Alliance: Red Star, #1

By Catherine Johnson

The criminal underworld is balanced on a knife-edge, weighted by respect, fear, and greed. For years an alliance has held true between the different factions that compete for control of New York, but the suspicious death of the founding father of that coalition throws the underworld into chaos.

The Italian mob has been gutted by continued RICO persecution since the Seventies, but although their power has been diminished, their time is not yet over. The Yakuza and the Triads arrived with the first immigrants from Japan and China, but they've always had to compete with the home-grown factions. The Mexican and Latin cartels have been extending their reach from the West Coast since the drugs trade exploded, as have the Caribbean gangs from the south, but the biggest players are the Russians. Once criminal enterprises born of resistance to the corruption and persecution of government- now bolstered and legitimized by the corruption of the oligarchs – they are now a mafiya that has the implicit backing of their country to do whatever they like.

Alessia Dioli is the granddaughter of Don Tosetti. In the way of the legitimate world, her marriage is one of politics and power. Her grandfather founded the alliance. Her husband is the don of one of the families that makes up the jigsaw of peace and profit. Her life has been molded around the dangerous activities of the men who control it.

Nikolai Volkov is pakhan of his family, their leader, although not their figurehead; that honor belongs to his grandmother, and he would have it no other way. Irina Volkov rose from the collapse of the Soviet Union like a phoenix and spread her wings to fly to America, bringing the remnants of her family with her. Having paid in blood during the wars between the Vory and the Suki, she found a place where her children and grandchildren could grow strong, where her family could become again what it had been. Under her rule, under Nikolai's leadership, the Volkovs have flourished.

As the puzzle pieces scatter and the players fight for dominance once more, the city burns. People die loved ones are lost, and new alliances are forged. Alessia and Nikolai must fight to survive, to protect their own. Ultimately, they have to decide if the trust they instinctively hold for each other is true, if they can be stronger together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freak Circle Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386284093

Catherine Johnson

CATHERINE JOHNSON, Ph.D., is a writer specializing in neuropsychiatry and the brain. She cowrote Animals in Translation and served as a trustee of the National Alliance for Autism Research for seven years. She lives with her husband and three sons—two of whom have autism—in New York.

Book preview

prologue

––––––––

Nikolai was trying to distract himself from the torturous itching of his new tattoo. Normally, a couple of rounds of Mortal Kombat II on the PlayStation could absorb his attention through any event short of the detonation of a nuclear bomb, but given that his cousins Luka and Vadim had just kicked his ass for the fifth game straight, it might have been safe to say his concentration wasn’t great.

The nagging irritation on his arm wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but it was constant and he knew he couldn’t - shouldn’t - scratch at it. If he rubbed the scabs away, if the ink healed less than perfectly, everyone would know that he had failed to endure this simplest of tortures. It would be a mark of disrespect to ruin the piece. The quality of the tattoo itself - as it was inked - was not important, but the care of it afterward was. He had seen many designs that had been etched with little more than a needle and scorched rubber mixed with piss. Those crude etchings had been faded by time and bisected with scars, but while the ink had been settling into the skin they had been cared for as if they were the mark of God, which was not so far from the truth.

Nikolai attended a state school like almost every other kid in his neighborhood, most of the time, but his family also indulged in some unconventional, yet necessary, homeschooling. During the fascinating interludes when Alexei Sokolov was his tutor, the point was oft-repeated that torture was most effective when the pain was persistent. Alexei’s motto ran something along the lines of ‘start small, and allow yourself room to grow.’ Hacksaws and blow torches were not always necessary, they were blunt instruments and Alexei only used them when making a point; he preferred a small blade and a candle, or water if he could not obtain ice. Nikolai thought the itch of a new tattoo was right up there with some of Alexei’s most effective methods. In any other respect, his tolerance for pain was considered high, but faced with the itch of a healing tattoo he was reduced to the level of a whining toddler.

