Heavy Crown: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 6)
Heavy Crown: Chapter 5

I think Aida dragged me along to the charity auction because she’s under the impression that I’m depressed. Her efforts to engage me in social and family events have been ramping up by the week, including several unsolicited blind dates. I didn’t agree to take any of the girls out. I told Aida I was enjoying being single.

I only went to the auction because Cal, Aida, and I had some business to discuss. Specifically, Cal’s upcoming mayoral campaign. The Griffins intend to go 100 percent legitimate. That means divesting themselves of any remaining illegal business operations and making sure that any bodies they’ve buried stay buried. And that’s not a euphemism—the most recent body was Cal’s own uncle, Oran Griffin, who currently lies beneath the foundation of one of the South Shore office towers.

While the Gallo family is turning our attention to large-scale real estate, I don’t think we’re ready to wash our hands clean just yet. The Griffins exiting the mafia sphere leaves a huge power vacuum. Somebody needs to fill it. The question is, who?

I suppose Mikolaj Wilk and the Polish Mafia will step up. We’re on reasonably good terms with Mikolaj, but I can’t say we’re best friends. There’s a certain uneasiness that occurs when someone kidnaps the youngest daughter of your ally, and then frames your brother for murder.

Mikolaj did marry the captive Nessa Griffin, and Riona Griffin sprang Dante out of jail. But let’s just say Mikolaj and I aren’t exactly exchanging Christmas cards.

It’s a prickly situation, especially with the Russians beaten back but not subdued. Whenever you shift the pillars of a power structure, there’s a chance the whole thing could come crashing down.

Maybe that’s why Papa has been so paranoid lately. He can feel the uncertainty in the air.

With all that in mind, I agreed to come to the charity event, even though I hate these things. I hate the glad-handing and the phoniness. It disturbs me to see how good Aida’s gotten at it. It used to be that you couldn’t take her anywhere without her stealing something or offending somebody—usually multiple somebodies. Now she’s all dolled up in a gown and heels, remembering everybody’s name, charming the pants off the hoity-toity society types.

Callum is the same, but even more so. He’s the Alderman of the 43rd ward, which is the most wealthy and influential district, incorporating Lincoln Park, Old Town, and the Gold Coast. I can see that he’s known to almost everyone in the room. There’s hardly a person here not eager to bend his ear on some personal objective.

Meanwhile, I’m bored out of my skin. I steal a couple of canapés off passing waiters’ trays, then I take a look at the long list of silent auction items on offer, including a football signed by the entire Bear’s offensive line.

There’s some pretty cool shit to be sold. But honestly . . . I can’t seem to rouse up interest in any of it. I just don’t care. The last two years have been a dark and blank expanse of time, punctuated by only a few jolts of excitement. I haven’t felt truly interested in something for a long fucking time . . .

Other than last week.

Yelena interested me.

There was an energy between us that actually made me feel something, ever so briefly.

After all this time, when I finally see something worth chasing . . . I’m supposed to ignore her. I’m supposed to let her go. Because of my family.

My goddamned family.

Somehow they always manage to take away the only things I care about.

I look over at Aida, who’s talking to some short, balding man with a hideous purple bow tie. He’s laughing at something she said, his head thrown back and all his crooked, crowded teeth on display. Aida has that look I know so well, that sly grin that shows she’s thinking of something even more outrageous, and trying to keep herself from saying it out loud. That’s a battle she used to lose every time, but she’s finally learned a little self-restraint.

My sister is lovely. Dark, curly hair, bright gray eyes that look like a coin flashing in cloudy water, a perpetual expression of mischievousness that makes you equal parts curious and anxious whenever you look at her.

How can you love someone so much, and also resent them?

That’s how I feel about all my family these days.

I fucking love them, down to my bones.

But I don’t like where I am because of them.

I know it’s partly my fault. I’m drifting without purpose. But whenever they pull me in some new direction, I never like where I end up.

Like this fucking auction.

