it dark brown ─ I did everything I could not to be like this woman. Contrary to my aspirations and stubbornness, Inessa was subservient to the traditions of conservative families and had insisted on my early marriage, my destiny as a decent mother and housewife, a trophy wife, all through my childhood. With all my heart I hated her and wished her a sincere death, I wished her what I went through, “Mark Lorenzo,” he was her boyfriend. They were lovers during my father’s life, officially got together in a few months after his death, he moved to our family mansion and behaves as if he was the owner there. The old Italian man, who was known for marrying rich widows, was a few years younger than Inessa, though he looked worse than my father on his deathbed — the medium-length dark hair with which he covered the baldness at the top of his head, the elongated body hidden by tailored suits, the wrinkled fingers and tired eyes were totally at odds with his lifelong idleness and, even less so, the demands he made on women. I had to keep my work and personal life separate, but I saw this couple as full-fledged enemies, despite the fact that Jensen respected this woman and her man. She was his mother and I couldn’t change it.

“Your sit,” brother pointed with his palm on a chair near his one and I sat down raising my head on an unknown man with thick and curly dark hair. The nighttime abyss that surrounded the castle was illuminated by small bulbs around the perimeter, from which emanated a warm and muted light that cast glares across the relaxed man’s face. His confident chocolate eyes, full of mystery, struggled invisibly with mine and probably my expression was languid and sleepy, if not deadly, while the stranger radiated silent confidence. His face was symmetrical and well-proportioned — a high forehead, expressive eyebrows, a straight nose, cheekbones and short stubble gave the impression of shrewdness and intelligence.

“Alana Wollstonecraft,” I nodded in greeting, without smiling, but with the respect I was accustomed to.

“Dante De Rosso,” he responded in the same manner. His voice was deep and confident, combining gruffness and firmness with softness and expressiveness.

“We met a few months ago in my bar,” my brother said taking a glass of white wine and smiled a little, “Dante helped me sort out the logistics of beer, now it costs 15% less to ship,” Jensen looked at me. The pensive look on my face didn’t go unnoticed by my brother, but still, a wedding, as it had been drummed into my head all my childhood, was a family affair, and inviting a stranger was not traditional (though there were no guests at my wedding at all). I felt anger coursing through my veins at the thought of Jensen giving this man access to the financial records of the bar through which I’d laundered money from The Empire Casino. Clutching my fingers tighter around the knobs of the chair, I tried to calm myself, trusting my brother ─ he wouldn’t take such a step unnecessarily, he was no longer a child to rely recklessly on a stranger’s word; if Dante was immersed in the family business, then Jensen was bound to let me know about it. Thomas pulled back a chair to my right and sat at the table, distracting me from the flow of thoughts ─ I’d talk to my brother later.

Finally, I turned my attention to Lynette, she was sitting to Jensen’s left, whispering quietly to her sister. Her big green eyes on her round, doll-like face raised and lowered their gaze timidly to her intertwined fingers in her lap. Her frail shoulders, wrapped in white silk, were stiffened, giving away her discomfort, embarrassment or fear. The dossier Thomas had assembled contained characteristics of Lynette from her classmates, classmates, even teachers ─ according to this information, the girl was often withdrawn and taciturn, while having an excellent academic record (which allowed her to win a tuition grant). As if sensing my gaze on her skin, she glanced quickly in my direction, but, trembling, also turned briskly towards her sister.

I saw how Dante was looking the burn scar on my shoulder from afar, “Car accident,” I lied. A crash would have been the best outcome, especially if I hadn’t survived it, “Let’s drink to the newlyweds,” I said loudly, raising my glass full of orange juice up and without waiting, taking a long sip of the drink. I would love to get drunk right now.

The further celebration proceeded quietly, as I expected, because. The music in the background gradually increased its volume, the bride, who continued to be afraid of me and didn’t dare to say an extra word in my company, left with her sister to dance, then Inessa and her man left. Their presence increased the atmosphere, because I did not want to spoil, even such, a wedding for my brother because of my aggression and quarrels with this woman, who had long ceased to be dear to me.

I was too busy with thoughts in my head to notice how Dante periodically throws his glance at me. Biting my lip, I glanced out of the corner of my eyes at the man who was drinking whiskey measuredly and watching the party like me. Throwing my hair back, I opened my neck and the protruding collarbone.

“You don’t look interested in this wedding,” Dante said with his seductive voice. He slightly compressed his lips and turned his amazing eyes to me. I quickly pressed my fingers on the scar on my shoulder to calm down so he wouldn’t notice it.

“Same as you,” I answered confidently, grinning. He was more relaxed now than he’d been at the beginning. I smiled from the corner of my lips, lowering my gaze to the red on my short nails.

“You aren’t like your brother,” he said more quietly, looking into my eyes.

“I’m like my father,” I replied politely, although I was smiling softly inside. The thought of Jensen has always made me feel warm. In response, he again impudently grinned at my answer, getting up from the table.

