Chapter 5 – Ivan
Mancini: You’re sick. Stay home today.
Me: I feel perfectly healthy but thank you for your concern.
Mancini: Going near my family is bad for your health. You’re already at risk for a deadly illness.
Me: Good thing I drank my OJ this morning.
Mancini: I mean it. Don’t come.
I didn’t leave the theater until I secured an invitation to the Wednesday morning farmer’s market.
That choice was threefold. The kid was surprisingly fun to be around.
He spent a portion of the middle of the film sitting next to me, jabbering about film.
I didn’t understand half of what he whispered, but his attention was an interesting relief.
I liked kids, but I didn’t foresee a future where I had any more of my own.
Second, the invitation was another excuse to be near the mesmerizing flower, who brought a book to the movies and proceeded to drive me crazy with each accidental touch.
I wanted to be around her again, spend more time studying her and peeling back the layers that I’d only begun to sense existed.
She wasn’t shy and timid as she had first come off.
There was a depth to her personality that intrigued me.
But finally, and this was the icing on the cake, interacting with Mancini’s family pissed the don off.
He glared at me when Brady made the offer. The kid didn’t realize the landmine of social interactions he’d detonated. And I was here for the blast.
His mother, on the other hand, did. Poppy tried to explain to Brady that I had work, just like Mancini.
“I’m nothing like Cousin Sandro,” I told the kid and promptly agreed to meeting them Wednesday morning.
I left the theater and chuckled the whole way back to my kingdom over the triple victory.
I half expected the Italian goons to catch me in the parking lot as I emerged from my vehicle. The knife in my hand was ready to teach them a lesson, but much to my disappointment, they didn’t show.
Sheathing the blade, I jogged over to the entrance, spying the duo I was looking for. Signora Mancini was with them, along with two burly guards.
The reigning lady of the Italian mob shot a glance at me. Her eyes widened and lips pressed in a thin line. One of her guards was already on his phone, tapping on the screen.
Storm’s rolling in. And trouble was brewing.
“Howdie, partner,” I laughed, stopping and squatting before the half pint. He was something, decked out in blue jeans, a belt buckle, boots, and a tan hat on top. “I didn’t know you were a cowboy.”
“Sure am!” the boy said proudly, bumping knuckles against mine.
I ran a hand over my head, sweeping the hair back, and looked up at his mom. Poppy didn’t wear the same tense expression as Queen Penelope. Her smile was soft and shy. And all for me.
“Hi! I didn’t think you were coming,” she breathed. “Alessandro said you weren’t feeling well.”
I smirked. “Just too much popcorn and candy.”
Poppy hummed knowingly and hiked a canvas tote over her shoulder. “We were just about to go in.”
“Sandro’s coming. We should wait,” Penelope said abruptly.
“I’m tired of waiting,” the kid groaned.
I rose, ignoring the crackles and pops in my knees. “He can catch up. Why don’t you show me the market, partner?”
The kid went to take off, but his mother darted forward and grabbed his shoulder. “Hand, Brady. It’s a lot busier here.”
The restless bundle of energy wriggled free. “I won’t get lost.”
Poppy’s face grew stern.
It was fucking adorable.
“Brady, hand. Now. Or we will leave.”
The boy dropped his shoulders. “Fine.”
But instead of reaching for his mom, he spun around and stuck out a small paw.
A surprising warmth spread through me at the gesture. I took his hand. It was warm, and soft, and small.
Penelope spoke rapidly in Italian. Poppy watched her, glanced at us, and then looked back at her cousin. She shifted, clearly uncertain.
I let Brady pull me into the market. He examined the booths on both sides, giving me a critical analysis of what he saw.
“Soap. We don’t need that.” He moved to the next booth, then the next and next.
“Ooh! Honey. That’s always good to buy locally, but from a sustainable and responsible farmer.
Pastries. Mama said no sweets.” His nose wrinkled.
“Dog treats! Piccolo and Forte would like those.” The kid tugged my hand. “Let’s see what they have.”
We stopped at that booth. I felt a whisper of air at my side. Then the scent of vanilla and berries brushed my nose. Poppy pressed close, peering critically at the treats.
“Do you have a puppy, young man?” the vendor addressed the kid at my side. A smile pulled across his fat face, but there was something flat about his friendliness. It felt forced. If I could sense that, no doubt any dog would too.
“No.” The word was drawn out in an annoyed huff. “Mama says they’re a lot of work, and I need to be able to take care of it myself. But my cousin has two dogs!”
Poppy reached in front of me to snatch Brady’s hand as he went to grab two wrapped treats. Her arm brushed against my stomach, and a bolt of heat shot to my groin.
“No, Brady. We have to ask Penelope if she wants her dogs to have these,” Poppy said.
“Where is she?” Brady leaned around, looking through the crowd.
I leaned down. “The don’s wife has dogs?”
Poppy hissed. “Don’t call Alessandro that in public!” she whispered, turning into me.
Colliding against my chest.
She froze.
I couldn’t resist. I trailed the back of my knuckles up her bare arm.
“Sorry,” I whispered with a grin. “Does the Blood King have dogs?”
Poppy let out a strangled groan. “Penelope has two.”