Nikolai did not like feeling like a child. He was fourteen. If they had been back in Russia he would have been considered a man. Here in America, he was barely a step above a baby. He’d been old enough to be sent to Juvie for a not inconsiderable sentence, but he was caught between the two worlds. He had never truly known childhood innocence, but the actions of adults often confused him, and he knew he was not mature enough to join their world... not yet.

Not yet, but one day he would be.

His latest tattoo was proof enough of that. Tattooing was illegal in New York City, so for a teen such as himself to have ink was extremely unusual, but his family knew the right people. His family knew all the right people. His grandmother knew the right people to perform tattoos, even on someone not yet eighteen years old. She’d known the right police officers to find him, along with Luka and Vadim, with a few baggies of Horse and a wad of cash that was far too thick for three teenagers to claim ownership of. She’s also known the judge that would give them the required sentence, no more and no less.

Tattoos were not an abomination to his family; they were a way of life. Some families kept kitschy photo albums, his family had their stories drawn right into their skin. But the ink had to be earned. You couldn’t just go out and get any old rendition of Mickey Mouse or Big Bird on your ass, you had to be worthy of the legend you were creating. The pigment embedded in your skin meant something. The dagger wrapped in barbed wire that had been etched into Nikolai’s embarrassingly skinny left bicep represented his induction into the prison system, a momentous milestone in the journey of his life.

Nikolai yearned for a pair of stars on his knees, the sign that he would kneel to no man, but Alexei was adamant that he had to earn those marks. Intention and pride were not enough; a man had to be tested before he could be honored. Alexei said that Nikolai was too young to be tested yet. If anyone else had issued the edict, Nikolai would have argued, but he suspected that Alexei would be the man to test him when the time came and he had a great respect for Alexei’s skill and talent. The man looked like a character from a fairy story, perhaps the kindly cobbler who consorted with elves. He was tall and thin and with his gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose he looked the epitome of peaceful intelligence. There was more strength in those lithe limbs than any stranger could guess at, and that brilliant mind was as sharp as the tools he used. He was his grandmother’s most trusted advisor, her Sovietnik. He was the man tasked with teaching Nikolai, Luka, and Vadim about their family business and the legacy that underpinned it. Alexei also had several particular skills which he was passing on to the boys.

The official story, as far as his school was concerned, was that he, Luka, and Vadim had recently enjoyed a holiday back to their mother country. Nikolai would have liked for that to be true. He harbored a desire to return to Russia, even though his grandmother had decreed such a trip far too dangerous, for now. Fortunately, he had a wealth of stories from his family to embellish at school. He would not – could not – tell anyone the truth. It would be incomprehensible to most of the people that he knew that anyone with the resources available to his family would have to spend time serving an actual custodial sentence. Very few people understood the way that his family worked. They didn’t understand his grandmother and father. It was not possible to live in their world without having experienced prison.

The last six months had not been a waste, they had been a lesson. His family were letting him grow into a man, letting him make his own mistakes, letting him learn from them, and they did not intervene in the punishments any more than absolutely necessary. His two cousins had been right alongside him through the crime and through the punishment. His grandmother was also grooming them for their places in the organization. His babusya kept a laser focus on their formal education, so the fact that she had let it be interrupted by this interlude might have seemed ironic, but it spoke to her commitment to their development. She needed them to know how the system worked. She needed to know that they could endure the rigors, the solitude and separation of doing time. Nikolai knew that his education would have been stunted if he’d waited until after his eighteenth birthday to complete any meaningful stretch of incarceration; as it was he was sure that his grandmother would arrange the next stage of his education when the time came. He had heard much about how comfortable Juvie was compared to adult institutions. He didn’t mind. He was impatient to get such tests out of the way so that he could finally become a fully functioning part of the family.

His grandmother was the head of the family, but there were whispers that she would soon step down. His father, her eldest son, was her right hand and heir, but Nikolai did not want his destiny handed to him on a silver platter. Good leaders were not made that way. He wanted to be a good leader. He wanted to earn his destiny with blood, sweat, and determination. He wanted to prove he was worthy of the honor. He wanted to be worthy of the honor. He wanted to be able to carry the legacy of his grandmother and his family.