“Yes,” Dante said, resting his palms on a wood, leaning closer to me and riveting my eyes to him, “I wish you not to die of boredom tonight. Perhaps you should get some drink,” He nodded slightly to me, got up from the table with a glass of whiskey in his hands, banging on it with a fork. I took a deep breath. Dante narrowed his eyebrows as everyone gathered around and took their places.

“Today Jensen and Lynette have become a family, sealed the knot,” his gaze was directed at my brother, “despite the fact that we have known only a few months, and I only met your rest of the family today, “his gaze slid over my face, and then returned to my brother’s wife, who had shy smile on her face, “may this union bring you one happiness and so that you don’t know sorrow.” At the last words, the man raised his brown eyes to mine, then raised his glass of whiskey and finished the contents in one gulp. We continued to maintain eye contact, when everyone around began to applaud, when the brother began to calm his wife, who was ready to cry at any moment, after which I lowered my eyes, and Dante left.

In hours, sighing heavily, I rolled my eyes out of boredom and got up from the table, heading towards the fountain, which was a few meters from the dance floor. Taking out a cigarette from my clutch, I immediately went in and breathed in the tart smoke, from which my lungs hurt a little from deep breaths, and a mint taste formed in my mouth. The mind became a little stupefied, the movement ceased to be as clear as it was before, it was the usual effect of any nicotine on the nervous system, so I just continued to smoke aside and observe the guests, studying the actions of each.

“Is Thomas already tired?” my brother asked, appearing in front of me with a glass of wine.

“He is full of work,” I made another cigarette puff. Thomas will obviously be busy with business, dealing with the consequences of Jensen turning a blind eye to his bar for a long time and trusting the unknown.

“You may not have fully understood this,” his courtesy evaporated on the spot. He came closer forcing me to look into his eyes, “but this is my wedding, not another deal of stealing cars.”

“You know I am not interested in something that doesn’t benefit me,” I replied measuredly, feeling family feelings and meeting, after the long-awaited separation, evaporated from thin air. We became work partners again.

“You didn’t even give her a chance to show herself,” he said calmly, but I detected echoes of concern and injustice in his words.

I exhaled the smoke from a cigarette in his face, showing my dislike for this dialogue, “She’s afraid to raise her head and tell me her name, what can we talk about?”

I didn’t like people like her. She seemed miserable to me.

“Your own mother is afraid of you, how can you expect confidence from a person who just met you?”

My face was still unshakable; in such situations, it seemed easier to gouge out my eyes with my high heels than to show emotions. Those words would hurt me if I had a mother.

“I don’t give up on words I said that evening, “I remembered every insult and threat thrown at this woman.

Conversations about Inessa and his pleas to forgive her never ended well. Like this time, so Jensen decided to change the subject:

“I want you to answer one question as honestly as possible,” he said seriously, thrusting his palms into his trouser pockets, “Thomas told me about the Empire.”

For Jensen, this night was more than just important, and like his infatuation, he wanted the rest of us to respect his wedding. Even though most of me thought his behavior tended toward childishness and sensitivity, I realized that the crush that had acted like an intoxicating gas had penetrated to his heart, like a puppeteer pulling his strings.

“Did you come to London because of my wedding or because of the casino?” stubbing out my cigarette on the stone fountain, I raised my blue eyes to his face, “Of course, Alana Wollstonecraft doesn’t think about anything other than how to steal expensive cars, kill some bad guy and make a lot of money.”

“Don’t make me angry, Jensen,” I warned in a cold tone, so that his face turned neutral in an instant, “You’re right, I have a deal here, but this appointment was made before you met your sweetheart. London is still my motherland. I came to this wedding, despite my dislike for Inessa and your fiancée. And remember, I had to take on a lot more work, including money laundering, while you were apparently handling the logistics of the fucking beer.”

“Since when you’re caring about family?” he exhaled heavily, dropping his head down. Jensen had cut his workload in three, putting all the responsibility on me.

“I don’t judge you for the wedding or your feelings for this woman, but remember that you have responsibilities to fulfil. I hope Lynette won’t interfere with your work, otherwise you’ll have to make a choice,” my voice sounded firm, not tolerating objections, my brother just nodded at all I said, looking straight into my eyes. Putting the car keys in his palm, I mentioned that it was my present for his wedding, and returned to the guests, “Happy wedding.”

The night was long, but I could not sleep at all. I opened my laptop and tried to work again, answering to all email I got and planning my deals on tomorrow. Jensen was right, I needed to visit an even related to car I was going to steal and, in addition, a meeting with insurance agency about The Empire. After working on the computer for several hours, I noticed that the time was approaching dawn, but I still did not feel like sleeping. The quick knock of the buttons while typing was already beginning to squeeze the head unpleasantly, bringing pain. Deciding to take a break, I quietly opened the door and went downstairs to the kitchen. Finding a coffee machine, I quickly made myself a bitter espresso.

“A long night,” a voice I heard a rough voice behind me, which made me turn sharply.

“Thinking about work,” I replied, walking closer to the bar, where Thomas was already sitting, arms folded, “want some coffee?” I asked, surprising my interlocutor a little. Perhaps at nights I was less aggressive than during the day.

