“If you’re going to be a miserable bastard, you shouldn’t have sent her away.”
Kaz liked to think his brother meant well, but at the moment, he was contemplating shooting the man in the fucking face just to get him to shut up. It didn’t matter that Violet had only been gone one week, four days, six hours, and seventeen minutes—not that he was fucking counting—he was ready for her to be back. It also didn’t matter that he was hardly home as it was. Just knowing that she wouldn’t be there when he was only annoyed him further.
Now, he was arguing with himself as to whether or not he had made the right decision.
But the quicker he got this done, the faster she would be back home where she belonged—her and their baby.
Rus smacked the back of Kaz’s head then waved his hand in front of his face. “Earth to fucking Kaz, come in, you idiot.”
Glaring, Kaz shoved his hand away and asked, “Do I look like I’m in the mood for your shit today, Rus?”
“Doesn’t look like you’re in the mood for anything but self-pity. There’s shit to do, Kazimir. Did Alfie ever get back to you on that question you asked him?”
An errant thought had plagued Kaz over the length of his recovery—how could Vasily get as close as he did with no one noticing. Kaz didn’t think for a second that it had been because of the Chicago family or Rus—they hated the man as much as he did. And though Alfie liked to straddle the fence, he wasn’t Vasily’s biggest fan, either.
Which could mean that someone within the Bratva was aiding Vasily.
It made sense. Not everyone had been happy with Kaz taking over—especially those who were closest to his father, but he hadn’t found anything back then. No one was stepping out of line, or at least, that was what he thought.
They were better at hiding it than he originally thought.
But no matter how long it took, he would find each and every one of them.
“He did,” Kaz said glancing over at his brother. “But he didn’t give an answer, merely an address. That was why I needed you to come to me—we’re supposed to be meeting him in an hour.”
Rus frowned, even as he followed behind Kaz toward his car. “I don’t see how you trust someone like that.”
“Like what?” Kaz asked absently, shoving the key into place and starting the engine.
Rus tapped his thumb against his armrest, appearing thoughtful. “A man with an allegiance only to himself. However this ends, he doesn’t give a shit—he does business with both sides. He has nothing to lose.”
“Have a little faith,” Kaz said, merging onto the interstate as he followed the directions on his phone. “I know who Alfie Shelby is. Don’t worry, his loyalty is to the highest bidder.”
“And you think Alberto Gallucci can’t outbid you?” Rus asked with a dry stare.
“He could,” Kaz acquiesced, “but there’s more value for Alfie in my business contacts than in the Italians’.”
“Right.”
Rus didn’t sound as though he fully agreed with that, but he would just have to trust that Kaz knew what he was talking about. After all, he had been working with Alfie for years now, though this knowledge wasn’t widely known. Between his father not wanting to do business with Alfie at all and Rus no longer having such an active role in the Bratva, he had kept the information more to himself.
After about forty-five minutes of driving, Kaz pulled into what looked like an abandoned school, the brick of the building marred with age and graffiti. Circling around the back—where his car wouldn’t be as visible from the street—he parked beside a shiny black Escalade, pocketing his keys as he climbed out.
Rus wasn’t far behind as they entered the school through the rear door with a broken lock. Though the interior was dark, the hallway smelled strongly of mildew and something else he didn’t want to think about—or step in—but a light glowed in the distance, a clear direction for them to go in.
They weren’t halfway down the hall before a zap sounded, followed by a man’s agonized scream.
“Fucking hell,” an accented voice—Alfie’s—said. “Quiet down.”
The moment he was in the room, Kaz’s gaze centered on the man roped to a chair, his feet submerged in a large aluminum tin of water. In nothing more than a pair of black briefs with a blindfold over his eyes, the man was trembling. Kaz realized with a blink that either the man was sweating profusely or he’d been purposely drenched.
But besides his current predicament, Kaz was more focused on the man’s tattoos. He might not always remember faces, but he remembered the ink that defined who they were.
Three domes of a Russian cathedral in the center of his chest, a pair of stars beneath his collarbone, and an assortment of others with less precision along his arms and even a few on his legs.
Denis was his name—one of Vasily’s men from the old country.
Thinking back, Kaz couldn’t say he had ever really liked the man.
“It’s about time, innit?” Alfie called as he stood, tapping his cane against the floor. “I was starting to think you lot weren’t going to show. Then all of this,” he said, with an absent wave to Denis, “would have been for nothing.”
Kaz arched a brow, looking from Alfie back to one of his own—or at least a man he thought was supposed to be one of his. It was then he noticed the silent man standing behind Denis holding what looked like jumper cables in gloved hands.
Alfie, apparently, had brought in a generator and hooked up not only the bright spotlights that were beaming down onto Denis, but he also decided that electrocution was the way to go.