I sigh, and head back to our assigned table, over at the edge of the stage. I don’t know what sort of performance they have planned for tonight. Probably something tedious like a classical quartet, or worse, a cover band. If it sucks, I’m leaving. Actually, I’ll probably leave either way.

As I’m sitting, a blonde waitress comes by with a tray of champagne.

“Drink?” she offers.

“You have any real liquor?” I ask her.

“No, sorry,” she says with a pretty little pout. “We only have prosecco and champagne.”

“I’ll take two prosecco.”

She passes me the flutes, saying with a pretend air of casualness, “Is one of those for your date?”

“No,” I say shortly. I plan to slug them both down to take the edge off my boredom.

“Bachelor?” the waitress says. “You’ll probably need one of these, then.” She passes me a cream-colored paddle with a number on it.

“What’s this for?”

“The date auction, of course!”

Jesus Christ. I can hardly keep my eyes from rolling out of my skull. “I don’t think I’m going to need that.”

“Why?” she says, with a coy little smile. “See something else you like?”

Under other circumstances, I might take her up on the hints she’s laying down so thickly. Unfortunately, the fact that she’s tall and fair-haired just reminds me of Yelena, who shares the same features but with ten times the intensity. This girl is like a daisy in a field, while Yelena is a ghost orchid: exotic, rare, and impossible to reach.

“No,” I tell her. “There’s nothing here for me.”

The girl leaves, and Aida and Callum immediately take her place.

“This is a date auction?” I say to Aida.

“Yeah!” she says. “It’s your birthday present. I’m gonna buy you a wife.”

“I thought the best wives were free,” I say. “And forced on you against your will.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Callum says, swinging his arm around Aida’s shoulders.

Aida and Callum had what could essentially be termed an arranged marriage, but it seems to have worked out for them surprisingly well. We were all just hoping they’d make it through the first year without murdering each other.

“You used to be such a romantic, Seb,” Aida says.

“Oh yeah? When was that?”

“Remember when you had that picture of Margot Robbie in your locker at school?”

I flush, wondering how in the fuck Aida even knows that. And how does she always manage to bring up the one thing you tried to scrub out of your own memory?

“I don’t think that was me,” I mumble.

“You don’t remember watching Wolf of Wall Street like eight hundred times and fast-forwarding to that one part where she’s standing naked in the doorway so you could jer—”

“If you finish that sentence, I will strangle you,” I hiss at Aida.

“Cal, you wouldn’t let him strangle me, would you?” Aida says to her husband.

“Not to death,” he replies.

“Thank you, love,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “I knew I could count on you.”

Before Aida can resume her friendly harassment, an overly-tanned MC comes marching out on the stage to start the evening’s cattle auction. I have zero interest in the proceedings, especially once he starts listing off the women’s accomplishments like they’re Midwest geishas.

It doesn’t help that half the men in the room are hooting and hollering or leaning forward on the tables to leer at the girls. The whole thing feels icky. I’m embarrassed to be here.

The idea of paying for a date is ridiculous, especially at these astronomical prices. Five grand to take out some high-society hussy? No thank you. And that’s before you include the price of whatever fancy dinner you have to feed her.

I’m bored out of my mind.

“How many of these do we have to sit through?” I whisper to Aida.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “How many pretty girls can there be in this city? We can leave right after.”

I’d leave now, but Aida, Cal, and I all drove together, and the lights have been dimmed to the point that I probably couldn’t weave my way through the tables without tripping and landing in somebody’s lap.

Besides, it is mildly amusing to see these horn-dog men practically coming to blows over some of the girls. There’s a couple of brothers bidding for the same chick. When the older one wins, the younger brother looks ready to pluck up a rock and reenact the fourth chapter of Genesis right here and now.

By the time we get to the tenth or eleventh girl, I’m starting to yawn. I stayed up too late last night. Too late every night this week, actually. The champagne is getting to me.

That is, until I hear the name “Yelena Yenina.”

My head jerks up. I watch my Valkyrie stride across the stage.

Fucking hell. I already forgot how gorgeous she is. She’s wearing a red dress that clings to her every curve. From this angle her legs look about ten miles long. She’s so stunning that an actual hush falls over the crowd. All the girls were pretty, but Yelena isn’t pretty. She’s a fucking enchantress.