“No, I’ve drunken already three cups,” Thomas answered modestly, “I’m trying to find who set Empire in fire.”

“How is the situation around?” I asked, biting my lip. I had to think about work while Jensen was having fun with his wife in bed.

“Everything is calm. You have nothing to worry about, Alana” my deputy nodded.

Sighing heavily, I studied Thomas’s face: his disheveled hair and heavy eyelids, which now and then wanted to close his grey eyes, indicated that the man needed rest, but his hyper-responsibility never allowed him to leave a case unfinished ─ he would not rest until the culprit was found.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to the restaurant,” I said in a cold tone, wanting to focus the deputy’s attention on my words, “I don’t like the games like this,” without saying the last word, I was interrupted by a sound indicating that the coffee is ready.

“I’ll be ready by eight,” he replied, nodding. I calculated that I had less than five hours to sleep, but the cup of espresso in my hand meant that I wouldn’t fall asleep for the next hour. On the plane I never managed to sleep a wink; before that, in Amalfi, I had slept another two hours a night, drowning out my urges with coffee and cigarettes. Sleep was a luxury I could not afford.

Having poured myself a small cup of a bitter drink, I turned around and headed upstairs, having previously warned Thomas about the necessary rest and a possible change of bodyguards for that night. However, the guy resisted, saying that the responsibility for my life lied only with him. Passing the rooms on the first floor, I noticed one door ajar. Behind it stood a new acquaintance, Dante De Rosso, whose name I remembered distinctly. His torso was naked and at night, in the moonlight, he was talking quietly and engrossedly on the phone, completely oblivious to me. Dante’s broad shoulders, powerful arms, pecs, and mountain-like biceps gave the impression of a sturdy man, but as I turned away, I noticed deep scars of various sizes on his back, which made me hold my breath. The skin, studded with long cuts and large burns, gave me genuine consternation and revulsion-the unevenness at his shoulder blades and lower back, the red and purple hues at the massive scars. Frowning, I clutched the cup harder in my hands, turning on my heels and heading back to the kitchen. I was completely uncomfortable with this state of affairs ─ an unknown man with an unknown background and a lot of unusual scars all over his back has been in close contact with my brother for months and has access to his bar’s accounting department. The deputy met me in the same place with a surprised expression on his face, apparently intimidated by my brooding.

“Thomas,” he was adjusting his weapon on his belt, “I need all information about Dante De Rosso.”

Oasis

“The Empire” is a loud and dignified name for an appropriate establishment located in one of London’s most expensive areas. During the day, as the sunlight streamed into the restaurant through the panoramic windows on the first floor, and classical music spread softly through the walls, drowning out conversations about business or new purchases, I found myself thinking that the place, with its ceiling frescoes, sculptures, marble walls and gilded, colourful furniture made by Italian craftsmen at my father’s personal request, was transformed at night, behind massive doors, into a place of lust and money. I saw people’s faces change as they touched the notes of their winnings, as they inhaled their scent, as they kissed and shook the bundle in front of everyone. The stuffiness of the closed and dark windowless room, the clouds of cigar smoke on the ceiling, the ashes on the blood red gambling table — these people were different from the visitors who came in during the day, these were real lunatics with the urge to inflict pain and intimidation; here they became slaves to their own desires and vices, martyrs of their own world of immorality and misery, an endless escape from the meaninglessness of existence to the inner destruction of colossal loss.

My father had to make a name for himself from scratch when his once influential Neapolitan family was reduced in an instant to a handful of ashes, worthless. It was the restaurant that became an oasis for people like him — immigrants forced to leave their homeland to escape the police and endless persecution, heartbroken, clad in cold-blooded masculine faces, desperate to recapture their childhood. Here they were young men, arguing loudly, hurling insults (some even with chairs and money), drinking, freeing their minds from the cage of everyday dullness in which they were strict dictators, eliminating their enemies, punishing their subordinates and beating their wives. Their true selves were revealed, where in a world full of death, all they cared about was how to make money out of it. If the blood on their hands were imprinted on the surface of the furniture they touched, my restaurant would become the epitome of an infected soldier’s wound on the battlefield.

The Empire also became my oasis. As a child, I had little idea that one day I would run what I thought would be a powerful restaurant, but as time went on, and my interests shifted more and more towards my father’s business, my desires collided with the reality that no matter how much I proved my worth by going to the lair of the worst criminals, no matter how much I proved my effectiveness as a leader by organising magnificent car thefts, I was still a woman. By inheriting The Empire, I permanently cemented my name in the mouths of the disgruntled men who still insisted that I had made a grave mistake in preferring the cold weapons to the warm bed of my husband, as well as the women who clearly condemned my desire to bring my death closer. But I knew that I had begun to end the mindless reign of cruel men who equated their daughters with a bargaining chip — it took me to become as cold as the ice their wives applied to their bruised faces.

In defiance of the law, my father, Robert Wollstonecraft, set up a restaurant where he ran unofficial games (often poker). It was a kind of protest against the legal system that had banned him from his home country for many years. In the beginning there were only three gambling rooms, discreetly located on the first and second floors, opening their doors only late at night; his father used to boast that half the British government sat at the gambling tables, confirming his theory about the relativism of justice that had caught up with him as a child. In the short time I have been running the restaurant, I have added two more rooms in the basement.

