by LP Lovell
“Don’t you have people for that?”
He turns to face me, tucking his shirt in and fastening his belt. “Sometimes, if you want a job done properly, you have to do it yourself.”
I flop down on the bed and stretch my arms above my head. He moves to stand in front of me, his hands casually thrust deep in his pockets as his eyes scan over my underwear clad body. “I’m very thorough in my jobs,” I say, smiling up at him.
He frowns. “No.”
I sigh and sit up. “If I don’t get outside soon, I’m likely to maim Gio very badly. I’m sure it’s handy if you’re right hand has...well, a right hand.”
His lips twitch slightly, amusement cracking that implacable mask. “Morte, you are supposed to be laying low.”
“That’s just it, I’m not sure I want to lay low.” He says nothing and I reach out, yanking his shirt out of his pants and sliding my palm over his hard, hot stomach. “We don’t run and hide. Battle lines need to be drawn, capo.” His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls it from beneath his shirt.
Bending over me, he pins both of my hands above my head. His lips are barely a whisper from mine. “And as much as I appreciate your loyalty, Morte, you are not leaving here.”
“Equal or prisoner, capo?” He tilts his head back and an exasperated breath slips through his lips.
He slowly brings his gaze to mine, and, for a moment, we simply stare at each other. “You are the only person in this world that could possibly be my equal,” he says arrogantly.
I smile and push up the last inch, touching my lips to his. He’s hesitant, his lips restrained and his body tense. I swipe my tongue over his bottom lip, and he releases my hands, grabbing my hips and yanking me down the bed until he’s pressing between my legs. His body hovers over mine, and I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. The scent of his cologne tinged with cigarette smoke wraps around me and I inhale deeply as he bites the side of my neck.
“You do not do anything stupid. You stay within three feet of me at all times.” He breathes against my skin.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re forgetting again.”
He pinches my jaw between his teeth. “Never.” His voice rumbles in my ear before he pulls back and stares at me. “I’m meeting with the leader of the Russkoye Slovo.” I roll my eyes. “And you cannot roll your eyes at him, or shoot him, or cut him…”
“Fine. But if you deal with dogs, people will see you as a kennel.”
“That makes no sense,” he says, pushing off me.
“It does if you are Russian.” I stand up. “What deal do you have with him?”
His eyes travel over my bare legs. “We’ll talk in the car.”
“Fine.” I go and get in the shower.
The city thrums outside the car window. Car horns blare as we sit in bumper to bumper traffic. I used to hate the city, the towering sky scrapers, the ignorant commuters, the way the people pour down the sidewalks like a river, the smells, the thick, putrid air. It’s a sensory overload, a nightmare for someone like me.
Foo Fighters blares through the car speakers. I glance at Nero, and he’s pressed into the back of his seat, his arm outstretched as he casually drapes his wrist over the steering wheel. He almost looks relaxed, except for the subtle tick of his jaw.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He turns to face me. “Nothing.”
I face the windshield again. “Lies.”
Neither of us says anything else as we wind through the stop-start traffic eventually pulling up outside an older brick building right by the Brooklyn Bridge. Tall windows are adorned with little flower boxes, and wide stone steps lead to a set of heavy-looking double doors. As soon as the car pulls to a stop, the door opens a crack and a younger guy in a smart suit comes rushing over.
I get out and Nero throws the keys to him before we walk up the steps towards the door.
I’m wearing a dress and heels, because apparently wherever this meeting is, is a formal occasion. There have been plenty of times when I’ve had to seduce targets and dress like a woman they’d happily follow to a secluded room. But I feel fake, a blade pretending to be a flower. In some instances, a flower is a good disguise, but in others, you want to be seen as something dangerous and life threatening. A knee length coat goes some way to hiding the baby bump. I know it’s pointless now, but showing it just feels like I’m pointing right at a soft spot and daring an enemy to stab me there.
