“And how exactly do you propose I cross-reference this bomb you just dropped on me?”
She takes out her phone, extending it toward me. “You know how.”
I glance down at the object, knowing exactly who I need to call. It strikes me as odd that she knows I trust Sasha more than anyone else in this world. But even so, she’s right. If anyone can confirm what she’s telling me, it’s him. I snatch the phone from her hand, moving to walk away.
But her next words stop me in my tracks.
“If you want to help your family, Victoria, understand that Wolfgangcannotbe crowned. So find out what he’s up to, and I’ll see to it myself that your family is back—because your sister and mother are innocent in this man’s world, just like you and I.”
27
WOLFGANG
Iflick my wrist, sending the blade of my pocket knife swinging around its axis. Flip. Swing. Flip. Swing. I repeat the motion again and again as I sit in the car with Ivan and Kiril.
After yesterday’s break-in, I tripled our forces around the estate. Only then did I feel good enough about leaving Victoria at home while I went out into the city to figure this shit out.
There’s a body in the trunk wrapped nice and tight into multiple bags, which we’re about to deliver to the Albanians.
Turns out the guy I killed yesterday was with them. Question is—why would they attempt something so fucking stupid in the first place? Not only are they outnumbered, but their resources are nowhere near as abundant as ours. Any war with us would be over before it even started.
“You think they went to the Italians after all?” Ivan asks steering through a curve.
“Unlikely. The don wouldn’t give them the time of day without knowing they have a solid plan. They wouldn’t risk that again after what happened with the Romanovs.”
Kiril shuffles in the back seat. “Maybe the guy was working alone.”
Alone, no. But for someone just as insignificant—maybe.
My first thought is that maybe Victoria’s father fought back for once. I just took his entire family away from him, after all. And he’s a proud man—he wouldn’t go out without one last swing, even if it killed him.
“Here is good,” I tell Ivan.
He stops the car behind an old bar that belongs to Enver Morina, the Albanian head I met with a while ago, before we took over the Irish territory. We get out, and I open the trunk, the stench of death hitting me in the face. Just another fucking Tuesday.
Ivan and Kiril pull out some of the bags as I take the one with the head and walk right inside.
Scratchy radio tunes fill the alcohol-infused air. The bar is nearly empty at this hour, with just a single bartender. He’s wiping a beer pint with a cloth and halts when he sees me. His eyes lower to the object hanging from my hand, and when he glances back up, I’m already walking toward him.
“You came here to gloat?” he asks, now appearing disinterested.
I throw the bag on the counter with a thud. “I came here to warn you. Didn’t think I needed to.”
“You came for nothing. I don’t know anything about that. It has to be a mistake.”
I squint my eyes. Bartenders working for the Mafia know everything and everyone—it’s an unwritten part of their job. So what he’s saying makes no fucking sense, because the guy in the bag is definitely Albanian.
He jerks his head at the object. “Who was he?”
“Why don’t you have a look? I’m sure you’ll recognize him.”
The bartender stares me dead in the eye and prompts both hands on the counter as he leans in toward me.
“I’m not doing fucking anything. I told you, whatever you think happened, it wasn’t us.”
I mirror him, leaning in. “Then maybe you’re losing your flair,Agron. Maybe I’d be doing Enver a favor if I took you out right here, before the next shift starts and the bar gets crowded.”
His jaw clenches, muscles tense as he pushes off the counter and unties the goddamn bag. Almost immediately, a curse spills from his lips.
