Chapter 22
SAINT
I’m not used to being without my brothers.
For the first time since we’ve taken over running the Andriani family, I’m flying solo. It feels like walking bare-assed naked down a bustling city street, no piece, totally defenseless, waiting for the hail of bullets to rain down and take me out. But I don’t have a choice.
This shit needs to be dealt with head on, and Lucky needs to stay at the safe house in case something goes sideways.
Scorpion… Well, I have no idea where he is, other than a cabin upstate, or what the fuck he’s doing with Ekaterina Sidorov, and at this point, that’s probably for the best. He has no cell service, so I gave him strict orders to get his ass to somewhere he has bars and check in with me three times a day.
He sent me a smart-ass text this morning, and I’m sure the next one will be the same.
But right now, I’ve got other business to focus on.
The surprise meeting I called for our capos is about to start.
We’re in a warehouse on the edge of the city, a meat-packing joint that smells like death.
It’s cold, dank, and miserable, but the metal roof and thick walls make it impervious to cell service.
We’re guaranteed privacy. As for comfort?
Not so much. We have an oblong conference room table and some busted-up office chairs, and that’s about it.
I stare at each of the faces of the capos who run our empire for us across this city and beyond.
They’re good men. Loyal. Smart. They understand respect.
They’re also, by the looks of things, more than a little worried.
I understand their concern. It’s not every day that a Bratva bomb takes out our restaurant.
“Shit’s going sideways with the Russians.
Word is that the old Pakhan is no more, and Mikail Sidorov is back in the States.
He’s taken control of the Bratva.” I pause, letting that sink in before I continue.
“A significant sting operation swept up at least twenty of their guys. Illegal gambling, racketeering—they’re throwing the book at them.
The problem with that is, someone told the Bratva that we ratted them out. ”
A chorus of dissent rises among the men.
I hold up my hands, placating. “Look, you’re preaching to the choir. I know that none of us would have turned rat. We know what happens to rats, don’t we?”
They nod solemnly.
I don’t have to put it into words for them. If I were to find out that any one of them was responsible for this colossal fucking mess, I’d march them into the meat-hanging room, hang them on the nearest hook, and slit their wrists to let them bleed out.
Rats get dead. That’s what happens to rats.
“So,” I say slowly, “do any of you have an idea where Mikhail Sidorov would get the crazy idea that the Andriani family was responsible for sending his men to jail?”
They talk among themselves for a minute, and I allow it, watching each of them. Nico Colletti looks a little nervous, shifting in his chair.
“Colletti,” I bark out. “You got something you want to share with me?”
“Could be nothing,” he hedges.
“Or it could be something,” I point out, gesturing for him to step off to the side so we can speak privately. “Over here.”
We move to the edge of the room, leaving the other capos to their own devices.
If this is intel, the fewer people who know it, the better.
I trust our capos, but the fact is that if any one of them gets pinched, the incentive to roll and dole out information in exchange for immunity is going to be higher than Mount Everest.
“Tell me,” I order Colletti when we’re out of earshot.
“Joey Bones Panzeri, the Revello soldier that I took on when the families joined…” Nico allows his words to trail off and then shrugs.
“He rubs me the wrong way. One of my crew said he overheard Joey talking about something big a few weeks ago. He assumed it was a shipment or a game. But maybe it was the sting.”
I turn the information over in my mind, pieces of the puzzle starting to click together. Joey Bones was a fringe member of Amedeo the Animal’s circle, but he swore loyalty to the Andriani family when the Animal was killed and Priest united the families.
“Maybe Panzeri wanted some revenge and thought he’d get it this way,” I muse, passing my hand over the spiky stubble on my jaw.
“The timing of all this stinks of an inside job. No one but the family should have known Priest would be away getting married and on his honeymoon. For shit to go sideways with the Bratva at the same time…”
“What are the odds?” Colletti finishes for me.
Not good, and we both know it.
I nod. “Start watching Panzeri twenty-four seven. We’ll feed him bad intel and see if it gets leaked.
I want you to tell him about a big poker game that’s happening tonight.
Make it clear that it’s going to be high stakes, in the millions, and that it’ll be rigged.
Give him the location of the empty warehouse down by the river. Don’t tell anyone else. Got it?”