The sharp nose of my black heels was stained with ash, which lay in small piles on the hard pavement — neither the icy wind that blasted my cheeks and tangled my hair, nor the morning rain had carried away the remains of the fire. Thomas told me of two completely burnt out gambling halls that would take at least a month and a half to rebuild — forty-five days that promised constant losses and an endless stream of nightly customers to the remaining three rooms.

“He was not joking this time,” I said, standing on a burnt desk. Attempts to identify the culprit always ended in incredible failure, it seemed he was slipping through my fingers. His method of operation was too crude, perhaps even sloppy and revealing, though I was confused by the marked difference between the two arsons — a toilet cubicle (as a warning) and two poker rooms (as punishment). Whoever he was, he knew exactly how to bypass the restaurant’s security system and exactly where the entrances to the hidden rooms were.

“How much did we lose?” Jensen asked, frowning and shoving his hands into his pockets. I was surprised by his encouragement to spend the first morning of his married life in the company of a restaurant he hated — the sudden decision to join me on an early trip into central London, though motivated by guilt over yesterday’s dialogue, was still the starting point for his return to the routine of work, which meant the extra responsibility and stress of working overtime was off my shoulders. Jensen was not only the owner of the Shoreditch bar, passionate about business development and keeping the inflated customer numbers in check, but he was also responsible for the digital security of my entire estate — from The Empire to the entire province of Salerno.

“Millions,” I replied, pulling from the pocket of my straight black trousers a silver cigarette case with a hand-engraved W after my surname (it was a gift from an old Neapolitan man who had a fierce desire for a Mercedes-Benz W198 in his wealthy garage, which is why he turned to me). The heavy nicotine pierced my lungs with a sharp pain, immediately hitting my head and relaxing me; blinking slowly, I exhaled the acrid smoke into the sky, where it mixed with the frosty morning air. There was a terrible rumble on the street that pressed against my temples, passers-by hurried, stumbled and ran red lights — they all had ordinary lives filled with routine: work, university, home, family, children, they had stress and worry, joy and momentary happiness — all the things I was deprived of. Growing up in an illegal world, my life from childhood was fraught with the risk of death — blackmailing and threatening my father was best dealt with by kidnapping his children — except that these people had no idea that a passing bus could be booby-trapped and an SUV stopped at a traffic light could be packed with thugs rolling down their tinted windows and shooting at anything that moved; most likely their lives had meaning, their existence was not aimless — or so they thought.

I took another deep puff of cigarette smoke, lowered my eyes and tried to shake the traces of ash from my patent shoes. I really didn’t care about the money that would be spent on renovating the two gaming rooms — last month’s (not very profitable) casino turnover reached a billion pounds, of which only a fraction went into the players’ pockets as winnings, the rest belonged to the casino itself; truth be told, most of the turnover was reckless betting by angry men, so I have to give them credit — only people like them could win hundreds of thousands and lose tens of millions, making me richer. Except that the time it would take to rebuild the rooms was very different from what I could afford — the reduced playing space meant fewer potential customers and therefore less profit; disgruntled players were the worst people I had ever worked with (not even Antonio’s lavish compliments annoyed me that much), because if they were disappointed, my reputation would suffer and they would not want to come back.

“Bad news,” he sighed heavily and touched his hair. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hide the anger inside me. I took a deep breath of cigarette smoke and raised my head to the sky. It was bright and clean, which was more than I could say for my head, I slept for several hours, drank a few cups of espresso.

I buried my fingers in my long dark hair. My gentle glance in his direction was enough to let me know that Jensen was indeed involved in the problem, even if this abrupt plunge might have felt like a bucket of ice water being poured over his head. My brother’s stern face with its brooding blue eyes did nothing to break his relaxed mood, judging by his slumped shoulders, the unbuttoned top buttons of his white shirt (he’d left his jacket in the car, still pretending that the wind blowing all around his body was no colder than the flames of a fire), his legs spread wide. I took a puff from my almost new cigarette, suppressed a gust of anger and threw it to the floor, stomping on it with my right foot — such bad news is made worse by the lack of sleep: the cup of espresso only intensified the intrusive thoughts of Dante De Rosso’s scars, leaving me with a measly three hours of restless sleep, which felt like torture in the form of a stabbing headache in my temples and dry eyes the next morning.

Frowning, I turned to Thomas, “Did the arsonist leave a trail?”

He shook his head thoughtfully, “Nothing yet.”

I cursed and kicked a charred piece of wood with my heel. I had to close my eyes and breathe heavily to dampen the outburst of anger that had become a veil before my eyes.

“We’re looking, Alana,” Thomas assured me, still standing a few metres from the main entrance to the restaurant. He didn’t take his eyes off the smoky black streaks on the stone walls outside, constantly shifting from foot to foot. The Empire was one of the last businesses my deputy handled, as I preferred to handle the restaurant myself, long and painstakingly; it wasn’t my first big business, as before the casino I’d successfully handled car theft and managed to get my place in Salerno, but it was the Empire that was the forbidden fruit I’d been fighting for most of my adult life; I’d been fighting to inherit it to prove that gender had no effect on brain size. Jensen pursed his lips and lowered his head.