His first real test had been to lose his freedom, temporarily. His second would be to endure the small torture of the healing of the etching on his arm. There would be many, many more tests – both great and small – in the years to come.

Still, the itching did not seem to be bothering Luka or Vadim, and they had been given the same marks in the same place. It burned Nikolai with the fire of shame and envy that they were bearing their discomfort with more fortitude than he. He felt a brother’s love for his cousins, and along with that love, a brother’s resentment and envy. They loved each other without restraint, but that love supported a healthy measure of competition.

Almost the entirety of Nikolai’s living family shared the same tenement building. Luka and Vadim had been under his grandmother’s care since the death of their parents. She had been Nikolai’s guiding influence since the death of his own mother. The three cousins, with barely twelve months between the eldest of them and the youngest, lived in the same apartment as their grandmother and Nikolai’s father. Together they formed a haphazard, but a complete family unit. Kolya, Ruslan, and Yury - his other cousins, younger than the first trio by only a couple of years - lived with their enviably full and normal families in the same building.

Yeah! Vadim punched the air as he completed a combination. His character delivered a devastating uppercut to Nikolai’s avatar. The controller was still gripped in his right hand. I win again.

Luka twitched an eyebrow but said nothing. He was out of the game for this round and was occupying his mind by rapping along with Biggie Smalls. Their grandmother lamented their taste in music, but Nikolai found the melodic chanting to be soothing, much better than the electro-pop crowding the rest of the chart.

Fuck you. Another round, Nikolai demanded. I’ll kick your ass. He couldn’t give up or he’d scratch his new ink to bits.

Before they could set up the next competition, the door to his room opened. Their grandmother stood in the doorway. Their game and their music had been loud and the apartment was not small, so he was not surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. An apology for his bad language was already forming on Nikolai’s lips, his grandmother had rules about cursing in the house, but then he realized that his grandmother had tears on her cheeks. The wet trails shone in the light. His grandmother, Irina Volkov, head of one of the most powerful crime families on the east coast of America, was crying.

Nikolai was shocked into silence, Luka, too. Luka hit the remote for the CD player. Vadim shut down the PlayStation without exiting the game.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong. He had never seen his grandmother cry, not when his own mother, her daughter-in-law had been killed, not even when her youngest son and his wife – Luka and Vadim’s parents had been assassinated. No matter what the world had thrown at her, as far as Nikolai knew, Irina had met it without flinching. She wasn’t sobbing, but the evidence of her sorrow was glinting wetly on her cheeks.

His father had been to Oklahoma on a business trip, he had been due to return within a day or so. Now his grandmother was at his door and his father was not by her side.

"Do you need us to leave, Babusya?" Luka asked, showing the sensitivity and insight for which he was rapidly becoming known for in the family.

No. You should stay. Their grandmother’s voice was quiet, but it did not waver. She came into the room. All the boys shifted so that she could sit on the bed by Nikolai.

It’s Papa, isn’t it. Nikolai’s statement was not a question. He could think of only one thing that would have brought his grandmother to tears.

His grandmother confirmed his worst fear with a rough voice. "Da, krov moya. Is your papa."

He’s dead, Nikolai murmured. The growing adult inside him knew it must be so. His grandmother would not be crying if his father were even grievously injured in hospital, she would have been moving heaven and earth to ensure he received the best care with every ounce of her steely determination. But the child inside him... the child clung to a naïve shred of hope.

"Da. His grandmother’s voice broke over the short word. He is."

Nikolai’s own tears spilled over. He couldn’t hold them back, but he swallowed the urge to break down. He would not sob like a baby. His grandmother was hurting, and he needed to be strong for her. He did not want to add to her pain or to disgrace himself. He knew what his family was. He knew the risks they took to carve their place in the world. He knew his father had fully embraced the life he had led... but... but now he was an orphan. That life had stolen his father from him, had stolen both his parents away. That life had stolen Luka and Vadim’s parents. Nikolai felt the first faint stirrings of rage, although the dragon was muffled by the weight of his loss.

