The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

”Because let me be clear about something, Elena.” He stood. Unhurried. ”You marrying my dead father does not make you my mother.” His eyes moved to Marcel.

”And it does not make him a Kessler. He is a stray dog my father was generous enough to feed. That generosity ended with my father.” He looked back at Elena. ”Know your place.”

Elena’s smile stayed exactly where it was. The smile of a woman filing something away.

”Of course, Viktor.” Soft. Yielding. The performance of a woman is retreating.

”I only want what’s best for you. I simply worry she’s not one of us. Our world, these people at the gala... they will eat her alive. She’s not built for..”

”My dear stepmother.” Viktor picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ”Let them try.” He moved toward the door.

”She will be at the gala. On my arm. As Mrs. Kessler.” He paused. ”They will accept her. Or they deal with me.” He stopped at the door and then turned.

Looked at Marcel with the specific, direct quality of attention that made men remember things permanently.

”And you.” His voice dropped to something quiet and final. ”Stay away from the main mansion. If I find you anywhere near it...” a pause, the pause of a man selecting his words with surgical precision,

”I will remove something you will very much miss.” He held Marcel’s gaze for exactly long enough. ”We understand each other.”

He walked out. The door had barely closed before Elena’s glass hit the wall.

Whiskey ran down the expensive wallpaper in a slow, amber trail.

”I leave for one week.” Her voice was low and controlled and absolutely furious, which was far more dangerous than loud.

”One week. And some nobody from a library is about to walk into this family and take everything I have spent years...”

”Well.” Marcel was already moving toward the door with the cheerful energy of someone exiting a situation before it fully ignited. He pulled on his jacket. Ran a hand through his long hair.

”That went as expected.” He glanced back at his mother. ”Your plan, as always, mother, is magnificently constructed. Flawlessly executed.”

”Marcel ...”

”I’m going to find something more entertaining to do.” He paused at the door. The smirk that settled on his face was the smirk of a man who had just been told to stay away from something and had immediately begun thinking about it.

”I haven’t seen her yet, this librarian wife. But I’ve heard things.” He tilted his head. ”Quite the beauty, apparently.”

”Marcel, don’t you dare...”

”A little pressure,” he said lightly, already stepping into the corridor, ”a little fear and she’ll be begging to leave on her own. Isn’t that what you said?” He smiled.

”Relax, mother. We have a gala tomorrow.”

The door closed behind him. Elena stood alone in the office with the whiskey running down the wall and the photograph of Aliya Capri still sitting on the desk where Viktor hadn’t looked at it once.

She looked at it now. Then she looked at the door. A librarian, she thought. A girl who knows nothing about this world, this family, this war. Her jaw set.

She will learn, Elena decided, already moving, already planning, already three steps into something she hadn’t finished building yet. One way or another.

She will learn exactly what kind of world she has married into.

Morning arrived with the harshness of a busy schedule. Sienna stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, and had feelings. The dress was fine. Objectively, technically, by any measurable standard of fabric and construction, and the general science of clothing, fine. Gold. Floor length.

The kind of thing that made you look like you’d been poured into it by someone who knew exactly what they were doing and had done it deliberately. She hated it.

She hated it because it was beautiful and it fit perfectly and she hadn’t chosen that either and she looked like someone who belonged in Viktor Kessler’s world, which was the single most alarming thing that had happened to her all week, and a great deal had happened to her all week.

I need to find a way to make this work for running, she thought, gathering the skirt experimentally. If I hold it here... no. If I tuck it... no. If I..

Knock. She turned.

The maid. The same one. The one whose name Sienna had never asked because asking would have implied a level of settled-in permanence she refused to commit to.

She was standing in the doorway with the expression she always wore, which was the expression of someone who had been mildly inconvenienced by Sienna’s existence since the beginning and had made peace with resenting it indefinitely.

”You might want to hurry.” She examined her nails briefly. ”Mrs. Kessler is waiting for you downstairs.”

Sienna turned back to the mirror. Turned back around. ”I’m sorry... what?” Mrs. Kessler is waiting.

The words rearranged themselves in her head several times and kept producing the same result. Mrs. Kessler. Another one. There is another Mrs. Kessler.

Oh, thought Sienna, with the slow, dawning horror of someone watching a wave approach from very far away. Oh no. Oh, absolutely not. What has he... is he.. was he already..

Her brain performed several rapid calculations, all of which ended badly. Dear God, Sienna, she thought. What exactly have you gotten yourself into?

She felt the specific prickling behind her eyes that meant tears were considering making an appearance, which she shut down immediately and firmly because she was not going to cry in front of the maid with no name, she refused, she would rather walk into the ocean.

”There’s a Mrs. Kessler.” She said it carefully. Like the words might behave differently if handled gently. ”In this house. Right now.” The maid looked at her. Said nothing.

With the particular eloquence of someone who has decided that explaining things is not in their job description.

”She is the lady of the house,” she said finally, with the measured patience of someone speaking to a person they have categorized as slow.

”So it would be better,” a pause that contained multitudes, ”not to keep her waiting.” She straightened. Added, as an afterthought that was not an afterthought at all, ”If you plan on staying here,” the emphasis landing like a small, precise foot on a specific nerve, ” I would suggest learning that quickly.”