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Engagement parties were a new concept, but I was no stranger to mafia meetings. They were the same thing, except one required more flower arrangements.

Only a handful of instances brought the various criminal organizations together. Weddings were one of them. Funerals were a close second.

All gathered here, bound by duty to pay their respects and present a unified front among those aligned. The intentions stretched beyond their circles as the rest of the criminal underworld watched closely, eager to identify a weak spot, an opportunity to prey upon.

Though not allowed through the door, information still found its way to rival families. Guaranteed to be used .

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?”

Enzo’s glass hit the bar with a soft clink. “You drink until you forget and try not to start any drama.”

I leveled him with a look. “Aren’t you here to represent?”

Unhappy with the regularity, Enzo shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Don’s not making an appearance?” I asked, despite already knowing the answer.

I’d worked with these men for years, Italians included, completing countless tasks for them, but I was yet to meet their leader. Unlike the gossip suggested, he wasn’t a ghost, though he might as well have been, with his rare, almost nonexistent appearances.

“That’s why I won’t stir anything,” Enzo admitted, finishing his drink.

A soft chuckle left me. “Good luck with that.”

From what I’d heard, Enzo wasn’t happy with the alignment between the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva.

He was either bruised from the past or didn’t see the need.

His duty to attend these events only fueled his frustration.

One thing was certain: if the Sicilians held a higher position, or one of their own, I highly doubt they’d submit themselves to this show.

As if he followed my train of thought, the Pakhan, Ilya, found us at the bar half an hour later. How many drinks had I consumed? I lost count. My cheeks were slightly flushed .

The two men acknowledged each other with a nod. I laughed internally. Typical .

Beyond the initial greeting, Ilya paid no attention to Enzo and focused solely on me.

“We’ll do an official introduction and discuss details,” Ilya informed me. “Privately,” he emphasized the word.

“So proper, Aistov,” Enzo didn’t miss the opportunity to insert himself. “Does your young wife already have you by the balls?”

“Artuso,” Ilya greeted the Sicilian. “What a pleasure to listen to your bullshit,” he shot back.

Like a ping-pong match, you watch all these men interact, shooting words back and forth, always the same story. Every so often, these exchanges get heated, and that’s when the real fun starts.

The last time Bratva held a meeting with mixed members, the wall crumbled under the weight of bullet holes, and hostages had to be exchanged by the end of the event. There was nothing like team bonding.

And Enzo and Ilya? There was no love lost between the two. Somehow, they coexisted, never missing an opportunity to poke one another. Verbally, so far.

I gathered my things quicker than expected, cutting the conversation short. Clutching the purse under my arm, I threw my drinking partner a warning glance.

“Better not get drunk without me.”

“You might need to run, or Pakhan will pop that vein on his forehead.” Enzo flashed me a grin. “We can’t have that,” he said, and something told me that’s exactly what he would want.

When I turned around, sure enough, Ilya stood halfway down the room, looking quite impatient. In long strides, I caught up to him, my heels clicking with each step .

“I don’t understand why you need me there,” I questioned, unaware of any changes. I hadn’t been present in Bratva’s meetings outside the discussions concerning my contracted missions.

“Her brothers will work with us closely after the wedding.” Ilya brought me up to speed as we moved away from the crowd.

Here’s where those hacking skills came in handy. Had I researched them all before we even met? What kind of friend would I be if I hadn’t?

It was standard practice to know everything about a person, especially if you were about to interact with them.

Knowledge is power.

Ilya and I were close enough that I wouldn’t let him marry into a family with skeletons of their own.

The Galkin siblings came from a long line of Bratva members. Their genealogy traced back centuries, with branches filled with prominent Russian socialites. Never the rulers themselves, but always close to power.

Currently operating out of Philadelphia, they’d been running the city since their parents retired a few years back, leaving them in charge.

Andrei, in particular. The oldest and head of their family.

Their ticket to the Pakhan. Or he was, until the whole marriage thing came along.

He was the only sibling out of the four with a family of his own, his wife Mila.

Marriages in the underworld followed a basic pattern.

The unions rarely stepped outside the circle, and theirs was no exception.

Maxim was the second oldest. I sure had fun researching his ass.

The man had a track record you could read like a list, and I couldn’t resist doing just that.

Despite having years on me, he still fell short of my numbers.

Missions, rescues, military operations. His name kept appearing, report after report.

I swore he had a hand in everything. Some records even dated back to an era I’d only read about.

Then there was Luka, the youngest of the brothers. On paper, he was the genius of the family. The mastermind securing Bratva the dough for their bread .

Alisa, their only sister. The bride-to-be. Her record? Squeaky clean. A picture and basic information. Nothing beyond that. No mentions of her involvement in whatever her brothers had been cooking.

Without her name and access to the school database, connecting Alisa to the rest would’ve been nearly impossible. It looked like someone had deliberately erased all traces.

But once you spotted the connection, it wasn’t hard to see. They were unmistakably siblings. Golden brown hair. Green eyes. Similar features. Though each, especially the brothers, had a distinct style.

I didn’t have time to sift through the hundreds of pictures buried in the depths of the internet, so I relied on IDs.

Thank you, dear government. Forever grateful for your stupidity, and mostly for the lack of security.