“Good. We need to find out exactly what it is that Mikhail wants. If he’s going to challenge us and start a territory war, we need to be prepared. We can’t afford to get caught with our pants down and our dick out.”
Scorpion nods. “I know.”
“You should have come to me with your missing mole the second you became aware he was unresponsive,” I point out the obvious. “I never minded you holding this one tight to the vest, but losing our intel source and the crowning of a new Pakhan who’s breathing down our neck and threatening our own…that’s not the kind of shit I should find out on the fly.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” I down the rest of my coffee, feeling the jolt of caffeine finally powering up my blood. “Where’s Lucky? You heard from him today? He was supposed to be here for this morning’s meeting.”
I’ve been so caught up in all the unexpected Russian news that I forgot my youngest sibling is conspicuously absent.
Something else flashes over Scorpion’s face.
“What is it now?” I ask, dread tightening in my gut.
“He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”
I pitch my empty coffee cup into the waste bin. “With what? Explain.”
Lucky oversees the more dangerous part of our family empire—the drugs. With the pressure the Feds are putting on supply lines these days, if Lucky is busy, it sounds like I could have another problem on my hands, above and beyond the Russians.
“You really want to know?” Scorpion asks.
I can tell it’s a loaded question. I probably don’t want to know, but I need to know.
“Tell me,” I command him.
“Apparently, Antonella Rossi has decided to grace us with her presence.”
Everything inside me freezes. Because I know that name, even if it’s one I never expected to hear again.
It belongs to our mother.
Isla
Life is weird,my book is riveting, and somehow, I still can’t concentrate. I’m curled up on Alessio’s sleek leather couch under a cozy velvet throw. It’s the same couch he sat on last night when he arrogantly—and correctly—stated that I want him. But this time, he’s not here with his sexy self, his burning-hot ocean stare, and his tatted hands I so desperately long to feel working their magic on me again.
It’s dark, well past dinnertime, and I’m still alone in the apartment with Cid. With the help of Vincenzo, one of the guards stationed at the door, I had dinner for one delivered, a spicy sack of Indian takeout with paneer and garlic naan that were both to die for. I ate halfheartedly, despite the deliciousness, expecting Alessio to burst into the apartment at any second and disturb my hard-fought peace of the day.
I’ve been bored here alone, nothing but my e-reader, Cid, and a TV signed into Netflix to entertain me. Turns out Alessio is a fan of true crime. Who would have guessed, right? It felt wrong tuning into shows and messing up his algorithm. I’m a historicalfiction drama kind of girl myself, and I doubt he’d appreciate being shown my favorite version ofPride and Prejudiceas a recommended option, even if he does get a lot of evil enjoyment out of calling me Jane Austen.
I tried to tidy up, but nothing was readily available that needed cleaning, and I was hesitant to go into any room that had a closed door. Especially not his bedroom. Too dangerous.
So, I did yoga. I surfed the internet. I sent Luna a few candid snaps of Cid in my lap only, careful to keep any suspicious background from the picture. I also turned off the Live so she wouldn’t know we’d moved to a new location. She hearted them all at once and responded with a kiss emoji about half an hour ago, which let me know that she’s way too busy honeymooning to suspect shit has hit the fan here.
Which is exactly how I want it. She’s enjoying herself, I haven’t had any clashes with creepy Russian mobsters today, Cid is safe, and Alessio is out doing whatever mobster things mobsters do. I don’t want to know. I like staying on this side of the law, thank you very much. And besides, the less of him I see, the better.
I nearly spontaneously combusted after the way he challenged me. Then I had to spend all night long tossing and turning, Cid hogging the bed, knowing Alessio was just a few doors down, probably sleeping naked in all his glorious, tattooed Mafia hotness.
What’s wrong with me? Am I ovulating? That has to be it. I’m not usually this controlled by my libido.
The door to the apartment clicks open, and I jolt out of my seat on the couch, instantly on guard. Tentatively, I peek around the corner to see who is here, half afraid I’ll find a Russian mobster staring me down from the other end of a gun. It’s not a Bratva kidnapper, but it’s arguably every bit as frightening.
Alessio is stalking toward me, and he looks furious.
He stops when he catches sight of me, some of the tension draining from his face. “Isla.”
He didn’t call me Jane in that flippant way that never fails to annoy me. I’ll take it as a victory, however small.
