“Shit,” Guido whispers.
The line goes dead.
“Guido? Fuck.” I call Rafael again. Nothing.
I hit my mom’s number next. She answers on the first ring.
“He sent Uncle Sergei to kill Rafael!” I scream into the phone.
“What? Who?”
“Dad! I’ve been calling Rafael but can’t reach him. And Dad’s line goes directly to voicemail.”
“He’s in his office. I’m heading down there.” I can hear the slam of the door and the hurried footfalls of running feet. “You should have told Roman, Vasilisa. If you’d have told him the truth, he never would have sent Sergei. Your dad believes that man was keeping you against your will and that he hurt you. And since you wouldn’t give your father any details, he assumed the worst.”
“I didn’t want to tell him because I was afraid he’d do exactly this!”
“Call Sergei,” she says over her rapid and shallow breaths. “Tell him to stay put.”
“You know he won’t,” I whimper. My uncle takes orders only from the pakhan. I could cry and beg, and he would still follow through on what he was ordered to do. He won’t waiver unless my father rescinds the command. “I’m ten minutes away. Please, Mom! Convince Dad to call off Uncle Sergei!”
“I will, baby. Don’t worry.”
“What do you mean, he canceled the shipment?” I snarl into the phone.
“I’m speaking rather clearly, am I not?” Nikolai replies.
It took me years to find someone who could adequately replace Anton as a brigadier, overseeing the ranks of our men. Managing Bratva’s foot soldiers is akin to handling the reins on a herd of maniacal hyenas. They won’t take orders from just anyone. But even when they do, many often feel at liberty to make their own interpretation as to how the orders should be carried out. To keep everyone in line, and not go apeshit in the process, the man in charge must either possess an extremely calm demeanor and be methodical in exercising his authority, or be someone who is basically nuts himself. Nikolai Levin is the latter kind. Most days, I’m not certain if I should promote the disrespectful fucker or simply snap his neck. The lunatic took a bullet for me two years ago, so I guess I have a soft spot for him.
“Watch your mouth,” I bark. “And explain.”
“We arrived at the border as planned, only to have one of Ramirez’s men relay a message to us that the backstabbing cunt found another buyer. I tried getting a hold of Belov, but he’s not answering his phone.”
“My brother is dealing with another issue at the moment. Do you still have Ramirez’s guy?”
“Yes.”
“Break his legs,” I spit out. “Make him talk. I want to know who got what’s supposed to be mine.”
“Already did. It was Artem Voloshyn. He offered Ramirez a forty percent cut.”
Fucking Ukranians. I thought I was done having to deal with those assholes two decades ago.
“There’s more,” Nikolai continues. “One of my guys caught Artem’s dealer in West Town last week.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
My office door suddenly bangs open, and my wife barges in, flushed and breathing heavily as if she ran here at breakneck speed.
“What have you done?” she chokes out, eyes distraught and flaring.
“I’ll call you back.” I throw the phone on my desk and lift my hands up in defense. “Whatever it is, it wasn’t me. I swear, malysh.”
I have no idea what could have distressed her so much, but I know it can’t be anything I’ve done. I would rather cut off my own hands. And legs. Slit my own throat. I’ll have to consider a proper order, but the sentiment remains the same.
“You sent Sergei to kill Vasya’s Sicilian!”
Oh. Well, I guess that was me. “That fucknut is not hers. De Santi is a hitman who’s kidnapped and held our daughter hostage for over two months. You didn’t actually expect me to let it go?”
Nina rushes across the room. “Please, Roman. You need to call Sergei and tell him to abort.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Vasilisa is in love with him, kotik.” Grabbing a fistful of my shirt, she practically thrusts her nose against mine. “You’re calling Sergei off. Now!”
“What? No, she can’t be in love with him.”
“She’s planning to return to Sicily!” Nina yells into my face while shaking me. “I tried to convince her to tell you the truth, but she was scared this is exactly what you would do!”
I stare at my wife while a firestorm rages inside me. My baby girl can’t be in love with a goddamned De Santi, can she? I’ve already arranged dinner, inviting my accountant and telling him to bring his son. The boy works in the records management department of a retirement home. A nice, safe guy. One who’s the same age as Vasilisa. Not a fucking assassin-for-hire who lives on another continent.
“Nina, baby, she’s just confused.”
“She’s not fucking confused! She loves him!” My sweet little wife is now roaring so loud that I fear the windows may shatter. “You can’t do this! Her father cannot kill the man she loves! It will destroy her, Roman! And it will destroy you!”
“Vasya deserves someone nice. Someone who will keep her safe.”
