by Shandi Boyes
After a quick shake of my head to remove the negativity inside it, I ask, “Do you know who she’s related to?”
When Brandon takes in Isabelle’s photo, his throat works through a brutal swallow. I didn’t have Smith age my photograph. I kept it simple and to the point. Even the date in the far corner remains.
My lips twist when protectiveness vibrates out of Brandon in invisible waves. He looks like he’s about to blow his top, and he has everyone, including Rocco, paying careful attention to every expression that crosses his face. A man only projects this level of fearlessness when he either wants to fuck the woman he’s protecting, or he’s related to her. There’s no in-between.
“Ah… so you do know who she is.” Even knowing Isabelle isn’t causing the ruckus in Hopeton I pretend she is, hopeful it will have Brandon on the back foot. The more Feds I have nibbling out of my hand, the quicker Fien will be returned. “If she is what this is about…” I motion my head to the hole in the wall I used to line up my target, “… we’re going to have issues. This isn’t Russian territory—”
“She has nothing to do with this. I don’t even know if Isaac is aware who her father is.” His mortified expression is priceless. It makes me laugh. It isn’t a hinged, sane man laugh. It shows just how deeply I’ve dived down the rabbit hole the past few weeks.
With my mood now hostile, it’s an effort to act unaffected by it, but I give it my best shot, mindful Brandon and I aren’t on the same team. We weren’t when his team helmed the operation that had my daughter’s whereabouts unknown for months. We won’t be when I fix the injustice of his mistakes. “Bring me everything you have in five days. If I find it satisfactory, I’ll share some hard truths with you.”
“And if it isn’t?”
My smile should tell him everything, but just in case it doesn’t, I expose exactly what will happen to him if he double-crosses me. With my hand shaped into a gun, and my eyes slitted, I press my fingers to his temple and mimic the sound of me blowing his brains out.
“Five days, Brandon. Don’t keep me waiting.”
I make it out of the tight opening easier than I did crawling into it. That might have something to do with the deflation of my ego. I stormed up here loaded and ready for carnage. I leave without a single drop of blood being shed. Some may say it’s because I’m maturing, and with that comes greater understanding.
My testimony wouldn’t be anywhere near as polite as that. I’ve always been a grumpy, surly bastard, but it’s been worse the past few weeks. I don’t know why. I’m used to people disappointing me. I just never figured Roxanne would be added to the long list.
“Boy in blue on your nine when you exit.”
As I make my way through the narrow corridors of a Chinese restaurant like I own the place, I jerk up my chin, advising Rocco I understand his command. Boy in blue is his nickname for Detective Ryan Carter. He’s one of the rare good ones around here.
It doesn’t make us friends, though.
While breaking through the rickety back entrance of a restaurant on the outskirts of Hopeton, I put on my game face. I’m weaponed up, ready for war, and heading straight toward a man who won’t take bribes no matter how hard I push him. I’d let you call me insane if I wouldn’t have to kill you for it. “You know you’d get more action if you placed yourself amongst the riffraff.”
Ryan smirks. It’s as cool as his blue eyes. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve witnessed from sitting back and watching the shit unfold.”
“From what I’ve heard, that isn’t your style. Not now, and not when your daddy took his failures out on your momma.”
That changes the expression on his face in an instant. He looks seconds from killing me, the only reason he doesn’t is because there was nothing but respect in my tone when I spoke. If the rumors are true, if he gunned down his father like Rocco did his, he earned my respect. It takes guts to go against the man who created you—strength I’ve yet to garner.
“Between me and you, he deserved it.” Ryan doesn’t deny my claims, assuring me he believes the same thing.
Over our pointless chit-chat, I lift my chin in farewell before making my way to the tank Rocco is camped out in. I’m halfway there when the quickest warning stops me in my tracks. “They’re not the only Russians you should be watching.”
I have no clue who Ryan is talking about until he inconspicuously nudges his head to my right. A novice would immediately glance in the direction he nudged. I was born for this industry, so you can be guaranteed I won’t make a rookie mistake. I’ve only done that once. It cost me everything.
After slotting into the passenger seat of a prototype vehicle I had customized to withstand war, I instruct for Rocco to take the long route home. He doesn’t ask questions. He just strays his eyes to the side mirrors as swiftly as mine, aware I only ever say that when I’m suspicious we have a tail.
We’re almost at the end of the street before a vehicle parked a few spaces back from our original location pulls off the curb. From the outside, it appears to be a car an underpaid federal officer would get around in. It’s basic, modest, and has tinted windows. Regretfully, the plates aren’t government-issued. Smith was quick to run the tags through the system the instant Ryan pointed out I had an admirer. The modest thirty-thousand-dollar ride is straight off the lot. It was purchased with cash.
“Head for the tunnel. It can shelter a body for a couple of days.” I’m not in the mood to play games. As Rocco said, we play to play, we kill to kill, and we take down any fucker stupid enough to get in our way. This fucker is in my way.
While Rocco leads our prey to his final resting place, I remove the tripod and scope from my M4. I could use the weapon stuffed down the back of my trousers, but this will be more fun. An M4 wound shows precision and skill. My gun just blows people’s brains out. After the shit few weeks I’ve had, I need to flex a bit of muscle.