“I’m going to burn that bastard alive,” I replied rudely.

“You don’t even know who did it,” the brother sighed deeply, rubbing his eyelids with his fingers, “this man is clearly not going to give us a quiet life.”

His words amused me. A life full of death, suffering and pain, the heartbreaking cries of mothers who have lost their sons in a bloody shoot-out, the tears of stolen children, bags of dirty money, cannot be peaceful a priori. I have often wondered if I would find peace after death, because long reflection has always led me to the necessity and inevitability of eternal sleep. The possibility of finding peace was illusory and utopian in my mind, which is why it seemed so attractive. In fact, the morbidity of birth and death frightened me with its meaninglessness; an existence of suffering ceased to be felt as such and was transformed into a routine, a beginning and an end to the cycle called life, an aimless wandering through my own mind in an attempt to find meaning and value. In recent years I have stopped believing in rest — I can’t remember if I ever felt it. Fighting all my life for recognition, forcing my name down the throat of every disgruntled person, I have lost the meaning of my existence. Each day, filled with confrontation with the conservative entrenchments of the mob, so exhausted me that there was no better desire than to turn into a transparent haze that vanished into thin air in the blink of an eye. Faced with powerful and dangerous people who continued to impose their will, they lost their meaning in my eyes; they no longer seemed like unquestionable authorities, and the traditions they had so carefully guarded no longer made sense. But it was as if I was on their side, continuing to prove my worth in this world, until I realised that I could not convince everyone, and so I would continue my pointless struggle until I disappeared completely.

“The quiet life is a myth,” I told Jensen, looking over my shoulder at his face. For my brother, my words had a completely different meaning. He was now responsible not only for himself, but also for his wife, who didn’t even know that from today her life was in constant danger, and Jensen, who didn’t want to tell Lynette about the business, was doing everything he could to keep her out of it.

Every time I looked at the Empire, I felt a sharp tingle in my heart: although the outside of the building showed traces of fire in the stone, I didn’t dare go inside; I knew I wouldn’t like what I saw, and I preferred to stay in the dark — the frescoes and bas-reliefs might have suffered, the Italian furniture certainly. My father’s legacy had been burnt, and all I had to do was replace the objects that would no longer contain a particle of him. There were no more bright signs of the gourmet kitchen that hid the gambling dens where London’s rich could try their luck. I was both pleased and puzzled by the fact that the restaurant was virtually undamaged (the fire from the gambling rooms had spread to the curtains and tablecloths among the guests, leaving traces of ash on the window), as the arsonist clearly knew where the hidden rooms were. The room itself was unusually large, occupying two floors, and under the guise of a gourmet kitchen in Baroque style, but hidden from view, the greatest poker games were held in five rooms: two on the first floor (which burned down), one on the ground floor and two more, the most massive, in the basement. In this way I was able to organise all five underground games, undetected not only by the guests but also by the police. In order to legalise the income from the casino, I combined it with other sources of income and distributed it according to ownership: some went to the restaurant’s accounts department under the headings of internal or visitor, another part went to Jensen’s Bar in the same way, the remaining money continued to exist in Salerno. Suddenly I remembered an email from the insurance agent I’d been looking at that night — as I’d unofficially assumed, they wouldn’t pay for the restaurant’s repairs unless I gave them financial compensation (a bribe) for keeping the details of the affected rooms secret. Trying to control my anger, I slowly clenched and unclenched the fist of my right hand, breathing heavily. It seems I need to remind the insurance company what ‘keeping secrets’ really means.

“I don’t think we should go back to Amalfi until things have calmed down,” Thomas said thoughtfully, coming closer. Jensen raised his eyebrows in surprise as I exhaled quietly, resisting the urge to yawn. It was getting harder and harder to work when you keep forgetting to sleep.

“I can run the restaurant, and you can go back to Salerno,” Jensen suggested, and at first I liked his idea, and ready to agree, I opened my mouth before thinking. I had a lot of business piled up in Italy, and would probably have more problems after Antonio, but my brother’s motives weren’t driven by selfless help, but by a desire to continue his modest life in London, rejecting the fact that he was involved in illegal business.

“No,” I said softly, forcing myself to keep my eyelids open, “I need your help in Amalfi,” Jensen had informed me a few weeks ago of the need to analyse the software that maintained the digital security of not only my personal accounts, but the finances of all the companies I owned, as he had noticed an attempted hack by an unknown party, “I have a meeting tonight, we return to Salerno tomorrow afternoon. No need to stay here for long,” I scowled at the ashes — — it would be better if other people took care of the repairs and restored all the rooms.

Despite the defiant displeasure in his eyes that stubbornly burned through my skin, the man nodded in agreement, hiding his hands in his trouser pockets. As much as he wanted to stay in this little idyll with his new-found wife, Jensen’s father’s honour would not allow him to break his promise.