I can’t believe she’s here. That’s twice in just over a week. If I believed in signs, I’d think this was an obvious miracle.

I’m staring at her with my mouth hanging open when she turns and looks right at me. She goes still, an electric jolt passing between us.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by my sister, of course. Nothing does.

Aida leans over to whisper, “Do you know her?”

I give a quick shake of my head. “No,” I lie.

“It looks like you know her,” Aida mutters.

The bidding already started.

Every man present wants her. The price is increasing by the second. I look around at the men bidding, wanting to rip the head off every last one of them. How dare those fucking sleazeballs try and buy a night with her, like they have a chance with a goddess like that?

I don’t like the look of any of them. Actually, I fucking hate them. Especially Carl Englewood. He’s an arrogant shithead my brothers butted heads with a few years back when he tried to block our permits for the Oak Street Tower. He’s a real-estate developer, and just as cutthroat as any mafioso. Plus he collects cars, watches, and women like playing cards. I bet he’d fucking love to get his hands on Yelena.

Why is she even up there? I glance around the tables, searching for her father.

I know what Alexei Yenin looks like. I haven’t actually met him, but Nero showed me a grainy photograph when he first replaced Kristoff as the head of the Chicago Bratva. It was an old photo from his days in the KGB—when he was young and slim, with a carefully-trimmed mustache.

I spot him on the opposite side of the room. He looks much the same as the photograph, only dressed in a tux instead of a military uniform—a little thicker in the chest and shoulders, with a full beard now. He’s smirking up at Yelena, pleased that she’s stirring up this kind of interest.

I hate him, too. I don’t know what his purpose is in putting his daughter up for sale, but I don’t like it.

I watch the bidding war bounce back and forth between a man who’s way too old to even consider putting his wrinkly hands on Yelena, a cocky frat-boy type who’s practically drooling on the table, and that covetous fuck Englewood.

I don’t want any of them to take her out.

If anyone’s going to take her on a date, it should be me.

Without thinking, without even considering what I’m about to say, I snatch up my paddle and shout, “Twenty thousand!”

Callum looks at me like I’ve just grown a second head. Aida is equally shocked, then gleeful.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she chortles.

The frat boy can’t keep pace with that—he has to drop out. But Englewood fixes me with a stubborn glare. We’ve had words before. Now he’s thrilled to have a chance to stick it to me in a public setting where I can’t knock his fucking teeth in afterward.

The bidding goes back and forth between us, jumping from twenty to twenty-six thousand.

Englewood looks pissed, partly because I’m sure he thought he was taking Yelena home for a certainty, and also because I’ve aroused his competitive fire. His pride is on the line, and he doesn’t want to back down.

I guess you could say the same about me. But I don’t give a fuck what these other people think. I’m bidding for one reason only: because I want to see Yelena again. If her father agreed to put her up on stage for this date auction, he’s obviously alright with somebody winning a night with her. Why shouldn’t it be me?

This could be my one and only chance to take her out with his blessing. My chance to see her without sparking a war between our families.

“Thirty-thousand,” Englewood says, throwing me a triumphant look, like there’s no way I’m gonna top that.

It’s a ludicrous amount to pay for a date.

I don’t care. How the fuck else should I spend my money?

I look up at Yelena. I’m trying to read her face. Does she want me to keep going? Does she want to see me again?

It’s so hard to read her. I don’t expect her to do anything as commonplace as actually smile at me. She’s Russian—they don’t do “friendly.”

But I look at those brilliant violet-colored eyes, big and wide and shining like stars, and I’m almost certain that she wants this, too.

“Fifty thousand,” I say.

That’s it for Englewood. With a sneer of frustration, he tosses down his paddle.

Yelena is mine. If only for a night.

I feel a swoop of elation stronger than anything I’ve felt in months. Finally, a win.

“You’re out of your mind,” Callum chuckles.

“If you’re going to blow all your money on a girl, at least you picked the hottest one.” Aida grins. “Oh my god, think how tall your kids would be . . . you could make an entire NBA team!”

