Matei exhales, not quite a sigh, and slides his hands into his pockets. Casual. Like we're here to catch up.
"Look," he says, voice dropping lower. "I'll be straight with you. Me and my brothers don't always agree with how our father runs things. He's old school. Grew up under Communism, you know. Different rules, different world, always suspicious." He pauses, glances briefly at the lobby around us, then back to me. "But one day, me and my brothers will run the family. And we want to do things differently. It's because of that, I'm here."
I study him, looking for the lie, any crack in the mask, but his eyes don't shift. His breathing stays even. No tells I can see.
"Okay," I say, still not sold but willing to let him dig his own grave.
"My oldest brother, Lucian, who will take over, like you have, sent me." He shifts slightly, hands still in his pockets. "It's no secret we want a share of the U.S. market, but we sure as fuck don't want to make enemies before we've even arrived. So, we want to help. Our connections are strong here in Germany."
"For what price?"
The question comes out aggressive, but I'm done playing nice. My father's dead, my mother's upstairs falling apart, and some Romanian prince is standing in front of me offering favors like we're friends.
Matei shakes his head, his hands finally coming out of his pockets. "Nothing. Righting a wrong. And..." He pauses. "Making sure we do get a piece of America. But you already knew we'd want that."
I scoff.
"My brothers and I want to build a legitimate legacy in the U.S. and have real allies there. Like you. Kastaris. Bonventi. Families who know how to operate. My father..." Matei exhales through his nose. "He's more worried about people taking what we have. We're more focused on working with others to take more."
I let the silence stretch. Let him sweat, even though he doesn't look like he's sweating.
My mind runs through the angles. What he's offering. What he wants. What it costs.
The Ionescus have reach here if what he's saying is true. Maybe they've got connections in Germany that could cut through red tape faster than I ever could alone.
But trust?
That's a different currency.
Still, I don't have the luxury of time.
I know the Morrígan Order killed my father, but I want the actual person responsible, and if Matei Ionescu can deliver that, I'll take the devil's help and deal with the consequences later.
"Okay," I say. "Bring me who killed my father. Then we'll see about your alliance."
I walk away and just as I’m about to step into the elevator, I hear Matei call out. "You'll get what you want. We'll be in touch."
The doors close, and as I head back up to my mother's suite, I realize this only goes one way.
They'll either deliver, or they won't.
If they don't, I'll deal with them once Cormac is in the ground and this Morrígan bullshit is destroyed.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. I go into the suite and see my mom sitting with some suitcases.
"Ready?" I ask. "Let's get out of here."
I have my driver head across town to the other five-star hotel. My mom doesn't want to stay at the same hotel she was at with my father, and while I really want to get out of here, I doubt I'll be able to get everything cleared and on a plane in one day.
Inside, I rent the top two suites for us and walk her up. She's refusing to go back to the hospital, and to be honest, I don't blame her.
I leave two of my men outside her door, and the other two follow me back down, get in the car behind mine, and we make our way to the hospital.
When I walk in, there's that smell that hits you right in the face. The smell that makes me hate hospitals, antiseptic and slow death.
I walk through the corridors with my men a few steps behind me, past nurses who glance up from their stations, past patients shuffling in slippers, past wheelchairs and IV poles and the beeps from machines keeping people alive.
The morgue is in the basement. Of course it is. Just like in life, in the end, down you go.
