Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Nicolò
Cristiano is standing at the door to his house when I arrive. No welcome, no pleasantries.
“Was it you?”
He knows me too well.
I got away with not disclosing the truth to Bambalina because she has a soft heart. She doesn’t want to see the dark side of Nicolò Di Santo, so she doesn’t. Cristiano has seen it more times than he probably cared to. He knows exactly what I’m capable of.
What he doesn’t know is what my motivation was, and he will never know that.
My protection of Lina doesn’t end with two bullets in the back of Alessio Bellucci’s head.
I still owe it to her to protect her reputation, the esteem in which she’s held by her family.
I’ll be the secret lover if it keeps her safe.
“Yes, it was me.”
He grinds his jaw softly, then beckons me inside.
When we reach the kitchen, regardless of the fact it’s not even midday, he pours out two whiskeys and pushes one across the island to me. “Why?
I take a long swig and wipe a hand across my mouth. “Because I knew this alliance was never going to work with Alessio at the helm. He never had our interests at heart and he was a na?ve, egotistical asshole who thought he could rule the world by befriending the Russians.”
Cristiano watches me patiently, waiting for the rest.
“Not only that, he was in a relationship with the fucking help. Can you understand how humiliating that was for your wife’s sister?”
“There was no way I could have known that,” he says with a sigh. “How did you know Alessio was meeting the Russians?”
“Fiero told me.”
Cristiano turns his head and shoots me a sidelong glance. “Nicolò, we don’t know him.”
“We know him well enough. He gave me a tip and it was spot on. He showed me his client list and he was right—the sons have more influence over New York than Alessio ever had. Forming an alliance with the Bellucci’s was a good call, Cristiano. We just picked the wrong Bellucci.”
He lowers his glass and braces two hands on the surface of the island. “So, now you’re proposing we align with Fiero?”
“Yes. He has intelligence on one of the Russian soldiers that could buy us an immense amount of power.”
“What kind of intelligence?”
I drag my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to curb the sadistic grin. “Security cam footage of him getting fucked royally—by another man.”
Cristiano drifts a knuckle across his lips. “That ought to do it.”
I take a sobering breath because I haven’t discussed this next part with anybody and I behaved above my station. I can only hope Cristiano agrees it was the right thing to do. “In return for getting the Bratva to back off, we’re giving him a site in lower Manhattan.”
His eyes pop. “What?”
“He wants to expand the club. He wants into Massachusetts too.”
He rubs a hand round the back of his neck. “Seriously, what?”
I shrug. “Come on, Cristiano. He could have asked for a lot more. And we could use those contacts too. His client list is hot.”
His brow dips to a frown. “You should have talked to me first.”
A small note of exasperation works its way into my tone. “I tried.”
We stare each other down and in this moment I feel like he’s seeing me for the first time as a truly formidable capo, not just a cousin who’s earned his stripes and does as he’s told.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I shouldn’t have made those decisions alone. I should’ve listened to you.”
“Yeah,” I shrug. I’m not letting him get off that easily. “But it’s worked out okay, and Lina is home, where she belongs.”
“You’re a good brother, Nicolò.” His tone softens. “You always were. I’m glad you got the chance to prove it to yourself.”
I inhale a long breath. “Yeah, well…”
My phone buzzes, rescuing me from the awkwardness of acknowledging I’m not actually that good of a brother, and I see a message from Fiero.
“He’s been served.”
I look up at Cristiano. “Morozov has received the footage.”
Cristiano folds his arms, narrowing his eyes. “So, now what?”
I push the phone back into my sweatpants. “We wait.”
He nods and his gaze drifts, no doubt thinking through the implications of all this for our men.
“Can I crash here tonight?” I ask. “I want to give Lina some space with her family.”
His gaze drifts back to mine. “Sure. Anytime, Nicolò. You can stay here anytime.”
The rest of the day is taken up with informing our capos of the change in plan.
There will be no Bellucci men helping us fight.
Instead, we lay low and play a waiting game.
Morozov will realize how threatening the footage of his capo is to the stability of his clan and call off his damned dogs.
Then we can go about the business of rebuilding everything they broke, and strengthening our resilience on the streets so this doesn’t fucking happen again.
New York is ours. Bambalina is ours. No one is ever taking them away.
I go to bed early for the first time in my life because I can’t wait for morning. I’m itching to hear Morozov’s response, and I’m aching to see Bambalina.
The second I wake up, I check my phone. The sight of a message from an unknown number makes my heart beat faster.
I swipe the screen and blink. There’s a grainy photograph staring up at me. It’s hard to see what it is. Rubbing my eyes, I peer again, closer this time.
Then I see it, and my mouth fills with the precursor to vomit.
Bound to a chair in a nondescript room, her eyes red raw, gag tape around her mouth, is Bambalina. My stepsister, my soulmate, my undoing.
And below the picture, one line.
“Two can play at that game, mudák.”