Stephano whistles under his breath. "Sounds like a lovely man."
"Oh, you have no idea," I say, watching his face. He watches mine like a man cataloguing angles; the look is almost intimate. "When Yaroslav Arsenyev ended him, he had to burn half of Moscow’s underworld with him."
He leans back, brows drawn. "So the Arsenyev family killed Donna Margarita’s."
"Welcome to Russian history 101," I reply dryly. His eyes drop to my mouth for a heartbeat before he looks away, and the tiny movement makes my chest tighten.
He nudges the sandwich my way and opens the soda, tattooed fingers flexing around the cap. It hits me low, not in imagination, but in memory. Iknowexactly what those fingers feel like gripping my throat… applying just the right amount of pressure to make a girl see stars, while keeping her steady and ruining her ability to think. A shudder moves through me at the memory and drenches me so fast I have to lock my knees.
God help me.
"Yeah, I know the name. Igor Pavlov." He nods.
I dry swallow and try to catch up with his words. He leans in close enough that the smell of his cologne catches me—cedar and citrus—and I have to remind myself to breathe. He continues, "Igor Pavlov was called Ledyanoy Prizrak—icy ghost—a high-caliber freelance assassin. One of the best there ever was. He got on our radar when he kidnapped Enrico Sartori's sister," he looks at me, his eyes asking if I need more detail. I wave my hand for him to continue; he can give me the nitty-gritty later.
I've heard rumors about theIcy Ghost. Grigori liked to joke that he'd send him after me if I didn't behave. Every Russian knows him because he was rumored to be one. His hits cost over a billion dollars, and they were masterfully executed.
"One master assassin, and one cold-blooded manipulator," I say around a bite of sandwich. "Makes you wonder if Viktor had any more kids."
"God," Stephano takes a sip of his soda, "let's hope not." Then he looks at me, "He’s dead. Igor."
"Bummer." I retort, emotionless. I don't care one way or another, still, "Sounds like a man who knew how to make an exit." I murmur, taking another bite.
"So, what does any of this have to do with the Venezuelans?"
"I'm not sure yet," I decide to test him a bit further, "but while I was in Venezuela," he looks like he's about to interrupt me, but changes his mind, "I saw Donna Margarita with one of your men."
He wipes his hands, the motion slow and measured. The pad of his thumb grazes the back of my hand as he pulls a napkin free — a small, deliberate contact—and the heat from it crawls under my skin.
"Raf," I watch him intently, "Raffael DeSantis."
"He was in Venezuela under my orders," Stephano tells me. I arch an eyebrow for him to elaborate. "The Venezuelans killed our bookkeeper, and our Don decided not to do anything about it."
"So you send one of your guys to find out more, and he… what? Just happened to run into Donna Margarita? How would a low-level—no offense to your guy—soldier even know her, let alone be in her company?"
"He's now a newly appointed capo to La Famiglia. He took over the void the Giordanos left."
"Hmm," that's news to me. Raf is a capo now? My earlier suspicion rise to the forefront of my mind, and I file it forlater. Taking another bite, I give Stephano a sideways glance, stalling to settle myself again. The way he leans in when he speaks makes the space between us feel both dangerous and soft.
"What?"
"Sounds like there's more to the story." I sense some kind of relationship shift between Stephano and Raf, I'm just not sure if it's good or bad.
"There is," he continues. "Raf found out that Donna Margarita and Silvano Valverde have been working together for years. She even has three daughters by him."
I wipe some mustard off my lips with a napkin, drumming the fingers of my other hand against the tray. I'm not letting him see that I already knew that. My knee brushes his under the low bedside table, and the small electric jolt further tests my stubborn refusal to acknowledge my body's awareness of him.
"How in the hell did you guys not know that?" I'm genuinely curious about his answer.
He shrugs. "She made Isabella look legit, like she was her late husband's… the other two…" another shrug, "nobody dared ask or talk about it. In a way, she was a capo in her own right, running the Giordano family. So everybody turned their heads."
"But the daughters are illegitimate and married within the family?" I realize how old-fashioned I sound, but we're talking about the Cosa Nostra, which, just like the Bratva, is very much run by old traditions. Maybe I underestimated the Cosa Nostra; maybe they're changing. I push the thought aside and return to more important issues than Donna Margarita’s children’s parentage.
"So Donna Margarita has beef with La Famiglia and the Bratva. And she convinced the Venezuelans to help her."
"Looks like it. That woman has her claws everywhere."
I can't help having a little woman crush. "I'd really like to meet her. Do you think you could introduce me?"
