Chapter Two
JUNA VAN DER HEENEY WAS NOT INFLUENCED BY HER EMOTIONS.
First and foremost, she logically and strategically organized solutions for her problems. And if those failed, she allowed nature to take its course. All good things come to an end, just as all bad things begin with the simplest of gestures.
Except this gesture was not so simple.
The Bratva wanted Dmitri Polkov for their twisted revenge and unless she committed her time to resolving their dirty family drama, her best friend and ex-lover would be shit out of luck.
High school graduation was looming above her head like a constant dark cloud. The clouds have barely parted, only to reveal a typhoon of mafia men. Under most circumstances, Juna was solid. Feared nothing, felt nothing. In her world, fear was the equivalent to power, to prosperity, and she refused to submit to their demands.
Dmitri would be safe as long as she was the iron blockade standing between him and the Pakhan (the apparent Russian mafia boss). Announcing their intentions to capture the only boy she'd ever loved was their first mistake. If the situation called upon it, she'd even play the Trojan Horse.
No glass ceiling had ever kept her from competing in the patriarchy.
No burly men with inflated egos and masculinity could trump a woman scorned—if a single hair on Dmitri's head was harmed, they'd face the wrath of Juna Van der Heeney.
Jameson Van der Heeney was an Irish brute. Thankfully, the only trait Juna inherited was his stubborn nature. He immigrated from Belfast as a financially unstable student when he was nineteen and by twenty-six, he'd built a political empire. He paralleled some of greatest entrepreneurs from the nineteenth century—Rockefeller and Carnegie. He primarily focused his assets on the expansion of his newfound party and property developments.
Knowing this, Juna was at an advantage. In fact, she was thankful it had been her the Six had captured at the gala. If Keeley or Amelia had been in this situation, they'd act quick and impulsively. Something so delicate had to be treated accordingly.
Sunday afternoon was productive. Dressed in her Kelly inspired lace pleated skirt and collared shirt, Juna buttoned her navy cardigan. The stack of cash felt like a boulder tucked in the waistband of her skirt. Earlier that morning, she'd transferred a direct deposit into Henley's account and insisted he withdraw the cash.
Where do your loyalties lie, Henley? she'd said, accusation evident in her tone. Her driver hesitated, then hurried out of the mansion.
Juna stared at the pocket knife laying on her dresser questionably. If I want the job done, I need to be vulnerable. She walked out of the room, down the winding staircase, and ran right into her mother.
The delicate woman radiated elegance and adoration. She was petite, same as Juna, with unruly hair and the shimmering eyes of an optimist. How she raised such a pessimist child was beyond her, but she loved her regardless.
Hope breeds eternal misery.
"Where are you off to?" her mother question flippantly, the slight of a smile hovering on her perky lips. Juna skillfully concealed the lump in her shirt with her arm and returned the gesture.
"Dmitri." was all she said. A even brighter smile encased her mother's features. It was technically not a lie—she was going to make a preposition in exchange for his life. So he could go to college, so he could continue playing baseball and chasing the panties off women.
