Chapter Twenty-Five
Misha
“So now what?” I ask, as I join Dimitri in Chiara’s living room. “This is pointless, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re here.” I point toward the black SUVs which still remain in front of her house.
Dimitri pulls out his phone, and speaks to someone in Russian. Why the hell didn’t I just learn the damn language? A young man, nearly as tall as me, enters through the front door. Then Dimitri turns to me, and orders, “Max will take your motorcycle. Give him your keys.”
Somehow I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What’s your plan? Do you think they’ll believe I’ve gone, and come here to burn her house down?” This is why I’m paid the big bucks to kill people, because I don’t come up with shitty plans.
He eyes me for several moments, as if he’s not three inches shorter than me and he’s not looking up at me. Then he shrugs. “What would you do, Misha?”
I take a deep breath, and tell him what I think we should do. “You and your men take different routes to my house. When you arrive, call me. I’ll head that way.”
Dimitri looks thoughtful for a few seconds, then nods his understanding. “And lure the Moretti family into an ambush at your place?”
I nod. I don’t really want my apartment to be destroyed, but I’d rather it be mine than Chiara’s. She obviously treasures her things, even if she can’t keep them picked up and organized. Me, on the other hand, I don’t give a shit about possessions or money. There’s only one thing I care about, and that’s Chiara.
“I agree. I like the plan. I’ll see you soon,” he says, before he reaches out his hand to shake mine.
I take it, and realize there’s more to the handshake than just the plan. I know my worth, and I know how valuable I will be to the Federov heir. I am committing myself to him, and his organization. I will be obligated to return this favor in the future. I shake his hand, and commit my life to him in order to keep Chiara safe.
“Thank you, Misha,” he replies, as he stares at me. I can see he is planning how to use me to further his own interests. I will not be able to say no to him. Then he smiles, turns his attention to his men, and speaks to them in Russian. Soon, he and his men are headed out the door.
I wait several moments after they leave, standing at the window to watch for any other movement outside her house. I finally see a white sedan drive by, with two men in the front. The passenger seems to be staring at her front door while talking on his phone. They turn right at the end of the block, but after a few moments I see them park across the street.
I should do something. I should walk over there. This is war, and if I go over there and confront them or hurt them, I’m doing it to protect my woman, the love of my life, from men who intend to hurt her. I’m a killer. I kill people. Why am I having second thoughts?
I walk toward her front door, and as I’m about to open it I hear the unmistakable pop of a silencer. Then I hear another.
I grab my gun and open the door, expecting to find someone shooting at Chiara’s house. Instead, I recognize two of my father’s men walking away from the white sedan. The men inside, who were watching her house, are now deceased.
I hope my father leaves his men here to guard her place. Someone will need to keep an eye on things here. These won’t be the last men Moretti sends.
War has been declared. God help us.
*****
I lock her back door, and set her alarm, before I climb onto my motorcycle. I drive from her apartment to mine, a trip I’ve taken countless times in the past three months. For fifteen years I’ve tried to go unnoticed. For three months I’ve hoped the Morettis had no idea I was anywhere near Chiara.
Now, I want them all to know, so I can somehow lure them away from her.
I try to remind myself this is not my fault. The blame lies squarely on her father’s shoulders. If he had only kept his promise to keep Guilia safe, maybe Chiara would have…
Have what? Actually gone through with a loveless marriage to Frankie Moretti? While keeping me dangling on a string on the side, until she got tired of me?
No!
I would never have let it happen. There was no way I was ever going to let her marry anyone but me. Not after I saw her, after I knew her. Not after I fucked her. She was born to be mine, and I was born to be nothing except hers.
A loud pop pulls me out of my thoughts, but this time I know what it is immediately. I lose control of my motorcycle, and although I try to pull it to the side of the busy street I can’t get it to do what I want. The front tire is fine, so it must be the back tire. Fuck!
I put my feet down, hit the break, and stop it. Somehow I keep it upright, but it slides to the right so that it’s sitting sideways in the middle of the street. That’s when I see the car behind me has stopped about ten yards behind me. It’s a dark gray sedan, with two men in the front.
Well this is it. Time to get my hands dirty, I guess. I move my long leg to climb off the bike, and let it fall to the ground. I pull my weapon at the same time. The men don’t even get out of the car, they just put their hands out the windows and begin shooting. Do they really think they’ll get a good shot at me that way? I wonder if either of them have ever shot a gun before. I’m surprised they hit my tire. Hell, they were probably aiming for me, and missed. I take aim at these idiots through the windshield, and take two shots. They stop shooting. They stop breathing.
