They agree and stand, starting to trickle out of the meeting room, comparing notes with one another. The bodyguards I’ve been traveling with all day, Sammy and Vinny, step up and cover me as I head out to the G-Wagon awaiting me in a side alley. The second I’m in the back of the armored G, I make the call I’ve been dreading.
It takes four rings, and I’m half expecting to be dumped into voice mail, before Priest picks up.
“Frattore mio. What’s up?” He’s out of breath, and if this were an ordinary call, I’d give him shit and ask him if he was too busy with his woman to answer the phone.
But this isn’t an ordinary call.
“I have some news.” Wincing, I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off an impending headache.
“Tell me.” His energy changes on a dime. The relaxed, carefree honeymooner disappears, and in his place is the ruthless don.
I launch into an explanation, telling him almost everything that’s happened over the last week since we’ve been back in the States. Including the part where Scorpion went off-grid witha Russian Bratva princess after they bombed our restaurant. I deliberately leave out the mess of Antonella and our half sisters. There’s only so much I can dump on him at one time.
“What the fuck, Saint?” he bursts out when I’m finished. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going down before now?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin your honeymoon.”
“A little too late for that,” he mutters grimly. “I’ll leave here as soon as I can. Just hold tight until I get there.”
“Will do.”
I hit the End button like I’m trying to put a hole through my phone and then exhale the breath I’ve been holding, feeling like an utter fucking failure.
My phone rings again, and I answer without bothering to glance at the screen, assuming it’s Priest calling back. “If you changed your mind and you want to stay in paradise instead of coming back to this hellhole, I completely understand.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then a voice laced with a Russian accent drawls, “Where the fuck is my sister, Andriani?”
Well, shit.
Not Priest.
I hold my phone away and see that the number is an unknown one before bringing it back to my ear. “Sidorov.”
“You can call me Pakhan.”
That confirms it. Sidorov has taken over.
“I think I’d prefer to call you the bastard who blew up my restaurant,” I bite out, hand tensing on the phone.
He makes a tsking sound. “I heard about your restaurant. Such a shame, that bomb going off. They say the building will have to be razed.Moi soboleznovaniya.”
I have no idea what the fuck he just said, but I’m sure it’s something condescending.
“Come off it, Sidorov,” I snap, having no patience for his bullshit.
I don’t care if he’s the new Pakhan. I don’t even give a shit if he plucked out Ivan Aleksandrov’s eyeballs with a spoon and then ate them for breakfast. We’re the Andriani family, and we’re not going to stand for these bastards frightening our women and bombing our restaurant. This shit stops here.
“Come off what?” Sidorov’s voice is sly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“One of your goons knocked out my guards yesterday, broke into my apartment, and handcuffed my woman to my bed.”
Calling Isla my woman came naturally. I didn’t mean to claim her, and especially not to this conniving prick, but it’s too late to call it back now. And I have to admit that the possessive asshole in me likes calling her that.
Mine.
“Your woman?Pozdravleniya, Andriani. I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not,” I grit out. “Look, enough small talk. You set off a bomb in an Andriani establishment. You’re going to have to pay for that. The last thing we want is a war with the Bratva, but you’ve left us without many options.”