Nero’s arm wraps around my waist and he pulls me into his side as we climb the steps. “You look beautiful,” he says, amusement in his voice as he twirls a strand of my hair around his finger.
“I have a gun and two knives on me. I will hurt you.”
He chuckles as he pulls the door open for me. I glare at him as I pass, but he just stares at my ass. “Don’t go stabbing anyone. Wouldn’t want to get blood on your dress.” I’m going to get blood on him in a minute.
We walk straight past what looks like a reception desk. The guy behind it stares at me and I can feel his eyes even as we round the corner. Another set of double doors open into a bar. It has that Old-world feel about it with wooden flooring and leather wing back chairs everywhere. There aren’t many people in here, but again, everyone stares at me as if I have two heads. Or maybe it’s Nero they’re looking at.
“Why are they staring?” I say under my breath.
He smirks. “They don’t see many women in here.”
I glance around again. There isn’t a single woman in here, and all the patrons are…of a certain ilk. “Brilliant, a gentleman’s club. I didn’t even know you could still pull that sexist bullshit anymore.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Wait, are they going to try and kick me out? Don’t they do fencing or some shit? Please let me challenge someone to a fight.”
“You’re blood thirsty today.” Jesus, if he felt like I do right now, entire cities would be on fire. “Morte,” he says softly. “If anyone pointed a weapon at you, I’d be forced to remove both his arms from his body.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“Hmm.” He places a quick kiss on my cheek, before he puts his hand at the small of my back and guides me to a table in the corner.
A small man with a greasy-looking comb over sits there, his expensive pinstripe suit looking out of place and completely cliché. He looks about mid-forties, with an edge to him. Evidence of a hard and violent life. But this man is Slovo, and they are bottom feeders, opportunists by nature, but never the ones to take a risk of their own. He lifts a cigar to his lips, squinting through the rising tendrils of smoke as he stares at Nero.
“Nero Verdi, in the flesh,” he drawls in a heavy Russian accent.
“Igor.” Nero responds.
The man turns his gaze to me. I see the flash of recognition, but he covers it quickly. “And who is this?”
“You know who I am, dog,” I snap in Russian.
He laughs. “Well, now I do. You are distinctive, Una Ivanov.”
Nero pulls out a chair for me, and I sit before he takes the seat beside me. “And you are forgettable in every way,” I say.
“Enough with the insults.” Nero chimes in, his tone bored.
“I was simply complimenting his lovely suit.” I smirk.
Nero’s hand lands on my thigh beneath the table, his fingertips brushing over the knife strapped to the inside. “Igor, here, wishes to bring guns into our city. Isn’t that right, Igor?” I don’t miss the ‘our’ and neither does Igor. His eyes flick back and forth between us, narrowing. Nero casually slips his packet of cigarettes from his pocket and slides one between his lips before lighting it. The snap of his lighter closing is the only sound as he waits for Igor to respond.
His hand lands back on my thigh and I glance at him. He raises his eyebrows and jerks his head towards Igor as he inhales a long drag. Maybe this is some kind of test, or perhaps, he just knows I’m bored.
“That’s a big ask.” I lean forward, locking eyes with the weasely little man.
“But you see, Igor, the lamb does not ask the lion for a favor, when all he offers in return is his own leg to chew on.” He opens his mouth to respond. “And I do not want your leg, so tell me, what do you offer?”
Igor places his cigar down and leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his chin. After a few moments, Nero clears his throat. “I’m not a patient man.”
Igor nods and places his palms flat on the table. The cigar sits in the ashtray in front of him, the smoke steadily rising in lazy streams between us. “I was going to offer you a new drug, but I give you choice,” he says in stilted English. “I can give you drug. Very good, new party drug. All the rage in Moscow. Or…” he lifts one eyebrow, a small smile playing over his lips. “I can become ally.”
There’s a beat of silence before I laugh. Nero remains silent. “What could you possibly offer us?”