She winces as Callum steps on her foot under the table.

“Ow! Why did you—oh, sorry, Seb. Didn’t mean to bring up . . . you know.”

“You can talk about basketball. It’s not Voldemort.”

“I know,” she says. “Just trying to be sensitive.”

“Well, don’t,” I say. “It’s weird, and you suck at it.”

I’m giving Aida a hard time, but I really don’t care. For once, the mention of my former dream hardly stings at all. I’m too distracted with thoughts of what I should do with Yelena, on the world’s most expensive date. Now that I’ve already spent 50K, I might as well go all-out.

“You paid fifty thousand dollars. You can make her do anything you want . . .” Aida says in an awed tone. “You could make her play Call of Duty with you. Or listen to John Mayer. Or go to that shitty diner on Broadway that you love so much . . .”

“Don’t take suggestions from Aida,” Cal tells me. “She thinks raiding the Wrigleyville merch shop is the ultimate date.”

“Uh, it is,” Aida says with absolute conviction. “I got us matching Cubbies pajamas. And fuzzy slippers! You love those slippers, don’t try to act cool in front of Seb.”

“They’re so soft,” Cal admits.

I shake my head at the pair of them, my chest feeling strangely light.

I think my luck is finally changing.

I didn’t get a chance to speak to Yelena in person after the auction—she went over to her father’s table on the opposite side of the room, and they left almost immediately.

I’m hoping that wasn’t an indication that Alexei was pissed that I bought the date with his daughter. After all, he allowed her to participate, knowing the outcome was up in the air.

My hefty donation to the charity almost clears out my checking account, but it doesn’t matter—I’ve got a fuck of a lot more cash stashed elsewhere. Each of us Gallo siblings takes a yearly “allowance” from the family funds, and we can get more if we need it. I’ve been living cheap, sharing that apartment with Jace. Fifty thousand isn’t exactly pocket change, but I’m happy to pay it.

In return, the event organizers provide me with Yelena’s contact information to set up the date. Of course I already have that—it’s the permission to call that I was lacking. I text her immediately, saying:

I hope you don’t mind that I stole that bid.

After a few minutes, she responds:

That was the point of the auction.

I type:

Is your father alright with me taking you out?

She responds:

Do you need his permission?

I can picture her expression of disdain. I don’t know if she’s annoyed because she’s being treated like chattel, or because she prefers a bad boy to a rule-follower. But of course, her father isn’t your average over-protective parent. There’s a lot more at stake here.

I’m just gauging the chances that I’ll be shot walking up to your front door.

A moment’s pause, then she replies:

No Kevlar required. But I hope you’d come either way.

I grin.

Absolutely I would.

We set our date for the following Saturday. All week long, I’m walking on air. I haven’t looked forward to anything in a very long time.

I’m lucky that Dante’s in Paris. If he were here, he’d definitely try to put a stop to it. I can imagine his gravelly voice and his thousand-yard stare:

“You think that’s smart, Seb? Taking out the only daughter of the Bratva boss? You know they’ll feed you to their fuckin’ dogs if you put a hand on her.”

Dante would try to get me to cancel. But he’s not here, and Nero would be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he tried to lecture me on inappropriate romantic entanglements. Before he met Camille, the main thing that attracted him to a woman was if she was off-limits, and likely to get him in a whole lot of trouble.

Aida can’t take the moral high ground, either. I’ve had to bail her out of countless scrapes. She doesn’t seem inclined to try to dissuade me—probably because she saw Yelena with her own eyes, so she knows how pointless it would be. All Cal says, bidding me goodnight when I drop them off at their apartment, is, “Good luck.”

It seems to take forever for Saturday to roll around. I try to distract myself with more work, more exercise, and plans to make this a date that Yelena won’t soon forget.

I pick her up at her father’s mansion on Astor Street. It’s at the very end of a shady, tree-lined lane, set back on a sprawling property surrounded by high stone walls.

The gate stands open like they’re expecting me. I take my truck down the long driveway, which leads directly up to the forbidding stone facade.

