Antonio nods. “That would be appreciated. Now, as turnabout is fair play, can we discuss Campisi’s expansion onto Russian soil?”
The conversation shifts to territory that is not mine. Campisi claims he sent an envoy to explore untapped markets with the Russian Bratva. The murder of Christina Petrella was savage, unnecessary, and entirely avoidable.
Lars doesn’t let it slide. He points out that the Campisi operative began doing business in his Russian territory without even making a courtesy call.
“The Bratva does not have the authority to make decisions about Barkov’s business,” Lars says. “Your operative took women and girls without our blessing. So we took one of yours.”
For the second time today, Don Antonio Campisi is left with his dick out. His guys are out of control, working outside of our agreements. Even in front of the entire room, he seems to concede it. “Boss,” he says cautiously, “perhaps you and I should have a drink in private. We can talk like friends and figure things out.”
A beat of silence stretches between them. Then Lars, knowing he’s won this round, breaks into a wide grin. He slaps the table. “Yes. Let’s get piss drunk and have a real negotiation.”
The Don smiles, rises, and they both signal for a break. Everyone stands, stretching and shifting.
I might worry about leaving the two of them alone in a room if I didn’t know how fast Lars is on the draw. This is supposed to be a weapons-free event, but I can assure you: every single person here, including my adoptive father, is carrying heat.
Misha findsme as people start leaving the room. “Well done, brother.”
She leans in for a quick hug. “I actually hate that part.”
“I know. You looked constipated the whole time.”
I make a face. “What? Constipated? More like tough and intimidating.”
She chuckles, laying a hand on my shoulder, “Relax. I’m just fucking with you. You did great. Campisi was totally backed into a corner. This will work out well for us.”
“Perhaps,” I say, eyeing the exit of the Campisi siblings as they march out of the room.
Misha follows my gaze. “There’s something wrong with that Vincenzo,” she says, clear disgust dripping from each word.
“Yes,” I agree. “Hey, I need to check in on a few things. “Meet me at four for a drink?”
Misha nods and says she’s going to see what Volya is up to.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to stop her. “Your security has been okay? Discreet?”
“They’re fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I think it’s overkill, for what it’s worth.”
“Of course you do,” I say.
She winks. “If I get my way, they’ll be listening to the operatic sounds of me getting laid tonight.”
I feel my face twist into an expression of distaste. “Yuck. Go away.”
She does, and I’m left to my own devices, so I wander aimlessly around the hotel, scanning the crowd of shady characters from every mafia household. Eventually, I decide to head back up to the room.
The elevator dings, and the doors part, only for me to spot Vincenzo Campisi. His hand grips someone’s bicep, his voice a rapid-fire torrent of Italian.
Then I see her long hair, cream-colored pantsuit, and something snaps. I let out a low growl and surge forward. In moments, I’ve grabbed Vincenzo and slammed him against the wall.
“Of course you’re here,” he sneers. “Howconvenient.”
I step closer, forcing my expression into careful neutrality. “Are you okay, Miss Campisi?”
“Miss Campisi,” Vincenzo scoffs. “You two can drop the act.”
“Fuck you, Vince,” Leanna snaps, rubbing her arm, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re unhinged. Go get help.”
He laughs. “Oh, your littleboyfriendhelped enough,” he says, spittle flying from his lips.