“Got it, boss.”
“Good. We’ll monitor the warehouse and see what happens.” I hold out my hand, and Colletti shakes it. “Let’s get back to the meeting.”
I stalk to the head of the table, relieved there’s at least a lead to follow. And the more I think about it, the more promising it sounds. If Joey Bones Panzeri was responsible for this shitshow, we’ll catch him, and he’s going to pay.
As I finish up the meeting, I remind our capos to steer clear of Bratva territory and to be on the lookout for retaliation. “Keep your heads down and your noses clean for the next few days.”
They agree and stand, starting to trickle out of the meeting room, comparing notes with one another.
The bodyguards I’ve been traveling with all day, Sammy and Vinny, step up and cover me as I head out to the G-Wagon awaiting me in a side alley.
The second I’m in the back of the armored G, I make the call I’ve been dreading.
It takes four rings, and I’m half expecting to be dumped into voice mail, before Priest picks up.
“Frattore mio. What’s up?” He’s out of breath, and if this were an ordinary call, I’d give him shit and ask him if he was too busy with his woman to answer the phone.
But this isn’t an ordinary call.
“I have some news.” Wincing, I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off an impending headache.
“Tell me.” His energy changes on a dime. The relaxed, carefree honeymooner disappears, and in his place is the ruthless don.
I launch into an explanation, telling him almost everything that’s happened over the last week since we’ve been back in the States.
Including the part where Scorpion went off-grid with a Russian Bratva princess after they bombed our restaurant.
I deliberately leave out the mess of Antonella and our half sisters.
There’s only so much I can dump on him at one time.
“What the fuck, Saint?” he bursts out when I’m finished. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going down before now?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin your honeymoon.”
“A little too late for that,” he mutters grimly. “I’ll leave here as soon as I can. Just hold tight until I get there.”
“Will do.”
I hit the End button like I’m trying to put a hole through my phone and then exhale the breath I’ve been holding, feeling like an utter fucking failure.
My phone rings again, and I answer without bothering to glance at the screen, assuming it’s Priest calling back. “If you changed your mind and you want to stay in paradise instead of coming back to this hellhole, I completely understand.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then a voice laced with a Russian accent drawls, “Where the fuck is my sister, Andriani?”
Well, shit.
Not Priest.
I hold my phone away and see that the number is an unknown one before bringing it back to my ear. “Sidorov.”
“You can call me Pakhan.”
That confirms it. Sidorov has taken over.
“I think I’d prefer to call you the bastard who blew up my restaurant,” I bite out, hand tensing on the phone.
He makes a tsking sound. “I heard about your restaurant. Such a shame, that bomb going off. They say the building will have to be razed. Moi soboleznovaniya.”
I have no idea what the fuck he just said, but I’m sure it’s something condescending.
“Come off it, Sidorov,” I snap, having no patience for his bullshit.
I don’t care if he’s the new Pakhan. I don’t even give a shit if he plucked out Ivan Aleksandrov’s eyeballs with a spoon and then ate them for breakfast. We’re the Andriani family, and we’re not going to stand for these bastards frightening our women and bombing our restaurant. This shit stops here.
“Come off what?” Sidorov’s voice is sly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“One of your goons knocked out my guards yesterday, broke into my apartment, and handcuffed my woman to my bed.”
Calling Isla my woman came naturally. I didn’t mean to claim her, and especially not to this conniving prick, but it’s too late to call it back now. And I have to admit that the possessive asshole in me likes calling her that.
Mine.
“Your woman? Pozdravleniya, Andriani. I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not,” I grit out. “Look, enough small talk. You set off a bomb in an Andriani establishment. You’re going to have to pay for that. The last thing we want is a war with the Bratva, but you’ve left us without many options.”
“So that is why you stole my sister? Because you ran out of options? That may also be why I steal one of your sisters. Or maybe even your woman. What would you think of that, I wonder? Maybe Isla Davenport would like a real man to show her what she’s missing.”
My blood goes cold at the threat. Sidorov is speaking cheerfully, like he’s talking about his plans for a Christmas holiday instead of waging war against innocent civilians. He is also making damn sure I’m aware that he knows exactly who Isla is. The fucker probably already has a file on her.