The house looks a bit like a castle, with several levels of walls and towers, and tall, narrow windows topped by gothic arches. But it’s not particularly beautiful. It’s heavy and hulking, with security cameras perched at every vantage point. The manicured hedges likewise have an oppressive look—too orderly and uniform, and not actually providing any privacy on the grounds.

I feel almost certain that Alexei Yenin will be there. As I park my truck and walk up to the front doors, I steel myself to meet him face-to-face. Instead, one of his soldiers opens the door—a brutal-looking man with a Cro-Magnon brow, squinting eyes, and a close-cropped beard. He’s a big boy. Not quite as big as Dante, but pretty damn close.

“Dobryy den,’ ” I say politely, in Russian. That’s one of only four phrases I know.

The guard looks me up and down silently. I almost expect him to search me for weapons. Instead he opens the door a little wider and steps aside, so I can enter the house.

Now Alexei comes striding forward, dressed in a cashmere sweater and slacks, with velvet slippers on his feet.

“Sebastian Gallo,” he says in his booming voice.

He holds out his hand to shake. His hand is large and stiff, the fingers swollen so that the gold ring on his right hand cuts into the flesh.

I feel a kind of atavistic hesitation to touch him, but of course you have to quash those impulses when dealing with gangsters. You have to shake their hand, clap them on the shoulder, and sit down with them to eat, even when every instinct in your body screams for you to get away from such a clearly dangerous person.

Alexei’s features are broad and rough, without any of the striking beauty his daughter possesses. But he does resemble her in one way: with his lank gray hair down around his shoulders, he has that same look of a barbarian—wild and foreign.

A second man comes to join us. He’s much younger, probably twenty-five, the same age as me. He looks exactly like Yelena. So much like her that it startles me. He’s white-blond, with the same violet-colored eyes, and the same sharp, exotic features. He’s wearing a sober dark suit with a high collar like a cleric. But his expression is anything but sober—he grins and holds out his hand to shake.

“Adrian,” he says. “I’m Yelena’s brother.”

“Priyatnoh poznahkohmeetzah,” I say, exhausting another twenty-five percent of my repertoire.

“Ho! Very good,” Adrian says, nodding his head with approval. “You’ve done your homework, my friend.”

Like Yelena, Adrian has a Russian accent, but his English is flawless.

I can feel Alexei watching our interaction. His expression is much harder to read than his son’s. He doesn’t seem displeased, but he doesn’t seem friendly either.

“Let me clear the air,” I say at once. “There’s been some conflict between my family and the Bratva. I hope we can put all that behind us. Now that you’re at the head of the Chicago chapter, I hope we can coexist peacefully. Perhaps even profitably.”

“Do you speak for your family?” Alexei asks, narrowing his pale blue eyes at me.

I hesitate a moment. That’s the crucial question these days. But if not me, then who? My father won’t be meeting with the Bratva any time soon, and neither will Dante.

“I speak for the Gallos,” I say. “Not the Griffins. But I believe they would say the same. Peace benefits us all.”

“Does it benefit us all equally, I wonder?” Alexei asks in his low voice.

“Come on, father,” Adrian says. “Sebastian isn’t here for business. He’s here to get what he paid for.”

Adrian’s tone is light. Still, I want to clarify that point as well.

“I bid on a date with Yelena,” I say. “Only a date. I intend to treat her with respect.”

“Of course,” Alexei says. “I know the honor of Italians.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

I feel tense and uneasy, as if I have to track Alexei’s every movement. It reminds me of guarding an opponent on the court—you have to be their shadow, moving and shifting in tandem with them, watching for the moment when they’ll try to trick you into stumbling in the wrong direction, or when they’ll drive hard to push past you.

I don’t know exactly what Alexei intends. But I do feel that we’re opponents.

“Rodion!” Alexei calls sharply, summoning the soldier who opened the door for me. “Get Yelena.”

Yelena comes down the stairs so quickly that I think she must have been waiting at the top. She’s dressed in high-waisted shorts and a pretty floral top that ties in the front. I want to compliment her, but I feel awkward with her father and brother standing by.

