Digging would land me in serious waters if discovered, an act my grandfather would see as a betrayal, even if I didn’t intend to be stupid enough to reveal I was doing it on Cesare’s ultimatum.
To be fair, I wasn’t. Not entirely. Because contrary to my expectation, since the absurd decision was floated of starting Mancinelli Racing team to ‘show thosepazzoupstarts how it’s really done’, I’d grown to love the thrill of motor racing. And no, I would never admit, even under torture, that it had anything to do with Cesare Salvatore’s open adoration of the sport.
Since that night at the silent disco – when I’d had to watch him batter not one but two boys – including Ciara’s poor brotherfor bringing me to the disco, and managed to somehow not die myself at the hands of the Salvatore heir – and in the almost decade and a half since, I’d learned to suppress any desire to willingly look at, think of, or speak about anything to do with Cesare.
Sure, with Bonafacio’s rabid obsession for his enemy’s family, avoiding Cesare completely was near impossible. And once I’d started attending the races, seeing him in his race suit, his mile-wide shoulders, tapered torso and tight ass cutting across the paddock and pit-lane had been unavoidable.
But I’d kept any direct confrontation to near zero.
For his part, he’d looked right through me like I was thin air each time our paths crossed. And absolutely no one was informed about the shocking electric tug in my middle on the rare occasion his cold, charcoal-grey eyes slashed across my body.
I sucked in a breath now as I approached the door, furiously working out how to play this. For a second I was irritated that Sofiya, after almost threatening me with her arrival, had texted yesterday to say she wasn’t coming after all. No explanation as to why. Sure, a part of me was relieved because, seriously, the less eyes on me right now, the better.
That the thought immediately conjured up charcoal-grey eyes set within a fallen angel face that felt almost X-rated was a secret I had no intention of revealing. Ditto for the slow sizzling rushing through my veins as I opened the door.
The person who stood there sent fresh trepidation up my spine.
Fist.
Cesare’s personal killing machine with his soft voice and dead eyes.
‘What do you want? And how did you gain access to my floor?’ As with every hotel we stayed in during racing season,we’d booked out the whole floor of the luxurious Claremont Hotel in Baku and paid extra to have exclusive lift access to this floor made on a strict limited-to-family-and-trusted-personnel basis.
‘The Boss wants to talk to you.’
I glanced past him, my heart jumping into my throat.
But Cesare wasn’t behind him. Instead I was greeted with the sight of my men sprawled on the floor in the hallway. My eyes darted back to my visitor before debating how quickly I could sprint across the room to the gun I kept in my nightstand.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They’re just taking a short nap,’ Fist said, his low voice completely belying the streak of violence I knew lurked just beneath his gentle giant demeanour. He’d been Cesare’s shadow long before the Salvatore heir had stepped into his rightful mantle. Being the head soldier for the Salvatores wasn’t just a job for Fist. It was a lifelong calling he’d embraced dark heart and shrivelled soul. Just as his father had for Orazio. ‘It’s up to you whether you want to make their condition permanent,’ he finished, eyes resting steadily on me.
‘And me? Have you been ordered to make my condition permanent too if I resist?’
His headshake was neither belligerent nor offended. It was a calm response to my un-calm question. ‘Not at all. Like I said, the Boss wants to talk.’
‘Then why isn’t he here himself?’
‘He would prefer you come to him. I’m here to facilitate that.’
‘I was about to have dinner.’ I was stalling, delaying the inevitable as much as I could.
Eyes as dark as a wormhole flicked to the sterling silver room-service trolley, and he nodded. ‘I can see that. And I apologise.’ But he intended to do fuck all about it, his small shrug said.
‘Can I at least get dressed?’ I gestured at the belted bathrobe I’d changed into on arrival from the racetrack. Although I knew this meeting was hanging over me like a dark cloud, I’d half-hoped, foolishly, that it would dissipate over time under its own steam. That Cesare would conclude it wasn’t worth threatening annihilation over some assumed conspiracy.
Apparently not.
Fist hesitated for a moment, then nodded. ‘Sure.’
Deciding I wasn’t a great threat, or he could easily handle whatever threat I posed, he stepped into the hallway without shutting the door, his back turned respectfully.
I didn’t bother contemplating escape. For one thing, I was on the thirty-seventh floor. For another, Cesare would find me.
If not today, then tomorrow during first or second practice. Also, I was a consigliere, damn it. He might scare the shit out of me, but I wasn’t about to visibly cower before him.
I’d buckled beneath his fury once upon a time.
Never again.