Who? How? Luka asked quietly. Nikolai could see that his cousin’s eyes were shining. Vadim couldn’t speak; his fists were clenched tightly in his lap, so tight that his knuckles were blanched white. Where Luka tended to cold logic, Vadim tended to hot rage. They had been orphaned before they had ever stepped foot on American soil; their memories of their parents were few and fading fast. Nikolai’s father had been their papa as much as Irina had been their mother.

Mongrels. Filthy rivals of group we meet with. His grandmother lifted her chin, showing the iron in her spine. "They call themselves Dirty Rats. There was ambush. They have no honor, like krysy."

They should pay. They need to pay, Vadim grunted through gritted teeth.

They will, Their grandmother assured them. I will wipe them from face of this earth.

Nikolai had no doubt that the foolish biker gang would be reduced to dust. They had angered Irina Volkov and the insult would not be ignored. But it did not matter to Nikolai that his grandmother would wreak bloody vengeance; nothing she did would bring his father back.

Nikolai reached for his grandmother’s hand, which lay passively in her lap. She had not tried to hold him to comfort him. He didn’t doubt her love for the lack of a hug; he knew that she was trying to maintain a veneer of control. It was not their way to wail and moan. He squeezed her fingers, feeling for the first time the papery age of her skin and the potentially arthritic swelling of her knuckles. His grandmother squeezed back, hard, betraying her tenuous control over her emotions. Nikolai reached for Luka, who held out his hand without reserve. Luka reached for his brother. Vadim took two deep breaths and the relented. He allowed his brother to clasp one hand, but the other fist clenched impossibly tighter.

They were not alone in their grief. They had each other. They would never let go.

~o0o~

Three-tiered crosses carved from every shade of marble covered the cemetery ground, like a field of wheat that had been frozen in time, no longer able to bend to the whims of the breeze. The graveyard was peaceful; it might have been beautiful if it had not been acre upon acre of death.

Nikolai stood on one side of Irina, Luka at the other. Vadim and Alexei stood at her back. She was surrounded by her family, but a generation was missing. Nikolai understood that Irina was surrounded by half-men. Her daughters and their husbands were close and his other cousins were also nearby, but apart from Alexei, Irina had no full-grown men by her side.

The priest pontificated over the grave, but Nikolai did not listen to his words. He knew what his father had been, what he had done, and he knew that always his father had acted in the best interests of his family. He wanted to believe that his father was in heaven. He wanted to believe that God’s judgment had been fair. He knew with absolute certainty that if his father was in hell, he would not hesitate to join him when his own time came. Nikolai intended to provide security for his family by any means necessary. He intended to learn every lesson his grandmother taught him. If he was not admitted to heaven for protecting his kin, then he would take the punishment and be damned.

Although he and Luka stood close by, their grandmother did not lean on their arms. She had linked her arms over theirs only as a show of chivalrous courtesy. The boys had taken their lead from their grandmother. She remained strong and straight. Together they were islands of stoic calm amidst the mourning.

Along with the other mourners, Nikolai had walked the circuit around the coffin while it lay in the chapel. He had laid his anonymous white rose atop the closed casket. By tradition, the casket should have been open. His father should have been laid out in his white suit, ready and waiting to receive the offerings and last affections of his kin, but the dirty bikers had shot his father in the face and so the casket was closed. Nikolai had watched from his grandmother’s side as his flower had become buried under a heap of similar blooms. He had done his duty, but the shell in the coffin was no longer his father. He could feel that the loving, ebullient spirit was gone.

A waft of pine scent tickled Nikolai’s nose. Following the old ways, mourners had thrown twigs of fresh-cut greenery in their wake. They would leave the graveside by a different route through the tangle of headstones, all to confuse any lurking evil spirits. Nikolai stared without seeing into the grey day. There were no evil spirits in this place, only the wounded living.