“Let’s go,” she says, without quite looking at me.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to Adrian and Alexei again, this time in English.

Yelena follows me out to my car. She seems surprised to see that I drive a beat-up F150.

“What’s this?” she says.

“A truck,” I reply, opening her door for her. My truck is lifted, so I give her my hand to help her step up inside, though that’s not as necessary for Yelena as for more petite girls.

“I thought mafiosos drove BMWs and Cadillacs,” she says.

“I don’t fit in a sedan very well,” I say, going around to the driver’s side. “And honestly, neither would you.”

The corner of her full lips pulls up just a little.

“This truck looks old,” she says.

“It is old.”

“You don’t like to draw attention?”

“Depends what for.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

I start the engine, saying, “For example . . . I wouldn’t mind every man I met staring at the girl on my arm.”

Her smile widens just a little, showing a dimple on the right side of her lips.

“You wouldn’t be jealous? Most men hate anyone looking at their woman.”

“With a girl as gorgeous as you, I could hardly blame them.”

Yelena examines me, her lips pursed.

“You’re very free with compliments.”

“Compliments by nature are free.”

“A Russian man would point out my flaws to keep me humble.”

“I’m not sure how he’d manage that.”

“Keeping me humble?”

“No,” I say. “Finding a flaw on you.”

Now Yelena scoffs and shakes her head. “I don’t trust your flattery.”

I shrug. “I’m just being honest. That’s what I liked about you, as soon as we met. You said what you thought. No bullshit.”

A shadow falls over her eyes, turning them from violet to navy. “If only that were true,” she says.

I think she’s talking about her father, who’s falling away behind us as we drive, but not fast enough.

“I guess you can’t always say what you think in that house,” I say.

“Not if you want to keep all your fingernails,” Yelena says.

I glance over at her, wondering if she’s joking. He wouldn’t actually hurt her, would he? She’s his only daughter . . .

“What about your brother?” I ask.

The tension fades from her face as we switch to this topic instead. Yelena smiles fully for the first time, showing the lovely white teeth between those soft lips. “Adrian is my best friend,” she says simply. “We’re twins.”

I don’t know any other twins. A dozen questions spring to my mind, most of them stupid, and things that Yelena’s probably been asked a hundred times before.

I settle for asking, “Is that different from normal siblings? I know everyone thinks it is, but I’m assuming you can’t actually read each other’s minds . . .”

Yelena laughs softly. “Well, I don’t know for sure, because I don’t have any other siblings. But yes, I think it’s different. We understand each other. I do know what he’s thinking or feeling. Not because I can read his mind—only because he’s so familiar to me.”

I can understand that. I know Dante, Nero, and Aida pretty damn well. But my bond is split between four siblings. Yelena’s is focused on one person.

“What about your mother?” I ask.

“She’s dead,” Yelena says, in a tone that forbids further inquiry.

“So is mine.”

“She is?” She turns to face me, her voice softening.

“Yeah. She died when I was eight. She was a concert pianist. You play piano, don’t you?”

I’m remembering Yelena’s bio from the date auction.

“Yes,” Yelena says quietly, twisting her hands in her lap. Her fingers are long and slim and beautifully-shaped. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s a musician. “I’m sure I’m not as good as your mother was. I never played professionally.”

“Did you want to?”

She presses her lips together, still looking down at her hands.

“Maybe,” she says.

“I’d like to hear you play.”

She clenches her hands into fists and shakes her head. “I haven’t practiced in a long time,” she says.

I’m driving us over to Grand Avenue, where a street fair is in full swing. It’s the Summer Food Festival, held every year during the first week of June. Long before we arrive, we can smell the tantalizing scents of sizzling meat and fresh-baked pastry, and hear the cacophony of music, laughter, and the patter of street performers.

Yelena perks up at the sight of all the color and bustle. “Is it a holiday today?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “There’s all kinds of street fairs in the summer. This one’s my favorite.”