Couldn’t say the man wasn’t creative.
“It’s about time you cleaned house, eh?” Alfie asked as he took a step closer to him, but not close enough that he would be splashed with water. “You asked me to find your traitor, so here you are.”
“What proof do you have?” Rus asked.
Denis’ head jerked blindly in his direction when he heard his voice.
“Would you not take my word for it?” Alfie asked with a casual air, though anyone who knew him knew nothing was casual about the inquiry.
Despite being the youngest in the room, Kaz also seemed to be the most rational as he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a silent command to let him handle it. “You know the way we do business, Alfie. We don’t act unless given a reason. Now, answer the question.”
From his breast pocket, Alfie produced a small tape, holding it up with two fingers. “Didn’t think to bring a camera, mates. Sorry ‘bout that.”
Kaz narrowed his eyes, knowing that someone like him wouldn’t have forgotten a detail like that. Alfie wanted to see what he would do next because the tape could very well hold the truth, but Kaz had no way to verify it at the moment.
He would either have to trust that Alfie was right about the man he held hostage, or he was wrong, and they would have killed Denis for nothing.
Fucking Alfie.
“My associate seems to think you’ve betrayed the brotherhood,” Kaz said in Russian as he turned his attention to the man in the chair. While he knew that Alfie could understand what he was saying, Denis would think this was a private conversation.
Sucking in a ragged breath, one ripe with the agony he must be feeling at the hands of Alfie and his associate, Denis muttered out, “I wouldn’t. I never—”
“But is it the brotherhood, or my father, you mean?” Kaz asked cutting him off.
Denis hesitated, though only briefly, but in that short span of time, Kaz could see the way he had caught himself before he told his truth—one that he knew would end with his death.
Already knowing his answer, Kaz said, “Tell me where he is and this ends quickly. Don’t, and I’ll test how long the human body can suffer before it finally dies.”
“There are others,” Denis said on a rush of air. “He would know you were coming before you ever got close.”
That didn’t surprise him, not even a little. “Where is he?” he asked once more.
The stoic man at his back pressed two cables together, the sharp sound of electricity charging the air echoing. Denis rushed to answer. “The only place he could go where you would never look.”
“Russia,” Kaz said.
“No, Chicago.”
“Not possible,” Kaz denied with a shake of his head. “If he would have gotten within twenty miles of the state line, I would have heard about it.”
“Reginald Collins,” Rus said speaking up, like the answer had just dawned on him.
“The mayor?” Alfie asked, sounding impressed.
“He wasn’t a mayor when he needed a favor,” Kaz explained. “Just a young politician. He’s been in my father’s debt for years—seems Vasily finally called it in.”
“Looks like we’re going back to Chicago,” Rus said as reached for his phone. “I’ll give the Boykovs a call.”
“What do you want to do about this one?” Alfie asked once Rus was out of the room. “You can’t just let him go, can you?”
He waved for his man to come forward. Undoubtedly, he’d have the man toss the cables into the water until Denis burned to a crisp, but before he could, Kaz pulled his gun free, aiming it at the man’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger. His head drooped on his shoulders, and his body went slack—Denis was dead.
“Well, you’re no fun. Where’s the creativity?” Alfie asked, looking disgusted at the idea that all the killings for the day were over.
“You’re not running this show, Alfie,” Kaz said as he re-holstered his weapon and smoothed out his jacket. “Understand that.”
Silently counting backward from ten to keep the rising nausea at bay distracted Violet so much that she didn’t notice the town car slowing down before it pulled off to the side of the road. It would be just her luck that the only time her morning sickness seemed to make an appearance was when she was in the backseat of a car.
Also, morning sickness was a myth.
It was more like whenever-the-fuck-it-felt-like-it sickness.
Apparently, hers felt like it was appropriate to make itself known inside moving vehicles.
Violet was lucky today—no one but the driver delivering her to yet another thing her father demanded her presence for was there to notice she wasn’t up to par. And the driver had only raised an eyebrow at her when she fumbled for the power window latch, only to find it was locked.
Thankfully, he’d figured out her request and unlocked the windows in time.
The day was saved.
She didn’t woof her cookies all over the leather interior.
This time, her mind taunted.
Violet took a deep breath, counting back from ten once more as a shadowy figure moved closer to the vehicle and her door. She wasn’t sure how much longer she was supposed to keep this fucking charade up, but it wasn’t looking good on her end.
Hiding the pregnancy was one thing.
She could handle that.
Her family—her father, on the other hand—was not stupid. It would only take a couple of missteps, then someone would have her current predicament all figured out, and she’d be screwed.
