“Kisa,” her name tastes like blood. I spit and realize that the flavor isn’t all in my head—I must have bitten my lip sometime during the trip here. The warm moisture I feel dribbling down my chin must be the reason why Luciano backs up a step as I shoot him a glance over my shoulder. “Is she why you haven’t attacked me yet?”
He keeps his face blank. “Did you kill her? I wouldn’t put it past you—”
“If you believed I was a threat, you wouldn’t have let me through the gates,” I point out. “And if you really gave a damn about Antonio, I don’t think you’d be interested in chatting to his murderer.”
His eyes narrow a fraction—I hit a target, though I’m not sure which one. Maybe the fact that he obviously wasn’t as loyal to Antonio as he wants me to think.
But he does care about the girl—and if he truly thought I’d hurt her, he probably wouldn’t be so friendly.
“You let me go,” I add, raising an eyebrow. “Why? Did you think the famiglia needed a change in management?”
“Fuck off.” He spits on the ground, his gaze unreadable. “Maybe we didn’t think you’d be so fucking dumb as to come here alone. It’s five against one, Don. All I have to do is say the word.”
“Then say it,” I snap to no response.
The silence alone proves my hunch was correct—so much for staging a trap. Despite the show of force, Luciano isn’t willing to risk an outright firefight. He’s concerned for the Salvatore girl, or maybe that’s his excuse. Objectively, he doesn’t have much to mount an attack with, assembling barely enough members to form a welcoming committee.
“I’ll tell you why you haven’t shot me,” I declare, thinking out loud. “You can’t take the risk. Sure, I killed Antonio, but he wasn’t in the running for boss of the year, I’m assuming. The mafiya isn’t known for being the most welcoming of outfits. Mischa would consume the famiglia rather than align with it. Which means that you aren’t in a position to be picky when it comes to allies.”
How tragic. As stoic as he tries to be, Luciano’s narrowed gaze proves I’m right. I’m not the only one who’s been diminished in the shadow of the mafiya. Without Antonio’s leadership, the best the famiglia can look forward to is being picked off by a rival faction or making a power play of their own. To do that, they need leverage—something I might have. Either way, another potential ally, even a murderer covered in blood, is better than nothing.
“You need me,” I say, to sum it up nicely. I don’t know why, but I can’t silence a laugh at that realization. It rings out hollow, echoing on the morning chill only to trail off as I approach the trunk and hook my fingers beneath the lid. I lift it slowly, hissing through my teeth as light falls over the two small bodies curled within the compartment, one blond, the other dark-haired.
They’re lying side-by-side, the girl whimpering while the blond…
I tense, expecting her to lunge at me, nails drawn, like she had during our first meeting. Instead, she grabs the child’s hand, a simple motion that conveys more than any words ever could. She has enough space to jump from the trunk and run if she wanted to. I’ve seen her in action; she’s more than capable of making a decent attempt at escape on her own.
Instead, she’s focused on protecting the weaker entity.
From me.
I blink as if struck, and it takes a second to dull the guilt slicing through my chest—a long, fucking second. In the end, I banish it with a sharp shake of my head. Then I reach for the smaller girl, grabbing her opposite wrist. She whimpers fearfully, her bottom lip trembling.
As the blond stiffens, I catch myself snapping, “Let go.”
Her eyes flit up to mine, and I can practically see the battle taking place beneath her skin. Muscle straining against restraint. Logic warring with instinct. Her lips pull back from her teeth in a feral expression I doubt she’s even aware of. She wants to fight.
I know the feeling.
A second ticks by. Then another before she finally lets go.
I tug the girl out without resistance, easily pulling her into the men’s line of sight.
“Kisa Salvatore, safe and sound,” I snarl, releasing her.
Some of the tension leaves Luciano’s jaw, an observation I note for later. Meeting his gaze, I ask, “Are you going to invite us inside?”
Luciano stiffens, an eyebrow raised. “I thought you were an upstanding businessman,” he sneers, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Better than all of us. You stepped down for a reason, correct? Only to return like a prodigal son. And what? We’re just supposed to fall into fucking line?”
He has a good point.
Without answering, I turn on my heel, rubbing at the stubble on my chin as I try to decide the truth for myself. The booze is wearing off, making my thoughts clearer. Why am I here? Why now?
Amid the swirling chaos and pain in my brain, one coherent thought tumbles out. Revenge. Retribution. Petty rage. Whatever the fuck it’s called, I feel it in the pit of my very soul. I think I always have, but I won’t run from it like I have for the past seven years.
God, I want to indulge in it.
I need to.
This, I realize, is the only thing keeping me going—payback.
Taking a glance around the yard, I home in on the rotting, dried-out husks of lumber stacked haphazardly across the place. The more I look, the more painfully obvious the state of disrepair becomes.
If I hadn’t already killed Antonio, I’d strangle the bastard a second time. Only an idiot would shoot himself in the foot by neglecting the main financial arm of his operation. To be fair, I’m the bigger dumbass who left him in charge.
Irritation aside, at least he did leave one useful thing behind, something that might help turn the tables on Mischa. I slip my hand into my pocket, finding the small device I managed to salvage from my successor. In it, hopefully, lies the key to finding out who he ordered to put a hit out on the Stepanovs.
And if not?
I haven’t thought that far ahead.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Luciano snaps. “It’s a beautiful fucking day to waste my goddamn time. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that—”
“Tell me something,” I say, directing my voice toward the men behind him. “What has the famiglia become under Antonio Salvatore? Don’t tell me that four fucking men is all you could muster to guard the very heart of the operation.” I don’t even have to look at their faces to know I hit the truth on its head.
I only have to inhale. Shame has a certain stench to it, more potent than lighter fluid and blood.
“You’ve lost your standing,” I say, raising my voice. “Your position in the world, forced to kowtow to someone like Mischa Stepanov for a seat at the table. All while Antonio pillaged the coffers and spent your money on his fancy-ass mansion. Pathetic.”
“Antonio wasn’t the only one pining for a seat at Mischa’s table,” Luciano points out coldly. “We’ve all heard the rumors about how you’ve chased his protection.”
I put my back to him, facing the side of the car, and my own reflection once again. He’s right—and as I stare into a pair of soulless dark eyes, I realize what a foolish act that had been. To grovel at the foot of a monster and demand mercy.