I have to park the car a few blocks away, since the street is roped off. Yelena doesn’t seem to mind the walk—she hurries along, eager to immerse herself in the throng of people.

Buskers are performing on both sides of the street—magic tricks, acrobatics, sword-swallowing, and slapstick comedy shows. Yelena seems particularly intrigued by two girls who are bending and balancing themselves in intricate positions, stacked on top of each other.

“They’re strong,” she says approvingly.

“You think you could do that?” I ask her.

She considers. “Not without a lot of practice.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask her.

“Yes.” She nods.

If she wasn’t before, she would be as soon as she smelled the enticing aroma of the food trucks lined up almost a mile down Grand Ave. I try to explain the various offerings she hasn’t seen before, including funnel cakes, Navajo tacos, lobster rolls, street corn, pulled-pork sandwiches, wine slushies, and Whoopie pies.

In the end, I buy a dozen different things for us to sample, even though Yelena wrinkles her nose at a few of them.

“Come on,” I tease her. “I know you’ve eaten weirder things than this in Russia.”

“What do you mean?” she demands. “Our food is perfectly normal. Not all fried and skewered on a stick!”

“If you can eat fish eggs and herring, you’re going to like deep-fried cheesecake a fuck of a lot better,” I tell her.

“I don’t like herring,” Yelena admits.

She takes at least one bite of everything, even the bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers, which she had eyed with particular suspicion.

She likes the street corn, but not the brisket nachos, which she deems “messy” and “greasy.” The desserts are almost universally pleasing, particularly the browned-butter banana and Nutella croissant, which she polishes off in three bites.

“This is very good,” she says. “This you could sell in Moscow.”

“I think Catherine the Great would have appointed me heir to the throne if I made that for her,” I say.

Yelena snorts, licking chocolate from her thumb. “She would at least give you a dacha in Zavidovo.”

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds nice.”

As we explore the little booths full of jewelry and dried herbs, hand-made soap and fresh honey, Yelena explains to me the system of Russian summer houses, originally given by the tsar to his nobles, then seized during the Russian Revolution, and now resurfacing in the form of modern mansions built in the countryside by wealthy oligarchs.

“We have those here, too,” I tell her. “We call them ‘cabins’ even when they’re massive. And even when it’s nothing like camping.”

“I don’t understand camping,” Yelena says. “Sleeping in bugs and dirt.”

“Under the stars,” I say. “In the fresh air.”

“With bears.”

“I don’t know why I’m defending it,” I laugh. “I’ve never been camping in my life.”

Yelena and I are smiling at each other, enlivened by all the people around us, the chaos of sights and sounds. Even with all that as a backdrop, I only want to look at her face. The more people surrounding us, the more she stands out as the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Every head turns to look at her—none more than mine.

I like arguing with her about camping. I like talking to her about anything. I ask her favorite books and music, her favorite movies. She tells me that she learned to speak English by watching American movies with her mother.

“She loved movies, any movie. She was obsessed with Yul Brynner. He was Russian too, you know. Born in Vladivostok. She used to say they were practically neighbors.” She pauses, seeing that I don’t understand the joke. “Vladivostok is a port city close to Japan. It’s the opposite corner of Russia from Moscow,” she explains. “Nine thousand kilometers apart.”

I’m wondering how to hide the fact that I might not even be able to point out Moscow on a map—not unless it was labeled.

Luckily, Yelena doesn’t quiz me. She continues, “We watched all Brynner’s movies. I could probably quote The King and I from heart. She used to tell me how he came to New York, how he modeled nude to make money, and then started acting . . .”

A muscle jumps in her jaw as she adds, “My mother was a model, too . . .”

“I could have guessed that,” I say. “I didn’t think you got your looks from your father.”

Yelena gives a short laugh, but her face isn’t happy.

“Maybe she had a similar dream,” she says. “She never said it exactly, but the way she talked about Brynner . . . maybe she dreamed of running away and coming here, too . . .”

She trails off.

“You came here,” I say to Yelena. “Not to New York, but Chicago’s pretty damn close.”

Yelena nods slowly. “Yes,” she says. “She might have liked that.”

