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But something snapped inside of me when Doug told me the man who jumped my wife in an alley was carrying a fucking neurotoxin.
And worked for fucking Kodra.
I’m guessing now after that recent back and forth with Bella that the second time my room was trashed was also Kodra. I mean, my mattress was slashed open. That’s not Bella being a pain in the ass. That’s someone looking for something, or trying to send a message, who happened to come in after Bella was there harmlessly pranking me with notes on my mirror and gay porn stuffed under my pillow.
Yeah, maybe all this happened before the wedding. But right now, I don’t care. The blind, cold fury I’m feeling right now is something I’ve only ever felt toward threats directed at my family.
Somewhere along the way, without my permission, without me even realizing it, that’s what Bella has become.
My family.
And Kodra is about to learn that I am the last motherfucker on Earth whose family you fuck with.
There are only two obvious guards standing and smoking outside Sofra, the Albanian restaurant on Morris Park Avenue in the Bronx. But there are about thirty more not-so-obvious ones in leather jackets and gold chains once I stride through the door.
Doesn’t matter. There could be a thousand fuckers between me and Kodra, and I’d still be marching toward him like I am right now.
A few heads turn. A couple of people look puzzled as they clock the obviously non-Albanian guy cutting right through the restaurant.
But when I start making a beeline for the table at the back, the whole fucking place erupts. Chairs crash over as men surge to their feet. By the time I stop in front of the table, I have two dozen gun barrels pointed at my head.
“Hello Bashkim,” I growl at the huge guy sitting at the table in front of me, a big cigar stuck between his lips. “We need to a have a fucking chat.”
Slowly, Bashkim Kodra raises his dark eyes to meet mine.
Kodra is truly a huge human being. I’m six-foot-five, and even though he’s sitting, I can tell he’s probably near my height. He’s also broad as a fucking linebacker, with a weathered, brutal face and scarred, meaty hands. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, several heavy gold chains, and his fedora has wisps of silver hair sticking out from underneath it.
A napkin is tucked into his shirt, but the food in front of him looks untouched.
That's probably because he’s been too busy with the small, ashen-faced man kneeling on the floor next to him, both hands trembling as they lie flat on the table in front of the big man.
I know he’s been busy because Kodra is holding a wet, red pair of pruning shears, and the man with his hands on the table appears to be short a pinkie finger…which I spot a second later lying on the floor.
For a second, Bashkim looks genuinely surprised. He cocks a brow, his gaze slowly dragging down my frame and then back up to my face as a touch of amusement colors his eyes.
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh as he sets the shears down on the table. He flicks his hand, and instantly, two of his guys are dragging the nine-fingered guy away.
Kodra takes a slow breath and sits back in his chair.
“Are you armed?” he growls in a heavily accented voice.
“No.”
He smirks. “Do I need to check?”
“Do you think it would matter with thirty guns pointed at me?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He turns to one of the guys pointing a gun at me and speaks to him in Albanian. The guy nods, holsters his gun, shoves my arms up, and starts patting me down. When he’s through, he nods at Kodra.
“Not a single weapon.” Kodra smiles darkly at me, sucking on his teeth. “I'm almost insulted.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so rude as to pay you a visit without bringing something.” I glance at the guy who just patted me down. “Can I reach into my jacket pocket, or would you rather feel me up again?”
The guy scowls at me, then opens my jacket, reaches inside, and pulls out the manilla file folder. Kodra eyes it and nods, and the guy shoves it into my hands.
“What is that?” Kodra mutters in a low, gravely tone.