“I’m not going alone, Alana,” his voice sounded harsh and hard, in contrast to his soft, heavenly gaze. I lowered my eyes thoughtfully.

It was to be expected — falling in love can act on the mind like a poison, slowly disarming. The trip to Salerno could be a long one, and the last thing Jensen wanted after the wedding was to leave his wife in another country for an indefinite period of time.

“Lynette isn’t a threat until she finds out about our business,” I warned slowly, blinking. Sooner or later the girl would find out about all the criminality that permeated our family, but inwardly I hoped she would escape before that moment came.

Jensen nodded again and exhales heavily.

“You have a responsibility, Jensen,” I reminded him, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder, “you’re not just the husband now, you’re the bar owner and digital security manager. Get back to your duties.”

The man nodded, pursing his lips. I could understand his feelings now: Lynette had given him hope of a quiet life without guns and fights, where he was a simple bar owner and she a student. Now, after six months of blissful happiness, it’s hard for Jensen to come back to reality. He needs time to adjust.

“I’ll go back to my duties and keep working, and Lynette will think this is our honeymoon,” Jensen replied seriously, taking a few steps to the side. “And Mum will return to our family home with Mark.”

I had to roll my eyes in anger. I hated that woman as much as I hated her man.

“How dare she return with her lover to the mansion where our father died?” I spat reluctantly, but got no answer.

Every thought of that woman filled my throat with bile, my heart with disgust and revulsion at the realisation that her genes were in my blood, that my hair and eyes were part of hers (I had changed the colour of my hair, but if I could have my eyes gouged out, I would definitely do that too). Even the word ‘mother’ was not to be used in her direction — a traitor who was alive because of Jensen, who supported the ideas of patriarchy, who convinced me that my only chance for a better life was to marry a powerful man, did not deserve my recognition and respect, and even my father’s surname did not protect her position. Brought up on the literature of Jean Jacques Rousseau, she had no choice but to grow up subservient to a man. Once, when I was a child, she tried to read me one of his works: before she could even begin, I began to fret and cry, not wanting to listen to what he had written. I only felt an unpleasant shiver run down my shoulders when I thought that a man should be the head of the family and have complete control over his wife and children, and a woman should be a subordinate and serve her husband.

At the thought of marriage, I lowered my eyes to my unadorned left hand — it had been empty since Nicholas had died in the fire. Clenching my fingers into a fist, I looked up to where the clouds hung heavy like grey walls, obscuring the bright blue sky. The morning dampness spread through the city in cold gusts of wind that blew litter and flyers across the ground. The thickening clouds created black patches in the sky, inspiring a ghostly desolation that churned to the bone. Tangled hairs formed at the back of my neck as I frowned thoughtfully into the grey distance, longing building in my soul. An unbearable rattle echoed through my heart, making me oblivious to the pain that had hardened inside me over the past few months. It seemed impossible to escape the endless sky, that the impenetrable clouds, like a maze, would not allow me to find a way out — fear was devouring me from within, waiting to meet its own Minotaur¹. (The Minotaur¹ is a legendary creaturefrom ancient Greek mythology, half man, half bull, who lived in a labyrinth onthe island of Crete and ate those whom fate threw into the maze.)

“Alana,” Thomas’ loud voice came from behind me, pulling me out of my own thoughts. I swallowed hard and ran my palms over my face to bring myself back to reality. Tapping my heels on the stone pavement in front of the restaurant, I stepped closer to the man who was sitting by the fallen planks next to the stairs, staring at them thoughtfully.

“Do you think this is evidence?” Jensen asked, sitting down beside him and holding out his hand for the object. I had to slap his palm lightly.

On the floor, between the burnt planks, lay a silver heart-shaped pendant. Its chain was broken and the small stones that decorated the metal had almost fallen out, leaving only empty notches.

“Prints,” I replied to his questioning look, without taking my eyes off the pendant. Employees weren’t allowed to wear jewellery, and visitors often didn’t wear such simple and silver ones. I stood up and motioned for Jensen to take the pendant for examination, “I need the results as soon as possible. I received a nod.

Sighing, I raised my head to the sky and noticed the clouds. Jensen came up behind me, gritting his teeth, “The guards were talking about the evening event.”

“That’s right,” I replied a little more quietly, feeling the onset of a headache, “I have an assignment in London.”

“Another businessman,” he began.

“Another car,” I replied with a chuckle, “you’re coming with me.”

“Of course,” Jensen smiled brightly, forcing me to lift the corners of my lips, “you always need someone to cover your ass.”

The guards surrounded the castle and surveyed the area around it. Inside the building itself, the maids were bustling about, carrying dishes and laundry, scrubbing the floors to a shine, cleaning up after the previous night. After reminding me of our meeting tonight and kissing me on the cheek goodbye, Jensen quickly made his way to his upstairs bedroom and took off his jacket, where Lynette was probably already. My brother’s wife didn’t interest me as much as her sister, about whom I had a bad feeling — Skye’s appearance resembled a sickly, if not fatal, skin condition, thinness, dye-burnt hair; perhaps the Carbyn sisters weren’t as simple as they seemed at first glance.

