CHAPTER 1
TERINA
Present
“Why doesit feel like you’re kidnapping me?” I tug away from my brother’s hold, only to receive a withering glare.
“Because I am. Now, get in the damn car.” Renzo opens the passenger door to a black Escalade and practically shoves me inside.
“Whose car is this? And what the heck is going on?” I call out as the door shuts.
I have to wait until he’s slid into the driver’s seat for my answer. He caught me off guard when he ambushed me after yoga class, thus the resistance, but now that it’s clear something is wrong, and he wasn’t just being a dick older brother, my defiance is fading. That won’t stop me from getting answers, though.
Renzo starts the car and merges into traffic. “It’s my car—got it for the baby. And Biba Mikhailov’s funeral was yesterday. Today, his oldest son, Simeon, seized control of the entire Russian organization and ousted his younger brother, Pasha.”
Okay, the car makes sense now. His wife, Shae, is very pregnant. But what about the rest?
“Sounds messy, but what does that have to do with me?” I’m vaguely familiar with the Russians, but Renzo doesn’t exactly keep me well-informed with his Mafia world. I don’t ask, and he certainly doesn’t volunteer.
“There’s a solid chance they could blame us for Biba’s death.”
“Because…?” I prod him.
Renzo’s eyes cut meaningfully to mine, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
Holy crap!
Did someone in the Moretti Family off the Russian mob boss? I had no idea we’d been responsible. My understanding was that some psycho called the Reaper was the one to blame. But as I already noted, I’m not exactly kept in the loop.
“So … what does that mean?” I ask quietly, the reality of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to discuss at Mom’s place. She’s making grilled fish and caponata. Shae and DiAngelo are meeting us over there.”
My heart stumbles at the mention of my brother’s best friend.
I don’t run into DiAngelo often, but when I do, I find my brain tends to malfunction. Nerves get the better of me, and I’m not even sure why. It’s not like I’m interested in him or care what he thinks of me. Not that he thinks anything of me at all. His blatant indifference toward me makes that fact obvious.
He’s simply the man who helps Renzo run the Moretti Family. That’s it.
So why’s he joining us for dinner?
“What about Tommy and Danika?” Our younger brother and his new wife will surely be there if this is a normal family dinner.
“Busy.”
No one’s too busy when Mom cooks caponata—she takes the time to use exclusively fresh ingredients and roast the eggplant properly. Tommy’s absence is telling. If this isn’t a run-of-the-mill family dinner, then what is happening here?
Judging by the tension radiating off Renzo as his steely gaze regularly checks his mirrors and scans nearby cars, I decide it’s best not to push for more. That sort of restraint isn’t easy for me. I get anxious when I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ve been snapped at enough over the years to learn to pace my questions.
Thirty minutes later, we’re gathered in Mom’s large kitchen, which still bears hints of its 1980s construction in the glass blocks despite modern updates. Steam rises from two tarnished pots on the stove, and the black granite island is dusted with flour. My stomach growls at the rich aroma of freshly baked bread saturating the air. She’s an expert at sourdough. I would be absolutely thrilled about the unexpected feast we’re about to have if it weren’t for the awkward tension pressurizing the room.
“Hey, sweetie. How was yoga?” Mom flashes a grin at me while starting to chop vegetables. Vigorously.
“It was good. How are you?” My eyes cut to Shae, who is engaged in a hushed conversation with my brother, her gaze flitting to me briefly before she gives me a tight smile.
DiAngelo watches me from his seat at the small kitchen table in the corner. He says nothing. No nod. No greeting. Just watching. Assessing.
Why do I feel like I’ve just walked into an intervention?