“Hurry, topina, we’re already running late,” Alberto said as Violet’s car door was opened wide, exposing a sidewalk that was mostly quiet for the part of Manhattan they were in. “I sent Timothy after you a good hour ago—what happened?”
“Traffic,” Violet lied, sliding out of the car.
Alberto peered down the street devoid of heavy traffic. “Oh?”
“Sure.”
That was her story, and she was sticking to it. There was no need to explain that she hadn’t felt like getting out of bed to play pet to her father and whoever he was entertaining for the day, so she had ignored the driver’s calls to her new cell phone.
A cell phone provided by Alberto.
“You look wonderful,” Alberto praised, his sharp gaze taking in the modest, navy blue dress Violet had grabbed out of the closet to throw on. It was the closest thing to the door when she realized just how late she actually was—the tag on the inside of the collar said it was one of her mother’s dresses in her collection. Even her clothes were being picked for her, technically. “Except your face. You’re a little green.”
Coldness washed through Violet’s bloodstream fast and harsh. She was positive that if there had been any odd color to her cheeks from fighting off another bout of morning sickness, it was now replaced by a sheet of white.
“Fine, Daddy. I’m perfectly fine.”
Violet had turned back to the car as she’d said the words, hoping that her father wasn’t watching what was left of her color drain from her face. She reached inside and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she turned back to her father with a smile she knew would distract him.
If only for a moment …
Alberto’s eyes were still nailed on Violet, unfortunately. “If you’re not feeling well—”
Violet laughed, smiling a little wider even though it hurt her cheeks to do so. Whatever it took, right? Whatever she needed to do to be safe and then get back to Kaz.
She could do this.
Leaning up, Violet pressed a quick kiss to her father’s cheek. Alberto smiled at the action, but he was still watching her.
Maybe a bit too much.
Violet doubted for even a second that her father would call her on the lies. He liked her compliance too much to ruin it.
He thought she was stupid.
Alberto forgot the most important thing about the two of them.
She was his child.
He’d taught her well.
“I’m fine,” Violet promised. “And we’re late.”
“We are. It’s an important day, Violet. Try not to mess that up for me, yes.”
He didn’t pose it as a question.
She didn’t really need the reminder, either.
Violet let her father lead her down the street toward a restaurant she recognized as belonging to a family friend. And by “family friend,” she meant one of her father’s men. The closer they came, the quieter Violet was as her father tucked her hand into his arm at his elbow as if to keep her in place at his side.
It wasn’t as if he’d let her do much else from the moment she showed back up on his doorstep. She’d even noticed that Alberto chose to do more business at the mansion than he usually would since she returned. It was almost as if he believed the less time she was out of his sight, and the more time she spent away from Kaz, whatever spell she’d found herself under would simply disappear.
Who knew?
The times when her father did manage to speak to her, it was usually to order Violet to do something Alberto wanted her to do. What he never did, however, was acknowledge what she had done.
Kaz. Chicago. Lying. Running.
All of it.
For whatever reason, Alberto was sweeping it under the rug.
Or so it seemed.
Violet didn’t trust her father, and she didn’t think it would all be forgotten in the way Alberto was making it all seem as if it would.
“Who are we having lunch with again?” Violet asked.
“Friends.”
“Anyone I know?”
“People you know will be there,” Alberto replied, glancing down at his watch as they rounded the restaurant steps. “Carmine is here, obviously. To learn.”
Violet’s brow knitted together at that omission. She knew better than to ask questions, though. Alberto wouldn’t answer one if she did ask him.
“Where’s Andrea?”
Alberto waved a hand high, waving off the question as his attention focused on the door opening for them. “Your mother is somewhere.”
Violet took note of the fact Alberto hadn’t called her out on using her mother’s given name. While she could pretend with Alberto, Andrea Gallucci was a whole other story. Where Alberto would stay quiet and punish Violet from afar with his silence and demands—not that Violet minded the distance—Andrea had no qualms with being vocal.
That was … when others weren’t around to hear her spewing her hatred.
No surprise.
The first time her mother had muttered puttana under her breath had been a bit of a shock. Violet simply smiled and shrugged in response.
What the hell else could she do?
“This way, Mr. Gallucci,” the man said. He was dressed in a simple black uniform with a tablet in his hands, much like the other servers milling between the fancily decorated tables they passed. He led them straight through the main dining room to a semi-private section at the back, blocked off by a partial wall and sheer curtains draped in such a way that the layers made it difficult to see through. “We’re only waiting on one person.”
“Which one?” Alberto asked.
“One from the other side, of course.”
Alberto smiled thinly. “Of course.”
Violet wasn’t quite sure what to make of the strange interaction, but all seemed to be forgotten as the server waved them in to where Violet found her brother waiting at the table with another gentleman. A man that was, guessing by the deep lines in his face and graying hair, closer to her father’s age.