Standing at the entrance to the castle, the wind blowing in through the open windows and doors, I lowered my gaze to my shoes, crossed my legs and took a deep breath. I felt like I missed Amalfi — the Italian town had become much more at home to me in recent years than my native London. The greyness around me was killing me, plunging me into a gloomy reverie that I could only try to shake off by increasing my workload. The sea, with its tranquillity and silence, the peace to be found in the crashing waves, in the spray of cold water, reminded me that in a world where there is hell, there is also heaven. Here, apart from my father’s shop, which burned with some periodicity, I had nothing. A slow, throbbing pain began to pound in my temples as I realised how many problems I would face on my return to Italy, even though I still couldn’t figure out who had caused the two restaurant fires: I had made enough enemies over the past few years who were determined to take not only business and territory, but also the title of “the man who destroyed Wollstonecraft”.

A gust of cold air hit my face with the clear smell of earth before rain, forcing me to look up. The glass doors to the courtyard were open, as they had been the night before, and Dante was sitting at the large table where a few hours earlier there had been large Italian dishes and bottles of dry white wine. His large back, the intimidating scars on it hidden by the thick fabric of his charcoal jacket, looked dull and lonely against the grey sky. Tapping my heels on the tiles of the house, I approached the man and saw a laptop and a cup of espresso in front of him.

“Is there a problem with the bar tab?” I asked, stepping around Dante and sitting to his right, the man sitting on the edge with only the corner of the table between us — so I could study his face. Tilting my head slightly to the right and squinting my eyes, I watched as he slowly lifted his gaze from the laptop screen and turned coldly to face me. Taking a deep breath, Dante leaned back in his chair and picked up a small cup of espresso with his large hand; I could see the turquoise vein lines through his skin.

“Some vitals didn’t add up,” he replied blankly, taking a sip of his drink. The piercing look in his brown eyes slowly began to ignite a fear in me that chilled me to the bone, “Nothing serious”.

“You should be more careful,” I said slowly, realising that our small talk was turning into a cold verbal battle for me.

“Just helping Jensen out,” De Rosso said as he set his empty cup down on the saucer.

I crossed my legs and squeezed them tighter — to control my aggression, which pierced my skin with a sharp heat that made it hard to breathe. The man sitting in front of me had full access to the financial records of the bar through which I laundered my illicit earnings; I had a right to be angry at Jensen for such reckless behaviour.

“And what caused this altruism?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.

“The usual help to a friend,” the man replied evasively. Talking to Dante, I had the oppressive feeling that he was controlling his every word, trying to keep me at a distance. His piercing brown eyes and bushy eyebrows were lifeless and vacant, giving the impression that the man was incapable of smiling. De Rosso’s demeanour was, in my eyes, arrogant and unapproachable, as if he had absolutely no interest in other people, not even his so-called ‘friend’ in the person of my brother. His monotonous voice, devoid of any emotion, and his stilted gestures gave the impression of coldness. Realising that it would be impossible to establish a dialogue with such a man, let alone extract information from him regarding access to financial figures, I lowered my eyes in frustration as I rose from my chair. Smoothing my white shirt against my body, I cast a final glance at Dante, who immediately returned to his computer, losing all interest in our conversation. Straightening my back as if my spine were a bar of steel, I dismissively reminded the man to lock his doors for the night, then retreated.

“Who are you, Dante De Rosso?” I whispered.

The clear night sky, devoid even of stars, was slowly being replaced by grey and cloud, revealing a different London beyond the reach of the naked eye. The old mansion, rather small compared to my father’s residence in Italy, was indeed old — the bright red brick that made up the walls of the building was illuminated by the xenon headlights of the sports cars parked at the foot of the stairs. The tight black fabric of my long dress squeezed my ribs as I breathed; my feet were beginning to ache from walking in heels (I had to soak my feet in a shower of hot water to be able to dress for today’s event). The front strands of my hair fell in large waves across my face as I leaned forward to adjust the belt on my hip that secured the sharp knife to my skin. I had gotten used to this kind of protection: I had no intention of killing anyone today, and I generally did not encourage close combat, but the knife was not only a means of self-defence in critical situations, but also a tool that could be used to pick a lock, cut a rope in the event of a kidnapping, or damage a pocket to get a phone out. Although my appearance was in keeping with the theme of the party, I was met with puzzled, interested and even judgmental looks — apparently neither Luca nor his guests expected me to accept an invitation to the event.

“We came to steal a car,” my brother said, leaning into my ear. A few minutes earlier, Jensen had been telling the valet exactly where to park his car, constantly smoothing the fabric of his black suit, “but I think if such a beauty disappears from the party, everyone will notice.

I grinned back and took his arm. We walked back to the manor together.