“Pull over here, then continue on.”
Although disappointed he will miss most of the action, Rocco does as instructed. He’s been a little quiet the past four weeks like Roxanne’s silence stung his ego as much as it did mine.
Once the taillights of Rocco’s ride are far enough away for our lead to continue the chase, I sink myself into the marshland on the side of the road, unfearful an alligator may be lying in wake. Even prehistoric creatures aren’t stupid enough to go against a madman with an M4.
As the blue sedan rolls down the asphalt, I take aim at his front passenger side tire. I don’t want the flip to kill him. I want that pleasure to be all mine.
Pop. His tire is taken out with a clean through-and-through, and as predicted, it causes his sedan to cartwheel. It somersaults down the isolated road before it comes to a dead stop mere feet from me.
I’m up and out of the marshland in an instant, my movements replicating those of men born for carnage. I am dripping wet, peering down my gun’s barrel, and ready to execute my third foot soldier this week. The only reason I hold back desires greater than anything I’ve ever experienced is because the man hanging upside down in the cab of his car, aiming his gun at my head, has a highly recognizable face.
Some may say he’s the real brother of Nikolai Popov.
I’m the only one who knows that’s far from the truth.
If DNA chooses your enemies as it does your family, Rico Popov should be Nikolai’s number one enemy. The war between the Popovs and the Perettis has been running longer than both of them have been born, and despite his last name, Nikolai is a Petretti, and I have the DNA evidence to prove it.
Nineteen
Dimitri
Rico’s dark eyes lift to Rocco when he places down a set of keys for a white Range Rover on the desk separating us. Rocco isn’t impressed I’m gifting one of our prized fleet to the enemy, but replacing the ride I totaled is the least I can do after all the information Rico unknowingly shared with me the past couple of hours.
It’s disappointing when you learn how far your father is wil
ling to stoop for revenge. However, it’s also cathartic. My father has never given a shit about anyone but himself.
If it had the possibility of making him rich, he ran with it.
If he had to stomp on his family for it to occur, he still ran with it.
If it came with the risk of killing every single person with his blood, he still fucking ran with it.
Nothing stopped him, not a single thing, so you can imagine my surprise when I learned who his revenge centers around. He didn’t bring the law into a war they don’t belong in for his own benefit. He did it for Ophelia, the only daughter he ever acknowledged as his own.
His show of chivalry was years too late, but it’s better than it not happening at all.
“I’ll talk to my father.” My words are as bitter as the bile in the back of my throat. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my father since our canceled meeting weeks ago. Usually, I’d relish the silence, but Rico’s unexpected trip to this side of the country exposes that would be stupid for me to do. My father is making costly mistakes, blunders that could cost him more than his empire. They may even cause my demise. “But I should warn you, my father’s interest in Isabelle isn’t the only one you should be paying attention to.”
Rico arches a thick brow but remains silent. His respect sees me offering more information than I planned to give.
“Isabelle has been spotted numerous times with Isaac Holt the past couple of weeks.” I twist around the tablet Smith uploaded a range of long-range surveillance shots onto while watching Rico’s face to see if Isaac’s name registers as familiar.
Although his jaw gains an involuntary tick, his expression remains somewhat neutral. “I’ve heard of Isaac before. He’s not of interest to me.” His approval is shocking. However, it has nothing on what he says next, “If you heard any of his conversation with Albert this afternoon, you’d know why.”
It isn’t what he said that shocks me. It’s how he said it. It had a protective edge to it. It could be because he believes sheltering Isaac will keep his long-lost sister safe, but I have a feeling that’s only part of his reasoning.
“It isn’t Isaac I’m warning you about. It’s his baggage.” The altering of his facial features I was seeking earlier occur this time around. I’m not surprised the shockwaves of a mafia princess’s death spread across the globe like wildfire. It’s why even without proof of life, I’d still know Fien is okay. Women in this industry are valued as useless until they’re being torn between two men. Then it’s a free-for-all. Nothing is off-limits.
Deciding it isn’t my place to make my sworn enemy’s jobs easier, I get back to the reason Rico is surrounded by over a dozen men with body-maiming weapons. “Meet-ups without prior knowledge isn’t something I take lightly.”
Rico smiles as if my tone didn’t have an ounce of bitterness. “We advised of our arrival. Your father suggested for it to occur in Hopeton.”
I want to call him out a liar before showing him exactly what happens to men who double-cross me, but there’s too much honesty in his eyes to discount. He has the eyes of Satan. They’re just minus the pure evilness his father’s have.
“What was the business about?” We’ve talked shop the past two hours, but since Rico’s focus was solely on my father’s trek across the country to rile Vladimir about having contact with his favorite whore’s daughter, Isaac’s meeting with Vladimir’s number two went unmentioned.
My jaw almost cracks when Rico replies, “Nothing that concerns you.” As he stands from his seat, he does up the middle button on his business jacket. “Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.”
