“Liz, what we can’t see of them, you know the other families can. We just watch them and listen as best we can to what people say when they come over to the bratva.”
Liz Cullens is who I am tonight. I would’ve been Giselle Harting if Alejandro’d asked at the club.
“Hopefully, someone gets drunk enough to approach the Kutsenkos or their Andreyev cousins. That family won’t volunteer a damn word, but someone else might drink enough to loosen their tongue.”
At least one person always does at events like this. They’ll approach a syndicate’s leading family with too much confidence only to meet an untimely accident within the next month. Discretion is everything to these families, even if they do throw lavish parties for the press to snap photos.
Patrick and I watch as Dillan O’Rourke picks up a mic to welcome everyone to the event. He introduces the CEO of the charity, who gives a little song and dance to ask for healthy donations by the end of the night. Then the meal begins. The hum of voices once again fills the room. During college, I took a lip-reading course as part of a specialized training. I can’t hear what’s happening at any other table, but I can read what is.
“Looks like Katerina Andreyev, Misha’s wife, is pregnant. The rest are sipping champagne, but that’s definitely ginger ale. Misha just asked how she’s doing with all the different scents in here.”
“I think Sinead Mancinelli is in the same boat. She’s looking a bit green, and Gabriele looks like he’s about to pass out while he hovers.”
There’s derision in Patrick’s voice. The perpetual bachelor, and not just because of our occupation. He’s the living, breathing embodiment of “if one vine breaks, swing from another” or “the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” He’s commitment phobic. The fuck if he doesn’t have an anaphylactic allergy to it. It makes him the perfect partner. We’ve fucked a few times, but I know he’ll never ask for more, so it’s never weird in the morning.
I follow his gaze to the Mancinellis and watch Salvatore whispering to Luca, his oldest nephew and heir. Salvatore’s been the don for over thirty years. The man’s nickname isPantera—Panther. If he doesn’t have nine lives, then I don’t know what the fuck he does have. Luca’s been his underboss for nearly a decade. The man’s jagged scar from his cheekbone to below his collar appears as menacing as his personality actually is. I have an obstructed line of sight of their bodies, but I can see their lips.
“Can you get what they’re saying?”
I’m not surprised Patrick doesn’t understand. They’re speaking Sicilian. They really don’t want anyone to understand. In most cases, Italian suffices for them, but when they truly want to keep something private, they use Sicilian. Just like the other families, all the members learn their mother country’s language before or simultaneously as they learn English. They’re all fluent readers, speakers, and writers of the language from their family’s country of origin. It grounds them in tradition and keeps them tied to their homeland’s—economies, shall we say.
“Luca overheard some Polish guy speaking to Bogdan about a construction deal. The Kutsenkos are pissing off the Polish workers because they only want to pay union wages. They want more under the table. Salvatore just laughed and said the man will wish he’d kept his mouth shut when they all lose their jobs in the morning. Christina—Bogdan’s wife and head of their construction company—will fire them because the guy’s like a burning hemorrhoid. Constantly up their asses. Luca told him it’s the perfect time for them to swoop in and delay the project further to get the clients to cancel the contracts for failure to complete the job on time.”
“Would this client be dumb enough to dump the Kutsenkos?”
“Mmm. Hang on. I can’t see Salvatore’s mouth. Though, they’d be stupid to risk it.”
The man’s hair remains nearly entirely jet black with just a little gray woven through it and at the temples. He’s still a silver fox at nearly sixty. Fucking fine as red wine. But I can’t see his face while he reaches for and takes a sip of his wine.
When he turns back, I glance away. I swear these families have a sixth, seventh, and eighth sense for being watched. I focus on Patrick and brush a kiss against his cheek before returning my attention to Salvatore and Luca. If Salvatore noticed me, then hopefully, that peck convinced him I’m no threat.
“Salvatore’s telling Luca to complicate things by delaying the lumber shipment. He’s to take the wood to Gabriele’s hardware store. Gabriele’s to cut it down to smaller pieces and sell it as fast as he can. Luca’s agreeing and said he’ll make it look like the Diazes did it.”
“That’ll go over well.”
We watch as Luca calls over Gabriele. The man’s a giant oak tree. He’s the largest in their family. Technically, he’s more of an adopted nephew since he’s not related by blood. His family’s been working for the Mancinellis for generations. His fatheris Salvatore’s best friend, but his mother and father returned to Sicily a few years ago. Gabriele’s best friends with one of Salvatore’s actual nephews, Carmine. I’ve known him since I was a kid, so I doubly can’t risk being recognized.
“Gabriele’s agreeing. Apparently, it’s the least they can do for the Diazes since the Colombians blew up some Amazonian lab the Mancinellis built in Colombia. I heard about that. The Diazes allow the other families three labs each as a goodwill offering. The Mancinellis tried to sneak in a fourth, and the Diazes found out. Enrique had Alejandro set it ablaze the last time he was down there.”
The Mancinellis were definitely in the wrong, and they know it. But machismo requires they retaliate for the retaliation that was likely retaliation for some other retaliation. It’s the circle of life for these families.
“What do you think the Diazes will do when they find out the Mancinellis made them their patsy?”
Patrick keeps his voice low as though he’s whispering sweet nothings, and I have a loving expression plastered across my face. Sometimes I wish I had someone I could genuinely direct affection toward. Then I wake up hot and horny.
“Destroy something else of the Mancinellis’ then destroy something of the bratva’s for not being smart enough to see through the ploy.”
I swear these men handle their squabbles like King Kong meets Godzilla meets the Hulk meets Megalodon. It’s a clash of the Titans on the daily. They’re like toddlers past their naptime going on a rampage through their stacked building blocks. Smash! Smash!
Patrick brushes his lips against my temple for good measure before speaking again. “Who’ll decide on the plan?”
“I don’t know. Alejandro’s their chief strategist, butTres J’sare their general enforcers. Enrique owns the family’sconstruction and real estate development company. Joaquin’s taken on most of the day-to-day stuff over the past couple years. If they go tit-for-tat with building equipment and supplies, then I guess Joaquin. If they want something more subtle, then Alejandro’ll probably come up with it.”
If I could discover whether Alejandro’s the mastermind, then I might find a way to get closer to him. I don’t know what that would look like, but I’m keeping it as an open opportunity in the back of my mind.Tres J’sare his cousins through his mother. Joaquin, Javier, and Jorge—The Three Colombian Musketeers. All for one, one for all.
“You better get close to your mark because the clock’s ticking. Your boss won’t remain patient. Can you work this to your advantage?”
“I don’t know about the construction, but I know I have little time left.”