Luca Ronald was the epitome of a rich youth who had not yet met the fate of early family life and business. I did not investigate his finances, although there is no need to, because I knew that his spending was irrational (the diamond pool table, which he broke a week after installing it), but the man himself had repeatedly claimed a recent purchase — a Bugatti Centodieci, a limited edition car of which there are only 10 in the world. My client contacted me a few minutes after he heard about the deal between Luca and the sheikh, wanting to get his hands on the new sports car without any unnecessary witnesses. Car theft was not my main source of income, but the money it generated was shared between me and my team, excluding middlemen, staff and so on. It was probably an extension of what I had been doing with Antonio’s father; I really liked cars, in a way this part of the job gave me pleasure, because while most cases were standardised and universal, each one was unique, with different cars, people and circumstances everywhere. It was important to choose the victim first: a banker with a shady past, a politician involved in illegal business, or men who looked like pathetic parodies of Capone or Gotti, but according to the statistics it was the children of such people who most often fell under my influence. They paid no attention to the cars, which made it easier to rob them. Then came my team: Xiaomin, a Chinese girl who was on holiday now, and Richard, a tall man with blue eyes that looked very deep against his dark skin, who had served time in one of London’s prisons for stealing a cabriolet. These two, professional thieves, would gradually trace the victim and the car using the technique I had taught them, and when the time came, they would disappear with the car without a trace. I gave each member of the team an increased percentage of the sale in exchange for the fact that they were responsible for the theft — victim, police, mafia, it doesn’t matter, they were looking for my guys, but not for me, formally I was not involved in their activities. This helped to avoid conflicts between the families that rule the illegal world, as well as unwanted wars and shootouts, but when my boys were being hunted, I stood up for them. But there was one memorable moment: when the case of the theft of two sports cars came up for trial, which was supposed to take place in Molise, I managed to move to Naples, where Antonio kindly did not interfere in my business and allowed me to finish what I had started. All the witnesses from the court suddenly disappeared and I had to pay my partner in Naples part of the proceeds from the sale of the cars.

“The car key is on the second floor,” Jensen said softly in my ear as we entered the villa, smiling and nodding to the butlers and other guests, “third door from the left,” he reminded me, “don’t forget.”

I mentally rolled my eyes in annoyance and suppressed a sigh of flow of emotions.

Objectively, this case was different from the others, at least in that I was directly involved in the theft, I had to show up at this dinner tonight to quietly steal the keys and then quietly hand them to Richard who would be waiting for me outside the grounds of Roland’s mansion. Luca, for reasons unknown to me, had hired a large number of guards and strengthened the pass system; now each guest had an individual code, and forging it, though possible, was still disproportionately energy consuming. After discussing this with Thomas, we agreed that I should accept the invitation to the ball.

Behind the massive doors blocking the entrance to the mansion, the Ronald family’s grandeur was concealed: a grand foyer with a high ceiling and stucco on the walls, an extended bar with a variety of drinks around which guests were already gathering. Most of the young people remained in the lounge to the right, sitting on leather sofas, not hesitating to place on the coffee table whatever illegal drugs they could steal from their parents. The wall behind them was empty — it used to be a display case of crystal china and silverware that Luca had broken at another party.

I walked on, still holding my brother’s arm, keeping a calm face and discreetly inspecting the guards. The preconceived plan was to disappear unnoticed from the lobby where the main event was taking place, find the office on the first floor and get rid of the car.

Although people like Luca contributed a great deal to my financial well-being, I genuinely hated them — having inherited the business from his mother, he spent money recklessly and irresponsibly, while his hapless deputies tried to avoid bankruptcy. This approach to work irritated me: while I had struggled all my life to get a place in my father’s restaurant, Ronald had just been born; every time I had to deal with him, I felt a genuine disgust.

I didn’t notice Luca right away: the dark-skinned man stood eccentrically in a circle of his friends, swaying from side to side as if he couldn’t stay on his feet. His hands waved incoherently in the air as if trying to prove something, his face was puffy, his hair a mess; Ronald’s clothes looked sloppy and unkempt, as if he’d dressed with his eyes closed.

I’d heard about his family for a long time; even the mansion the guy had turned into a nightclub had once been the home of generations. Despite such an ugly idea of Ronald’s, he had aristocratic roots, but I could not understand if that had any meaning. In the light of the night, the dark wood from which almost everything in this house was made added charm and mystique, but these thoughts quickly disappeared as I noticed the people standing around the new pool table. I had no doubt that it was worth several hundred thousand pounds, unless it was a fake that his grandmother sometimes used — aristocrats had rapidly lost their influence in the last half century and were more status than real proof of the presence of money.

I took a deep breath and gripped Jensen’s hand tighter with my fingers. It took a lot of effort to turn the contempt in my eyes into polite arrogance (Luca was one of those people who used his family name shamelessly, having nothing to do with this success. He often reacted positively to my hubris because he had a high ego, believing himself to be more intelligent, wealthy and influential).

With a disdainful sneer, I glanced at the young man coming our way. I exhaled immediately and the muscles in my back tensed.

“Alana,” Luca said immediately, “I’m so glad you’re here,” the man leaned over to my palm and planted a light kiss on it. I swallowed, feeling the pungent smell of sweat and alcohol from the man in my nose.

“I couldn’t miss such a bright event,” I replied politely with flashing eyes and a smal