The service had ended without Nikolai noticing. He came back to the present as his grandmother received the empty condolences from the priest. She shook her head, only a small movement, and the holy man scuttled away. In a flash of insight, Nikolai realized that the man who styled himself as God’s messenger on earth was scared of his grandmother.

The world shifted behind him as the collected mourners began to make their way back to their cars. Now that the solemn part of the occasion was over their chatter began to trickle forth, getting louder with each step taken. There would be food and drink back at their home... the home that would never again ring with his father’s hearty laughter.

Now only four people stood over the grave. The gravediggers, taking the exodus of mourners as their sign and receiving no indication otherwise, began their work. Nikolai, Irina, Luka, Vadim, and Alexei bore witness to the final act that would seal the body of Kirill Volkov away.

A cough, a hemming half grunt, broke through the clatter of shovels and earth.

Nikolai whirled, ready to do battle with anyone who would disturb their solitude, but his grandmother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Be still, krov moya."

An old man was standing there, waiting. He was dressed for mourning; a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, all covered by a fine black wool overcoat in deference to the sharp wind. The face of his skin was lined with age. He was tall, but his shoulders were not hunched. His hair was iron grey with swathes of snowy white at his temples. Nikolai could tell that the man’s hair had once been black from the bushy eyebrows that hung low over his hooded eyes.

His grandmother tipped her head and the old man approached. The man coughed into his fist before he spoke.

Donna Irina, I can only offer my sorrow for your loss. The man bowed as if speaking to a queen. He had a faint accent that was not Russian.

Don Tosetti. His grandmother dipped her head and in the long moment that she kept it low Nikolai knew that she was caught on tears that she was fighting not to shed. I thank you for your condolences.

The old man straightened and regarded Nikolai, Luka, and Vadim in turn. Nikolai felt Vadim bristling at the scrutiny. Luka’s mask of cold indifference bit with a sharper edge than the breeze. For himself, Nikolai stood tall and met the man’s eyes. He would offer no threat unless threatened, but he would not appear as less.

The old man, the don, his grandmother’s equal, smiled when he looked at her now. Your family is strong enough to survive this tragedy. I believe they carry your strength in their blood.

Irina inclined her head. I believe my grandchildren suffer faults of their elders. I believe they must use their strength to create better world.

The don nodded and placed his hand flat against his chest. That is my most fervent wish. If we lay strong foundations for them, they may build a palace of peace.

We will dig deep, for their sakes.

We will. A sly light entered the don’s eyes. Your vengeance, as ever, was impressive. It was, this time, quite noticeable.

His grandmother’s only answer was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Nikolai knew what the don was alluding to. He knew that his grandmother had wiped the Lubbock chapter of the Dirty Rats MC from the face of the earth as though she were the hand of God. Dozens had died. Only a crater remained where the biker clubhouse had once been. Revenge had been thoroughly executed, but it was hollow.

I will leave you now, the don said, But know that you only have to call and I will be by your side.

His grandmother gave a small smile, but one filled with genuine warmth. I did not doubt you, ever, Santo. Thank you. You are true friend.

As are you, Irina. As are you.

The don touched his finger to his forehead and then turned and followed the path that the last of the departing mourners had taken through the metropolis of the dead.

Nikolai’s grandmother turned back to his father’s grave. The gravediggers had continued their task and the casket was no longer visible. It would not be much longer before his father’s grave was simply a mound of turned earth covered with extravagant floral displays.

For one horrible moment, Nikolai feared that his grandmother would break. She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath; he felt it move through her whole frame down to her feet. She inhaled again, a steadier intake of air, and then turned to him. "Krov moya, I never wish for you to bear this so heavy burden so soon. This burden will be mine until you are ready, but is time for your lessons to begin. Krov moya... Nikolai... one day you will lead our family."

