We don’t need to spell that out in the Bratva. We understand the cost of ratting just fine. I know Grigori knows about Omertà Infernale—I was the one who flagged it for him. Which means this report is missing that detail for one of two reasons:
Either our intel division is incompetent, or someone made sure it was left out.
I make a note to follow up with my brother. Because if the omission was deliberate, it isn’t ignorance. It’s a test. Or a warning.
I don’t know what to think. Either Stephano is in deeper with Donna Margarita than he lets on, or, and here I pause because I don't like this option one bit—too bad little girl, grow a pair of nuts—Raf’s been turned into one of the Venezuelan cells.
And if it’s the latter…
Then Raf has just become my number one enemy.
Before I can mull this over, the door opens and Stephano steps in, carrying a paper sack and two bottles of soda. The scent hits first: warm pastrami, spicy mustard, and real bread. I didn’t realize how much hospital food offended me until now.
"Lunch," he says, like it’s a peace offering. "Before you start trying to hack the nurses’ station."
He sets everything down and eyes the phone in my hand. "Did you find anything out?"
I look up, study him for a beat. He looks infuriatingly good in dark slacks and rolled-up sleeves, like sin went casual. The light hits his jaw, catches in the hollow of his throat. I debate how much to say, then decide to poke the bear. "Does the name Igor Pavlov mean anything to you?"
The change is instant. He goes still, very still, his eyes narrow, and his shoulders stiffen. I love it when I hit an unexpected jackpot. His mouth forms a line.
"Why?" he asks carefully, drawing the word out. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for the paper bag—accidental, or not—I don't pull away. The heat of his fingers lingers longer than it should.
I definitely hit a nerve. Maybe this Italian king will prove useful after all.
"Because," I say, keeping my tone lazy, "your not-so-Italian Donna Margarita was born in Russia. By the way, her real name is Margarita Viktorovna Voronina. Her mother was Caterine Bellini; her father's records are sealed, but rumor says Viktor Voronin."
That gets him, too. I see it in the twitch of his jaw.
I keep going. "She escaped Moscow when she was sixteen, along with her half-brother, Igor Pavlov. Also rumored to be Voronin’s son."
Stephano frowns. "Voronin. Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
I stare at him. "Seriously?"
He lifts a shoulder, unbothered.
"Do you ever read up on the Russian Bratva?" I demand.
"Why would I?" he counters. "They haven’t crossed my radar yet."
I sigh and drop my head back against the pillow. "Unbelievable. You Italians think the world begins and ends with you."
He grins faintly, private and dangerous. "Well, when your ancestors built the world’s greatest empire, it’s hard not to take pride. Thousands of years of dominance don’t disappear overnight."
I snort. "Oh God. Don’t tell me you’re about to claim you’re a direct descendant of Caesar."
His grin widens, arrogant and entirely too pleased with himself. "I’m just saying the bloodlines run deep."
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Congratulations. Does that come with a laurel crown or just an oversized ego?"
"Both," he grins shamelessly. "But the ego’s the part you seem most interested in."
"Please." I pull the blanket higher. "You wish."
He shifts closer, eyes glinting. "So, are you going to fill me in, or do I need to assign myself homework?"
"Fine." I shift, propping the tray between us. "Viktor Voronin was the worst Pakhan in Bratva history. So unforgiving that he made Caligula look like a wellness guru. He ran the Bratva before Yaroslav Arsenyev took him out. He was deeply paranoid but brilliant. He loved to break people just to see what shape they’d take when they healed."
