“Let me guess. You forgot the code to your own house,” she jokes groggily.
“Tristan is on the move,” I tell her.
“He’s always on the move,” she says. “Problematically, his movements are erratic and usually idiotic.”
“He’s got our trucks.”
“You mean, like… the ones with all the cocaine in them?”
I take in a breath and let it out slowly. The number of people I’ve wanted to kill today is at an alarming number.
“Listen, I told you he would stop at nothing,” she says.
“And that nothing includes you?”
“Well, I guess it’s safe to say the truce is shot to hell,” she says, a little more awake now and slightly more serious. “So what do you want me to do? Because if you think I can talk sense to my least favorite cousin, you’re going to be wildly disappointed.”
“I don’t want you to talk to him. But I do want to know who he’s running with. Not the ex-cons he bribed out of prison. Men he always works with. Men who have enough loyalty to him that they might have information on his next moves. But not enough loyalty that losing a couple fingernails won’t persuade them to tell me what I want to know.”
“Ah yes, interrogation. The fun part of Bratva families. You see why I watch reality TV, Ransome? Because my reality is a nightmare.”
“Do you have names for me or not?” I snap.
“Igor Volkov. He’s as loyal to Tristan as a labrador puppy and every bit as soft. You could probably smack him with a newspaper and get what you want.”
“Unfortunately for him, I don’t do newspapers. I do pliers.”
“Great. Knock yourself out. I’m going back to sleep.”
The call ends.
“Wait.” Maverick’s jaw falls. “Is that a fucking smile?”
“What happened?” Baron asks.
My grin spreads. “We’re back in business, that’s what.”
47
AMARA
I don’t know what it actually is that wakes me up.
After what felt like hours of trying to fall asleep—but was probably more like minutes in reality—I was finally out. But it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. It was sleep ridden with flashing dreams. Dreams of Tristan and Gianni in the warehouse, visions I constantly try to forget but never seem to be able to. Dreams of Electra and I having fun, drinking, dancing, the good old days. And then, Electra scared. The room dark. Crying.
And that’s how I wake up, sweating with a dry mouth and a wet pillow. I roll over and realize that I’m alone. Ransome is gone. The cold nothingness in the bed was enough to subconsciously jolt me awake.
But my phone is also buzzing with a phone call.
It’s Electra.
I bolt upright and pick up.
“Amara.” Electra is frantic. I mean, full-blown ugly crying panic.
“Hey. What’s going on?” I ask as I get out of bed.
“I need help,” she cries. “It’s Sean. He’s crazy.”
