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“She sounds resourceful.”
“More like stubborn.”
“They are often the same thing,” I mused.
Matteo’s mouth moved slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “The Armenians know she exists. We do not yet know how much they know, but two of their men have been seen near her apartment. Another questioned someone who worked with her mother years ago.”
“Why now?”
“Because Levon Petrosyan is losing ground in Sicily, which has started making him creative. The Petrosyans run an Armenian-Balkan weapons and transport network, and the Bellandi ports are the missing link in their route through the Mediterranean. Levon wants the ports, but more importantly, he wants leverage over my brother,” he paused. “Alessia is Raffaele’s only child,” he added.
A daughter an enemy could reach when her father couldn’t.
“Why doesn’t Raffaele come and deal with her himself?”
“If he leaves Sicily now, we lose Palermo within a week. If he pulls enough men from the island to secure her here in New York, the Petrosyans take the eastern routes. There is also the small issue of several American agencies taking an unhealthy interest in his travel plans.”
“So, he sent you then.”
“I can cross borders without causing an international incident.” Matteo paused. “For now, at least.”
“And Alessia will listen to you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then what do you expect me to do?” I asked.
“Keep her alive while she tells you to go to hell.”
“That is not much of a plan,” I replied.
“It is more than we have now.” Matteo leaned back. “Raffaele asks for her protection. I ask for your patience. If God is feeling generous though, perhaps we’ll even get a wedding.”
“I will protect her. I’m not agreeing to marry her.”
“Of course not.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“I have met Morozov men before,” he replied quickly.
I ignored that. “My debt will be paid when she is safe.”
Matteo’s expression changed then, the amusement disappearing from it. “Raffaele never considered what he did for you a debt.”
“He gave Mila back her name.”
“He did what any decent man would have done.”
“Most men are not decent,” I told him.
“No,” Matteo agreed softly. “They are not.”
He reached into his coat and slid a photograph across the table.
The woman in it stood beneath black-and-silver light wearing a crystal-covered bodysuit, sheer stockings, and a narrow black choker wrapped around her throat. Dark hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder. Her skin held the warm golden tone of her father’s Sicilian blood, but it was her eyes that stopped me. They were hazel and looked entirely unapologetic.
She looked into the camera as though she knew exactly what the person behind it wanted and had already decided he would not get it.