They weren’t really threatening me, because there was no way in hell they were going to hit me. But their stray bullets could have killed an innocent bystander. I probably saved some lives. I should get a medal from the mayor. I stride toward the car, my gun still trained on it. People are honking their horns, but I block it out.
That’s when the car starts moving. The fucker didn’t put it in park before he started shooting. This is not good. Before I can stop it, it rolls to the left and hits a car in the opposite lane. Thankfully the idiot’s foot was on the break, and not the gas. I doubt anyone was hurt, but at least it will probably create a diversion so I can get away.
I leave my motorcycle helmet on as I take off running toward an alley. No one will be able to ID me, they only see a tall man in black leather, with a helmet and gloves. No one will even know the color of my skin. The VIN number on the bike has been removed, and the license plate is fake. The cops will never be able to trace it to me. Once I’m far enough away, and don’t hear anyone following me, I ditch the helmet, the jacket, and the gloves in a dumpster, and as I step out onto the sidewalk I look like a different person.
I grab my phone and dial Dimitri’s number. “I need a ride,” I bark into the phone when he answers.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at…” I begin, but I see a black SUV stop near me, and a man in a black suit step out of the passenger seat. Then he opens the rear door, and my heart stops momentarily, before it begins to pound in my chest and pump adrenaline through my body.
“Get in, Ivanovich.” I’m staring into the dark brown eyes of Frankie Moretti.
“There’s no fucking way I’m getting into that car with you, Moretti,” I spit out. The blood is pounding in my ears, so loud I almost can’t hear Dimitri.
“Where are you, Misha!” he demands.
“Not smart sending your goons to attack me on a busy street, in broad daylight, Moretti.” How are all of the mob bosses I know not half as bright as I am?
“They were only supposed to slow you down, so that I could catch up with you.” His eyes rake over me, taking in my height, my messy hair, and my jeans. I can see he finds me lacking. It would be his mistake to underestimate my abilities based on the way I dress, and he wouldn’t be the first powerful man to do it.
“Then talk. I’m listening,” I call out. Then I murmur, “Chauncey street near Howard,” before I close the line. Now I have to stall him until Dimitri’s men get here.
“I have an offer for you, and I don’t think you’re in a position to refuse it,” Moretti says, as if he’s in some mob movie. His voice is emptier than I expected it to be, and so are his eyes. How could a man like that even think about someone as vibrant, as bright as Chiara?
“Then let’s talk inside the coffee shop across the street,” I reply. “It won’t take long.” Then I stop myself. I’m fairly certain that three months ago I was nearly as hollow as Moretti. But he’s been around Chiara, has known her for years. How could he not allow some of her light to touch him? On the other hand, Moretti is staring at the man who stole that light from him. Now that I think about it, neither of them looked very happy to be around each other. Aren’t engaged couples supposed to smile occasionally?
“I am going to talk, and you are going to listen to me,” he practically snarls.
“I’m still not getting in that fucking car.” Does he think I’ve stayed alive this long by being a total idiot?
He’s still gazing at me, and suddenly I see fury in his eyes. Apparently he’s not used to being told no. After several moments of seething, he finally says, “Kill Dimitri Federov, and you can have Chiara.”
I’m so tired of this bullshit. “I should inform you, asshole, Chiara isn’t something you can give me. She’s a person, not a commodity.” I hear tires squeal, and I see a black SUV approaching from the east. It’s Dimitri’s men, I assume.
“Watch your back, Ivanovich. You’ll never be safe in this city,” he says, before he closes the door and the car speeds off, right before the other arrives.
That’s okay, I never liked this fucking city anyway, and neither does Chiara.
When the darkened window goes down, I see the driver, and I’m stunned.
Then Natalya calls out to me, “Don’t just fucking stand there. Get in the car, dumb ass.”
I sigh loudly, chuckle to myself, and stride happily to the waiting vehicle. I open the passenger side door, and climb in. I’m shocked that no one is with her.
“Were you going to take on the Moretti clan alone?” I ask her as I buckle my seat belt.
“Fuck no. I have you,” she says with a grin before putting the car in drive. “Where to?”
I smile back at her, and answer, “My place.”
“Don’t you dare say this family doesn’t take care of its own ever again,” she lectures me as she does an illegal u-turn right in the middle of the street. “I really hope your Italian is worth all this.”
“She is.” I believe it, and I have to make my sister, and the rest of my family, believe it too.