He’s the one who laughs this time. “You are with him,” he changes to Russian. “Why? I hear that you are wanted, Kiss of Death. I hear that you killed Arnaldo Boticelli, then I hear that Nicholai is hunting you. And now I see you here, with Nero Verdi of all people. He seems very…attached to you.” He smooth’s a hand down the front of his jacket. “So, I ask you, are you loyal to the wolf, or your so-called lion?” The wolf. Only the enemies of the bratva call Nicholai the wolf, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say through clenched teeth, reverting back to English.
His eyes never leave my face as he takes a deep breath. “Yes, but what I cannot work out is why you loyal to him.” He jerks his chin towards Nero who seems almost bored by the conversation. “You are Nicholai’s pet.”
I decide to steer the conversation. "You have no loyalty to the bratva. This is known.” The Slovo have caused problems for the bratva in the past. My first solo kill was their former leader.
“I spit on them.” He scowls.
I turn to face Nero and he focuses on Igor for a beat longer before his eyes meet mine. “I do not trust him,” I say in Italian this time. “I told you, he is a dog, and he will turn tail the second someone offers him some better scraps.”
His lips tilt up, that easy confidence of his pouring off him in waves. He has this way of making me feel as though everything is possible because he’s Nero Verdi, and the world would stop turning if he willed it so. “This is personal for him. His father was killed by Nicholai.” I swallow heavily, because Nicholai doesn’t make his own kills. He sends his Elite. And now Igor’s name rings a bell. Igor Dracov, the illegitimate son of Abram Petrov, the former leader. My first solo mission.
“What do you want?” I ask Igor in English.
“I want Nicholia Ivanov’s cold dead body at my feet.” He smiles.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a minute. “Okay.” Standing up, I unfasten the buttons of my coat and part the material. “My loyalty is right here.”
His eyes go wide as he takes in the bump. “I thought the Elite could not breed.”
“Yeah, well, evidently that’s not the case.”
He looks from me to Nero before he laughs. “Oh, this will be good.” He leans back in his seat and claps his hands together, a wide grin on his face. “I offer you my help, Una Ivanov. On one condition: Nicholai dies.”
“What is your allegiance worth to me? The Slovo are small and inconsequential.” More like a band of rebels than anything else.
He huffs a laugh, picking up his now cold cigar and placing it between his lips. He lights it again and inhales. “No, the bratva think the Slovo is no threat and that is how we want it. Our numbers almost rival theirs, but I have many people buried in the mafia, quiet as mice. They listen. They see.”
“That’s settled then,” Nero says. He’s done with the conversation.
“Nero…”
“They are well connected, and they are motivated to remove Nicholai. If the bratva falls, then they can assume power.”
I narrow my eyes at him. What the hell is he talking about? He turns back to Igor and pushes to his feet. “I accept your proposal. You may move your gun shipment through the city, but keep it clean. If I have to get involved, you won’t like it.”
Nero reaches out his hand. Igor shakes it before holding his hand out to me. I grit my teeth and take it, forcing back the inner killer pushing to the surface. Whatever he sees in my eyes, it makes him drop my hand quickly.
“Pleasure,” Igor purrs, before walking out of the bar.
As soon as we’re in the car, I turn on Nero. “The bratva will never fall,” I say. The network is enormous, powerful and intertwined into even the government in Russia. It can’t be done. Though Nicholai is one of their key players and his death would be a blow; he will soon be replaced.
A knowing smile pulls at his lips as he starts the car. “Of course not.” That’s all he says. Damn, the man is so cryptic.
“‘Of course’ is not an explanation. Care to explain to me what is going through that crazy mind of yours.”
“My brilliant mind?”
I roll my eyes. “Nero…"
“Fine. Of course, the bratva will never fall, but if we kill Nicholai, they will have to retaliate. Someone needs to take that fall, and I can’t bring that back on the family. This has the potential to start a mafia war.”