Carmine didn’t stand when they entered the private area, but the older man did, stepping back from his chair and offering a hand to Alberto.
Violet thought she knew what the action was meant to do—she’d seen it play out a dozen times before whenever she attended dinners her father had put together. It was a sign of respect for a man in a lower position to take Alberto’s hand and kiss the signet ring he wore on his middle finger.
That didn’t happen this time.
Instead, Alberto took the man’s hand and they both gave a slight nod and nothing more.
Alberto dropped the man’s hand without a word and reached for the chair at the left side of the table, nodding for Violet to sit. She did and pulled in the chair herself as Alberto took the empty seat at the right hand side, directly across from her.
There would be no distractions for her.
Not with Alberto in a prime position to both watch her and the table without even having to turn his head to do it.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” Alberto said, gaze turning on the older man to his left.
“Carmine was barely eighteen,” the man agreed. “I think I liked him better then.”
Carmine barely looked up from the glass of amber colored liquid in his hand, but he did manage a smirk of sorts. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that, Accardo.”
“Carmine.” Alberto’s tone dipped a single cadence as he said his son’s name, a ring of warning chasing fast behind. “We’re among friends.”
“Because you need those now,” Carmine replied, deadpan.
Violet was … lost.
“Car—”
“Now, now,” the man interrupted, a chuckle forcing its way past his false smile. “It’s fine, Alberto. He’s right to be … hesitant.”
Still, Alberto gave Carmine a quick look and said, “Friends, figlio.”
Violet was never more thankful for an interruption than when the server returned with wine and water balanced on a tray. She opted for the water, knowing damn well she couldn’t drink, even if it would make the dinner pass by faster.
Once the server was gone again, Alberto’s attention was back on his guest. “It’s been a while, Angelo. What have I missed since the last time I visited Philly?”
For some reason, Violet felt like there was a secret passing around the people at the table, but it had skipped her completely. Her brother was watching her from the corner of his eye, his glass tipped high for him to sip from. The conversation between her father and this … Angelo Accardo … continued in the background, as if they were old friends catching up.
“And you, Carmine,” Angelo said loudly, breaking Violet’s train of thought, “you were married and didn’t even bother to send us an invitation, my boy. Imagine my surprise.”
Carmine’s sardonic smile melted away. “It came about kind of fast.”
Alberto coughed at the head of the table. “Yes, and we certainly needed the distraction.”
The way his gaze cut to Violet again, she knew without a doubt he was talking about her little episode with Kaz and running off to Chicago. Apparently, that was when Nicole and Carmine’s wedding had taken place, though no one talked very much about it.
It made Violet wonder if someone had something to hide.
The wedding couldn’t have been just a distraction for the public to keep the attention off the fact Violet had taken off with Kaz.
No one got married to distract others.
Right?
“Well, congratulations are still in order,” Angelo said, holding his glass of wine high. “Congrats, Carmine.”
Carmine held his own glass up in response, but hesitated on his words as his gaze focused on something—or rather, someone—behind Angelo. Violet followed her brother’s gaze to find yet another stranger dressed impeccably with golden rings adorning fingers. The disinterest on the man’s face was clear as the server moved just beyond his form in the entry to introduce him.
He looked no older than Carmine was, and if he was, it couldn’t be by very much. He was good-looking and filled his suit out well. His posture spoke of confidence and arrogance, while his scowl spoke of attitude and a lack of patience.
In a blink at the sight of the newcomer, Carmine’s disgust and irritation was suddenly back. It was almost as if he’d smelled something bad and got a taste of it all at the same time.
“Get on with it,” the man snapped at the server.
Violet blinked at the rudeness in the man’s tone.
Carmine didn’t seem surprised.
Angelo, however, sighed. “Son …”
“Caesar Accardo,” the server muttered.
The man was quick to disappear again.
Caesar.
The name felt … familiar. Somehow.
It was surely appropriate for the man if his temper and behavior was any indication. He certainly acted like a fucking tyrant or so it seemed.
“Get a chair, son. Say hello, and sit down,” Angelo said without even turning to greet his son.
Caesar took the chair next to his father, the one closest to Violet, and directly across from Carmine’s position. He offered Carmine a cocky grin. “Long time, no see, Carmine. It’s been what—three years?”
Carmine’s features barely changed from the stone mask he now wore. “Has it been that long? How’s Tiffany? I haven’t talked to her since I kicked her ass out of my place. Is she still jerking you off under the table at family dinners?”
“Carmine!” Alberto barked. “That is enough.”
Well, Violet supposed she didn’t need the wine as she watched her brother and Caesar glare at one another from their respective positions.
This dinner just got a whole lot more interesting.