Nikolai fought the urge to whimper like a child. "Babusya, please, do not speak that way."

"Shhh, the words must be said, krov moya. They are truth. I am not immortal. But you not worry, I will show path to you."

Not today. He could show that much weakness with only his brothers and Alexei as witnesses.

Not today, his grandmother agreed, But tomorrow. We begin tomorrow. Our reality cannot be ignored.

Nikolai knew well what their reality was. He knew his destiny was not that of other teenagers. His feet had already begun to walk on the path that would eventually bring him the power and respect of his family. He knew what his destiny entailed. He knew that he was heir to a criminal dynasty that spanned generations. He would not have changed his fate for all the world, but he wished to be a young boy mourning the loss of his father for just a few hours.

CHAPTER ONE

––––––––

The coffee was not quite cool enough to drink, so she pursed her lips and blew across its onyx surface. The first sip was almost too bitter, but it was chased by the aftertaste of the chocolate powder mixed into the grounds. By the third sip, the caffeine had hit her veins and she finally felt the groggy mist of sleep fall away. Unfortunately, once she was awake, she was aware. The oddly false lemon scent of Benito’s mug of herbal tea hit her nostrils. She lifted her mug, not to drink, but to inhale. She wanted to be fully present in only the coffee for a little while longer.

The exterior wall of the kitchen was entirely glass - all the better to see the extensive, highly manicured gardens - but the bright morning sunshine reflecting off the pristine white gloss cabinets was almost migraine inducing. The house had been professionally decorated. Alessia’s taste ran to homey and comfortable. Benito’s prefered dark and linear designs. The interior designer had reached a compromise that satisfied neither of them, but which was pale and beige enough to cause no offense. She squinted against the glare and turned her head from the light.

Matylda, their live-in maid and cook, was loading the dishwasher so quietly and unobtrusively that sometimes Alessia almost forgot she was there at all. There was no doubt that having staff enabled her to live a luxurious lifestyle of ease and leisure, but it was not the existence she had once envisaged for herself. As a girl, she had idolized her nonna and the home that was always full of the aromas of fresh-baked treats and coffee, of the sounds of chatter and laughter and fun and love. Her current palace of ecru silence was almost the polar opposite of her old daydreams, but it seemed churlish to reject it. Not that she had a choice. The children of dynasties never got to choose their own destinies. She had been given her part to play; rejecting it was out of the question. Her ambition, now, was to make a success of it.

Benito was fussing with his egg white omelet. She knew he detested the bland food, but he was committed to it as part of his new fitness kick. Eventually, he gave up, leaving more than half of it on his plate. She had a feeling he would be stopping at Carlito’s bakery on his way into the city, and yet he continued to profess his amazement that his dedication to physical perfection was not paying off. He rose, fastening the buttons on his navy silk suit as he did so. She was conscious that he was dressed and groomed for the day and that she was sitting there in her expensive gown and wrap set. The elegant blush satin and lace were at odds with her messy ponytail. She saw him start to make a comment, and she watched as his expression revealed he’d thought better of it.

"I’ll see you later, cara." He bent to place a polite kiss on her cheek and smoothed his neatly gelled hair as he straightened as if the very act of moving might have mussed the style.

His freshly applied aftershave was pungent enough to make her gag. She raised her coffee again to chase away the stink and did not return his gesture of affection. Will you be back for dinner?

Most likely. Will you?

Yes. I’ve no intention of staying longer than I have to.

Benito checked his watch. You’ll need to start gettin’ ready soon.

I know.

The temperature in the room dropped to match the arctic furniture and Matylda had suddenly made herself scarce, but Alessia was not worried. Benito did not have time to indulge in one of their strained, painfully polite debates. Neither did she if the truth were told, but she was less inclined to be on time for her appointment.

