27. Vanya
27
VANYA
E veryone is in high spirits, walking like big cocks in the yard.
I wish I had this confidence.
The day of the gala dawns and I am helpless. For days, Pyotr has been inundated with meetings, special visitors. Not even bothering to return a single text.
And we have been given orders not to come to the compound. To remain on our break until after he is crowned “king.”
But at least we can go put on airs at the event center.
Ciro looks incredible in his tux, a dark blue number with a black shirt, black bow tie. With his hair finally trimmed and styled, he is honest to goodness like a supermodel.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he replies to my compliment, undressing me with his eyes as we enter the limo.
“Keep looking at me like this and we will take the long way…”
“I’ve always been fashionably late.”
We sip champagne, continuing our taunts on the drive. For a moment, I forget that we are on the verge of a war. That we are heading into a veritable invitation to anyone who would challenge my uncle and the brotherhood.
It’s almost enough to steal my desire for Ciro.
Almost.
“Right there…” he mumbles as I ghost my lips over the rim of his ear. His fingertips trace goosebumps over my sternum, deep into the revealing neckline of my dress.
Then his phone buzzes.
And again.
Then mine.
We pause, staring into one another’s eyes for a second. Before scrambling for our devices. With Alessandro’s visit and the imminent danger of Ero looming over us, we are both a little frayed around the edges.
“Oh, thank goodness. It is Fyodor. He says security is flawless. No signs of infiltration or threat.” Because I have bugged Fyodor for days about this. He is back on his feet, against all odds. And against the doctor’s judgment. With Pyotr safe, at least for the time being, I cannot blame him for wanting to be present and on duty.
I just wish my Papa would extend the same courtesy to me and Ciro.
Ciro. Who is still sitting next to me, not moving, staring at his phone. With stuttered breath, he turns the screen for me to read.
Last chance, mio fratello . Run. Clock is TICKING.
I practically roll over the bench seats to the window, banging until the driver rolls it down. After a vicious command and a threat in our language, I return to my seat and the car accelerates. We must reach the event quickly. Warn them and search for Ero.
And hope that his text does not mean what I think it means.
“We must change. This will not do for fighting.” I drag my go bag out from under the seat, filled with gear and clothing.
“You rocked that shit in Marrakesh.” Ciro wags his eyebrows, wiggling out of his jacket.
“Then you can wear skintight dress and I will change.” I snip, throwing my dress in his face.
“You aren’t wearing anything under there.”
“What would fit?” I flirt, slipping on underwear. I watch his disappointment as I cover myself.
“Me.”
Soon, my love.
* * *
“What are we looking for?” Fyodor marches along, barely limping. How he is on his feet is beyond me. The man is machine.
“A car that shouldn’t be here, a man in a black mask. He will likely not wear it though, to blend in.”
“Great. So needle in haystack.”
“Yep. Can’t you use your thermal vision to just locate the…um, you know, bomb ,” Ciro mouths the last word, eyeing passing guests as we rush into the building.
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Fyodor growls, watching the crowd.
“How was it working with JCVD?”
“Who?”
“Jean-Claude!”
“This is another Dolph Lundgren reference.”
“A… Universal reference.”
“I hope bomb only kills you.”
“I hope your barber goes to hell for his crimes.”
Somehow, I do not even roll my eyes. This is just the way they are. The way Ciro is. We are running headlong into danger, so he must focus the way he does best. By pissing off Fyodor. It works in both ways. Fyodor is even more ruthless and precise when he is mad.
“You do not have a photo?” Fyo grimaces, scanning along the balcony level over the main gathering. “My men do not know what to look for.”
“He has hair as black as your soul, eyes to match. Maybe recently dyed. Could be wearing contacts.”
“Fucking useless.”
“Either of us will know him when we see him.” Ciro is becoming frustrated. Tapping his foot. We need a clue.
“He has a scar on his neck, here, in this shape,” I point, drawing the icon on the back of Fyo’s hand.
“At least one of you knows how to gather intel.”
“I’ll gather your ass up off the floor after I kick it.”
We roam, drifting apart a bit in our search. Yet in a crowd this size, it’s no use. The majority of the Bratva and their guests are oblivious. Enjoying drinks, chatting. Everyone mingles, trying to work their way toward where I know Pyotr is posted up.
He is the center of all attention tonight.
Surrounded by guards.
But those guards will not matter if the building gets blown sky high.
I am debating heading down into the garages to begin a search when a commotion near the entrance draws my attention. More guests.
However, the crowd is agitated.
Pointing.
Ciro catches my eye from across the ballroom, shaking his head in question. I meet his eyes before looking back at the doors. Right at Adil Abas and a contingent of soldiers. And right over his shoulder, jet black eyes.
Ero’s lips twitch in a hint of a smile.
And he vanishes into the crowd.