“You want to ally so that you have a scape goat.” Damn, he thinks of everything. I can plan a kill to the letter, think of every escape option, every possible thing that could go wrong, but Nero takes that and does it on a massive scale, factoring in key players and entire organizations, gangs, and families.
“There is no point in killing Nicholai only to die a few weeks later. I intend for us to survive this, Morte. And you will rule this city with me.”
I laugh. “Not sure your father will approve of that.”
He pulls up at a traffic light and watches me, a wide smile on his lips. “I have a plan.”
I sigh. “Don’t you always?”
“Always.”
16
Nero
Planning. That’s all I’ve done for the last three days. I’ve barely seen Una because she’s been calling on her contacts in Russia while I’ve been calling on everyone, anyone who might help our cause. The simple fact is, Nicholai Ivanov is coming for us and we have two choices: hand Una over or fight. The first isn’t an option, which leaves us gearing for a war with a man who has his own personal army and more money, weapons, and influence than God. Not to mention he’s fucking insane and obsessed with Una. Of all the women in the world, I had to want her.
I swipe my hand down my face and look at the blueprints Gio has placed in front of me. I’m sitting on one of the sofas in the penthouse office and he’s sat across from me. Una is pacing backwards and forwards, cracking her neck as though she’s about to go on a rampage. Gio flashes me a nervous glance and I smirk. She’s decided she hates him, and he’s now the target of her rage, of which there’s plenty.
“So the only way in is via the vehicle bay?” He points at the blue print. Turns out Igor was useful. His people managed to give us accurate plans of Nicholai’s military base, not that I think it will do us much good. The only plan we have is to go at him head on.
Una sighs and turns to face us, bending over the coffee table and bracing her palm against the wood. “The base is guarded well. This is the only road in.” She says, stabbing the paper with her finger. “It’s exposed, with only a tree line on one side. They can see you coming from miles away. There’s a guard tower with a .50 Cal machine gun and armour piercing bullets, as well as RPGs. Any unauthorized vehicles are taken out,” she says, raising an eyebrow. Gio looks at me, his brows pulled tightly together. “If you get past that gate, you are left with an impregnable, nuclear blast-proof bunker. And yes, it has only one entrance, and that is the vehicle bay which is heavily guarded by Elite. I could take you right now while I’m carting around a football, Gio. You don’t stand a chance against one of them, and you are proposing walking into their fucking base, wher
e they live and train, where they will be armed to the hilt.” She turns away and resumes pacing, dragging both hands through her hair.
“Do you have a better plan?” Gio says. She turns and glares at him. The air buzzes with the promise of blood, and I can practically hear her ticking, ready to go off at any minute.
“Yes! I had a better fucking plan until you two idiots decided to drag me back to New York!” She goes to the window and braces one palm against it, dropping her head forward as she clenches and releases her fist at her side.
“Gio, give me a minute.” He nods, gets up, and walks out of the room. The door clicks shut, leaving a tense silence in its wake.
I stand and move over to the window, studying the profile of her rigid back. “Do not make me the enemy, Morte.”
She rests her head against the glass and it mists with her breath. “I feel like a sitting duck.”
“Perception, Morte. If you think you are a bird waiting for a bullet, then the bullet is sure to find you. We are strategizing, being smart and forming a plan that will actually work. You cannot fight if you believe the war is already lost.”
“Nero,” Curling her fist against the glass, she lets out a groan, “your confidence is not going to win this for us.” She turns around, bracing her back against the window. “You have to go to your father.”
“No.”
“You are the underboss. We need the backing of the mafia.”
“We’re talking about a mafia war. And I would be asking him to start it in the name of what? The Russian woman who killed our own.”
“We have gone backwards and forwards over every conceivable plan. At the very least, we need the mafia’s protection in the aftermath, even if we can pull this off with limited numbers.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “If we kill Nicholai, pin it on the Slovo, and have the Italians protection, we will be safe. The Russians won’t want a war either. Without it, we are a bird waiting for a bullet.”
I sigh. “You don’t understand…”