She would have to have a shower soon. Her agenda for the day had been swallowed by a charity gala, one of the social functions that she found utterly tedious, but which were necessary to maintain the legitimate image of her family. On paper, her family was Benito’s family; she was a Dioli by marriage. In her heart and soul, she would always be a Tosetti, she would always be her grandfather’s ‘Principessa’. The façade she helped to create and uphold, that of moneyed benevolence, of businessmen giving back to their community, was a sham. Her families were Mafia; Italian clans that could trace their roots back to the old country and then some for several generations.

Her mother, Giosetta, an innocent bride imported from Sicily for Santo Tosetti’s oldest son, had often struggled with being married to Alessia’s father. She had been under his control and at his mercy and had hated every moment of being beholden to someone else. She, too, had endured a life of public principles, which were often polar opposites to her life in her own home and the activities of her husband and father-in-law. Sometimes, Alessia wondered if absolute misery hadn’t been the seed of the cancer that had finally freed her. As a child, Alessia had often sought solace from the unhappiness of her family home in the house of her grandparents and she had moved there following the death of her father. After a while, it was almost as though there was not a whole generation between them.

I gotta leave now. Don Tosetti does not tolerate late arrivals. That was how her husband referred to her grandfather, never by his given name, Santo, or even as ‘your papa’, he always used the formal title, as if they were related only by a business arrangement. In a way, Alessia supposed it was true enough.

Her husband had an appointment with her grandfather. Today he would attend one of the regular meetings of the Council, a coalition of many of the most powerful heads of New York’s underworld. Her grandfather had founded a criminal United Nations across the five boroughs of the city; it wasn’t perfect, but it had heralded decades of peace and prosperity for those that were a part of it.

To his credit, Benito waited only until he had achieved the safety of the escape of the doorway before he made his last remark, rather than texting her from the sanctuary of the car. Don’t make yourself late, it ain’t a good look for us.

Alessia considered hurling her mug at him, but it still contained precious caffeine. Besides, he was not wrong. She hated being tardy, she only disliked the way he phrased the reminder as an instruction as if he somehow had superiority over her. Instead of answering him, she sipped at her coffee and ignored him, giving her attention over to an errant squirrel hopping across the neatly clipped grass of their lawn.

Dismissed by her silence, Benito left. When she heard the front door to their home shut, Alessia let out a relieved breath that she only belatedly realized she had been holding.

~o0o~

The gala had been every bit as numbing, as sycophantic, and as utterly boring as Alessia had feared it would be, but thankfully it was now drawing to a close. Lunch had been served and eaten, although the series of dishes had sported morsels so small that she would have been reluctant to call them hors-d’oeuvres. The active auction had recently finished, and now it was time to peruse the items on offer in the silent auction... and to mingle. Alessia hated to mingle. She hated trivial conversation. She hated the vapid, pampered housewives that she was forced to associate with. One of the prima donnas had even brought the camera crew for their reality television show. Already there had been a carefully staged argument over a prize, a weekend in the Hamptons that no one really wanted because Florida was where it was at this year.

Alessia had made certain to stay away from the searching scope of the lens. The presence of the camera had certainly divided the crowd. The majority had enjoyed the attention, had played up every aspect of their personalities. The chatter had been louder and the gossip less secretive and more scandalous than Alessia could remember having heard before. Hands had waved across the room as if a fleet of cabs might drive through, just to show off jeweled bracelets and rings. But amongst the publicity-seeking peacocks, there were islands of stoic calm, the society matriarchs who had seen it all before, the old money, those - like Alessia - who were there to be seen, but who knew the value of their presence would not be counted in tabloid column inches.

It was easy to spot the women who wished to avoid being made a spectacle. Some of the old grande dames sat together, as they must have done since before their debutant balls. Others who had achieved that respected elegance by more nefarious means, rarely mixed. They were visible precisely because of their lack of movement. They did not toss their hair and throw back their heads while laughing too loudly. They did not gesticulate as if auditioning for a home shopping channel. They were occupied only with their purpose for being there, not the actual work of the charity auction, but the serious business of sipping wine and being seen to be doing the right thing by the right people. As she scanned the room - with half her mind on how she could make