“My father is a powerful man,” she says. “He has a lot of enemies. I suppose this one here thought it would be easier to attack me instead.”

“Who’s your father?” I ask her.

“Alexei Yenin,” she says, not expecting me to recognize the name.

I do, though. He’s the head of the Bratva in Chicago. Or, I should say, he’s the new boss — after the Griffins killed the old one.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Yelena Yenina,” she says, with a proud upward tilt of her chin.

“Sebastian Gallo,” I tell her. I don’t see any flicker of recognition in her eyes. She doesn’t seem familiar with my family.

Instead, she looks me up and down again with a mistrustful look on her face.

“Why are you so huge?” she demands, as if it’s suspicious to be this tall.

“Genetics,” I say, blandly.

“No,” she shakes her head. “You know how to fight. What do you do?”

“As a job?”

“Yes, of course as a job,” she snaps.

It amuses me that this girl barely seems grateful that I helped saved her. Instead she’s haughty and imperious.

I don’t know how to answer her question, however.

I’ve been doing a lot of jobs, lately. All family business. Running our underground gambling ring, handling the various issues that arise at our restaurants and clubs. Doing some work on the South Shore project too, though Nero has mostly taken that over.

“My family owns a few businesses,” I say, vaguely. “Restaurants and whatnot.”

“Hm,” the girl says, still suspicious.

“Where are you going?” I ask her. “You want me to walk with you?”

“Why not,” she says, as if she’s doing me a favor. “It isn’t far.”

“Just a second,” I say.

I grab her assailant by the front of his shirt and heave him up, his head flopping limply. I toss him in the trunk of his own car and slam the lid.

“He can enjoy kicking his way out of there when he wakes up,” I say.

The girl gives a short laugh.

“Well, well,” she says. “Here I thought you were a good boy with that face.”

“This face?” I grin.

“Yes. Smooth cheeks. Big eyes. Soft curls. Like a little baby,” she says.

I can tell she’s trying to wind me up, but I don’t give a fuck.

“I think you look like a Viking,” I tell her.

She doesn’t want to smile, but I think she likes that.

I notice that her eyes are an unusual shade of blue — more like violet. Very striking against her fair hair and pale skin. I’ve never met a woman like this. She’s not like anybody I’ve seen around here.

“So where are we going?”

“What’s this we?” she says.

“Is it a party?” I persist. “I like parties.”

“You weren’t invited,” she says, a hint of a smile playing on her full lips.

“I bet you could get me in.”

“Maybe,” she says, arching one perfectly formed eyebrow. “If you were my date.”