The whole afternoon has gone by while we’ve been walking around the fair. We’ve come to the end of it, and we’re a long way away from the truck.

“Do you want to take a cab back to the car?” I ask Yelena.

“No . . .” she says, looking ahead of us along the lakeshore. “What’s that up there?”

She’s pointing to the Centennial Wheel at the end of Navy Pier.

“Do you want to ride it?” I ask her.

With a slight look of nervousness, she says, “Yes.”

“Are your feet sore yet?” I look down at her sandals.

“No,” she says, shaking her head.

We walk down the length of Navy Pier, through the park and the shops, stopping only to buy our tickets. I can see Yelena looking more and more apprehensive the closer we get, as the massive wheel towers overhead. It’s not until we’re climbing into the car that she admits, “I’m a bit afraid of heights.”

“Why do you want to ride it, then?” I ask her.

“Because it looks beautiful!” she says fiercely.

As our car begins to rise up in the air, her face turns paler than ever. But she peers out the window at the view across the lake, encircled along the western rim by high rises.

The car rocks a little as the wheel stops and starts, letting more people climb on below us. Yelena jumps, grabbing my thigh. Her fingernails dig into my flesh even through my jeans, but I don’t mind. I put my hand on top of hers and massage gently until she relaxes.

To distract her, I say, “You know the first Ferris Wheel in the world was built here in Chicago.”

“It was?” she says.

“Yeah, for the World Exposition in . . . I’m gonna say . . . 1893? They were trying to show up the Eiffel Tower.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow. “The Eiffel Tower is hard to beat.”

“Yeah.” I grin. “But it doesn’t move.”

We’re almost at the very peak of the wheel now. The motion stops once more, and we look out over the water. The sun is sinking down. The whole sky is turning orange, the clouds gray as smoke and the sun like a burning brand above the water. The waves lapping the shore are deep indigo, tipped with peaks of white. It looks so unearthly that we’re both silent, just staring through the glass.

“Look,” Yelena says, pointing. “A star.”

The star is faint, just glimmering into being in the darkest strip of sky.

I turn to look at Yelena. The sunset glow is burning on her skin, painting it gold. Her eyes look lighter than usual—pale as lavender and gleaming beneath her dark lashes. Her lips are parted.

I lean over and kiss her. Right as our lips meet, the wheel swings into motion and we plunge down, down the other side of the circle. The motion is slow, but my heart rises up in my throat, and I grab her face between both of my hands, to keep our mouths pressed tight together.

Yelena does the same, her long, slim fingers twined in my hair. She kisses me deeply, her lips tasting of powdered sugar and a hint of chocolate.

The kiss goes on and on. I pull her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. The motion makes our little car rock back and forth, but Yelena doesn’t seem to mind. My arms are wrapped tightly around her, and hers around me, which makes it seem like nothing could harm us, even if we tumbled down a hundred feet.

I’ve never been so consumed by a kiss. The whole world has disappeared around us. There’s nothing but this car full of sunset light and our two bodies wrapped together.

Then the car jolts to a stop, and the attendant pulls the door open.

Yelena and I break apart, surprised. The ride is over. We missed the whole thing, lost in that kiss.

As we climb out of the Ferris Wheel, I say, “Sorry about that—I didn’t mean to distract you the whole time.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Yelena was blushing.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “Actually . . . it was perfect.”

Maybe I should wait to ask her this later, via text, so I don’t put her on the spot. But I can’t help myself.

I say, “Will you go out with me again? For free this time?”

I say it lightly, like I’m joking. But my heart is hammering against my ribs.

Yelena is quiet. I can tell she’s running through something in her mind. I hope she’s wondering how her father will react to that, and not trying to decide if she likes me or not.

At last she says, in her low, sober voice, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sebastian.”

“I know it isn’t. Do you want to, though?” I ask her.

She looks up at me, those beautiful eyes still illuminated in the fading light. “Yes,” she says, just as fiercely as she told me that she wanted to ride the Ferris Wheel. “I do want to.”

“Don’t worry about your father, then,” I say. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”