He laughs like his life isn’t on the line when Clover forcefully places him back into his seat. His chuckles sound fake, but the mask he’s wearing is anything but when he threatens Clover with the edge of a psychotic man. He’s young, but this industry has aged him as much as it has me. “If you think Dimitri is the only one who removes fingers when you touch something you shouldn’t have, you need to be taught a lesson on how my family operates.” He cranks his head back to face Clover. Considering he’s seated, and Clover is standing, there should be more distance between them than there is. “But since this isn’t my turf, I’ll offer leniency. Don’t expect another one.”
Like the paid soldier he is, Clover continues pinching Rico’s shoulder until I advise him otherwise. Several men circling us should take note of his obedience. They’re getting thirsty for a bloodbath, which also means they’re becoming ignorant of the rules. I’d pull them immediately into line if their disrespect didn’t come with benefits. It’s amazing the tales men tell when they’re coked out of their minds. They are almost as perverse as a mafia man unknowingly dropping information he didn’t mean to give.
“Guy’s punishment was handled in-house…” I walk around my desk, then prop my backside on the edge. I’m close enough to Rico, I could kill him with barely an effort, but not quite close enough he can smell the annoyance pumping out of me. “So how do you know about it?”
Guy wouldn’t be game to go against me, and a majority of the bidders had left before his punishment, so I’m eager to discover exactly who tattled about an in-house operation.
I shouldn’t have bothered keeping my distance. Two towns over could smell the putrid scent excreting from my pores when Rico cocks a brow and says, “You don’t really believe your sweet ole Pa traveled all the way to Vegas just to rub salt into my father’s wound, do you?” Although he’s asking a question, he continues talking as if he didn’t. “Rumors are there’s thirty-million dollars on the table over this side of the country. He only wants ten percent for a finder’s fee.”
If it were any other man but Rico sitting across from me, I would have taken the humor in his voice as a threat. The only reason I don’t is because thirty-million dollars is chump change to him. This kills me to admit, but the Popovs are riding the high of not being saddled down with the shit my father doused our family name in decades ago. It also gives reason for Nikolai’s lack of interest in his true birthright.
My voice is almost violent when I switch tactics for the third time today. “Theresa Veneto organized Isabelle’s placement in Ravenshoe because she has similarities to my deceased sister.” With Smith on the ball, I show Rico a side-by-side comparison of Ophelia and Isabelle. Excluding their hair, eyes, and skin tone, they don’t have much in common, but I’m hoping Rico is too bogged down with revenge to notice. “Isabelle was supposed to persuade Isaac into spilling secrets. Instead—”
“She fell in love. You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already heard,” Rico interrupts, his tone bored.
“So you know about Theresa’s plan to go after Isabelle?” I’m bluffing. I haven’t had contact with Theresa in weeks. I’m just assuming that will be her next move since all vindictive cows operate the same way. “We can only hope things don’t end as badly for her as they did your mother.”
Now I fucking have him—hook, line, and sinker—although he tries to deny it. “My mother died of an overdose.”
“If you believe that, I guess you also believe your father’s claims he’s a king.” Rico watches me with unease when I move back to my side of the desk to gather a set of documents from the drawer. They’re the sworn testimonies the film documentary producer lodged with the Bureau years ago. He swore until he was blue in the face that Felicia wasn’t a drug addict. “Your mother didn’t have a single track-mark on her arms during filming. The documentary was filmed only months before her death.” I show him stills of the footage that proves what I’m saying. “The coroner’s report states—”
“Coroner? What fucking coroner? Other than moving her off the kitchen floor days after her fucking death, Vladimir wouldn’t let anyone touch her.” The violence in his roar exposes his agitation, but it’s also proof he’s looked into his mother’s death before. He wouldn’t do that unless he were suspicious his father wasn’t telling the truth.
“Your mother was murdered, Rico, and I’m reasonably sure
I know who did it.” I’m once again stretching the boundaries of truth, but when you are desperate, you’re desperate. I’m fucking desperate. “However, I’m not going to tell you a thing until we’ve reached an agreement.”
“Only a fool sides with his enemy.”
I brush off his anger as if it doesn’t have any sting. “Not when it’s for the greater good. This is for the greater good.”
The fret on Rocco’s face when I laid down my first set of cards weakens as I reveal my final hand. It isn’t an image of the person I believe is responsible for Rico’s mother’s death, it’s a photograph of my daughter. If her angelic eyes and face can’t prove to him this is bigger than anything we could have ever imagined, nothing will.
“That’s my daughter, Fien. She will be two in a little under three months, and I’ve not yet laid my eyes on her in person.” Before he can voice one of the questions I see in his eyes, I add, “Because she was taken by the same man who killed your mother.”
It’s the fight of my life not to rip Fien’s photograph out of Rico’s grip when he lifts it off my desk, but I manage—somewhat. I’ve tried every angle I can the past twenty-two months. I’m running out of options. My desperation could backfire in my face, but would the blow-on effect be any worse than what I’m currently facing? I doubt it, so I’m willing to give it a shot.
After staring at Fien’s chubby cheeks for a couple of seconds, Rico raises his dark eyes to me. “What do you need?”
Twenty
Dimitri