“There’s something else,” Priest says. “This isn’t just about Scorpion and the Sidorov girl.”
I think about the screaming, kicking, fighting Russian woman I last saw Scorpion carting out of the safe house over his shoulder.
“She’s not a girl. She’s the spawn of a demon.”
Priest chuckles. “From what you told me, it sounds like our brother has met his match. Good if he has his hands full. I’m pissed at him for going after one of the Bratva women. It makes ours vulnerable. If one of them took Luna, I’d rip out every one of their goddamn throats with my bare hands until I got her back.”
I know how he feels, because I’d do the same for Isla. Only, I don’t get to keep her.
I give my phone another look and decide to shoot off a text to Rocco.
Update on the package?
“Who are you texting now?” Priest asks.
I don’t want to lie. My older brother has a way of finding out everything anyway, sooner or later. God knows what will happen when he figures out there was a hell of a lot more going on between Isla and me than I let on. By then, she’ll be long gone, settled back into her life and routine. It shouldn’t matter as much.
“Rocco,” I tell him. “Checking on the delivery.”
Priest doesn’t say anything, just watches me with a speculative air that I don’t like.
There’s still no response on my phone. So I text Lucky.
Any word from Rocco?
Not yet.
Shit. The airport isn’t far from our casino, on the outskirts of the city. It shouldn’t have taken Rocco more than an hour, maximum, to drop off Isla and get back to the safe house.
Let me know as soon as you get word.
Will do.
Now I’m more restless than ever. Something about this doesn’t feel right.
But the G starts moving again, taking us closer to our meeting with Sidorov, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.
It’s eerilyquiet as Russians file into the empty dining area of our latest Italian restaurant in the city.Topolinais a newer venture for us, only open for a few weeks, but it’s closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, which made it the perfect location for hammering out a peace deal with the Bratva.
We’ve got the perimeter guarded like Fort fucking Knox, and every one of the men sitting at the tables we’ve pulled together had to be patted down and turn in their weapons as a condition of this meeting. Shit could still go sideways, but that’s a part of doing business with the enemy.
I’m trying to keep myself calm, because this deal depends on cooler heads prevailing. But it’s damn difficult when all I can think about is Isla. I can’t stop wondering why the fuck I haven’t heard from Rocco. Is she through security? Did she get herself a ticket back to Iowa? Did she take the money we told Roc to give her? The questions won’t stop.
Fuck.
I have to keep my head in the game. Which means I need to stop thinking about Isla. An evil fucker like Mikhail Sidorov will tear me apart if he scents blood.
Speaking of the devil, he walks into the room, a smug little smile on his face, like he’s got the upper hand. I’ve never liked the bastard, and I like him even less now after what he ordered done to Isla. Not to mention the fact that he bombed our restaurant.
“Andriani,” he greets Priest first, shaking his hand over the table that’s been arranged with linen and water glasses we have no intention of using.
He’s lucky we aren’t setting him on fire. But peace is worth far more than war to us, so here we are.
“Sidorov,” Priest returns.
It’s almost comical, watching the two of them squaring off over the handshake. Each wants to overpower the other, and in the end, it almost looks like they’re thumb-wrestling by the time they give up.
“Sit,” Priest invites everyone gathered around the table, our closest capos on our side, and the Bratva goons towering over the opposite side.