“Funny.” I ran my knuckles back down. “I didn’t see them the last two times at their house.”
“That’s because we were at a dinner party, and the second time, because….” Poppy trailed off. A visible shiver shook her frame. She stepped back, putting distance between us. “Because Forte doesn’t like bikes.”
I didn’t give a shit about the don’s animals.
I wanted to keep the pretty little flower talking. Focused on me.
But the kid chose that moment to scoop up a pile of frosted biscuits—and break two in the process.
“Hey! You have to pay for those,” the shop keeper barked. The pretense of friendliness was gone.
“Sorry!” Poppy jumped back into mom-mode and fumbled with the purse slung across her body.
I put a hand on her shoulder and glared at the vendor. “Apologize.”
“Excuse me?” The man turned his attention to me. His eyes narrowed.
Pulling Poppy back and guiding the kid into her vicinity, I put both fists on the booth. “I said, apologize.”
“Her kid broke the merchandise,” he spat.
“And I’m about to break something else,” I warned with a smile. “You don’t talk to a lady like that.”
Poppy dropped two twenties on the booth. “Thanks, have a nice day.”
She pulled her son away, taking the treats from him and putting them in her canvas bag.
It was clear she didn’t like confrontations.
Too bad I did.
The man scooped up the money. “Get lost.”
Looking casual, I sauntered around the table. My knife flicked open in my hand.
“What the fuck!” The man’s loose frame quaked.
“You have two choices,” I mused. “Go out there and apologize for your lack of manners and poor customer service, or—”
I flicked my wrist.
“Okay, okay!” The vendor scuttled out.
I stayed back, watching him track down Poppy. Focused on his fake smile and the rapid movement of his mouth, I didn’t feel the presence of another person until the distinct circle of metal dug into my back.
A smirk tugged my lips. “I’m feeling much better today, don.”
Mancini growled. “Stay the fuck away from my family.”
Flipping my knife closed, I tucked it in the pocket of my pants. “Your orders? Or hers?”
The gun barrel pressed harder. Under the shelter of the canopy, the crowd of oblivious Chicago citizens had not a clue what was going on.
“I tolerate you for business purposes, Mad Dog,” Mancini snapped. “But I don’t like you.”
“Well, good thing I’m not here for you.” I took a step forward, but the don reached to grab my hair.
Pain exploded across my scalp.
I rolled and twisted in his hold. He made the mistake of focusing on catching me, which left his weapon unguarded. I snatched that wrist, gave his hand a vicious flick, and stepped into him. I forced the barrel into his neck.
“She can tell me to get lost, and I’ll go,” I snarled and pressed the gun—the suppressor—against the don’s pulse. “But I don’t answer to you.”
“Poppy isn’t available.” To his credit, there was only hatred in the don’s dark eyes. Not a drop of fear.
I so badly wanted to pull the trigger to prove that I was capable of it.
“This isn’t her world, and she doesn’t belong in it,” the don hissed.
But he dropped his hold and held up his hands. It wasn’t a surrender. Simply a change in stance.
Cocking my head, I gave him a feral, tooth-filled grin. “Yet she’s at your house. It makes me wonder if it’s not the world, but me that you’re taking an issue with.”
“You.” The don swallowed, his throat scraping against the gun. “Because you don’t understand what it cost her to escape.”
Well, if that wasn’t intriguing….
I stepped back, dropped the clip and jacked the shell free. Catching the bullet in the air, I pocked the rounds and handed the empty weapon back to the don.
“The moment she tells me to get lost, I will.” What I was willing to bet good money on was that she didn’t have the balls to do it.
And from the look in her eye and the casual contact, she didn’t want to, either.
“I’m watching you.” Mancini’s growl followed me as I walked away.
“I know.” I passed the vendor, who averted his gaze and scooted out of my reach.
Nothing new.
I was off-putting, an unpleasant bastard to be around for most. The fact that I found a pretty little flower who didn’t shrink away was enough to catch my senses. And the little boy? There was something achingly precious about him that soothed old scars.
The heard of bikes loitered at the red light.
Boris fidgeted with the AC unit in the shrubbery. I leaned against the wall of the motel and stared across the street.
“That’s the fifth time this week Nowak has driven by,” my soldier commented. “Hand me the nine-millimeter?”
I reached into the sack of tools, debating handing him a Glock instead of the wrench. It was an inside joke to hand weapons when we did shit like this.
But I wasn’t in a joking mood. Not with the roar of hogs ripping down the highway.
“They still haven’t crossed the road?” I questioned, placing the wrench in Boris’s outstretched hand.
He looked at the tool and frowned. He was clearly expecting the gun—the inside joke.
“No, they haven’t ridden bikes. If they drive by in cars, it’s hard to say.”
The urge to drive a caravan through the red lights, to engage with the too-bold biker gang was strong. They needed to feel our presence. A warning to back the fuck off.
But Mancini said he would only help us navigate the hurtles of the business deal if we didn’t engage with our rivals. It went against every fiber of my being to resist the show of force. To make the gang retreat.
Once word got out that the Redwood Plaza was being torn down and rebuilt, whispers would spread that there was an alliance between the Italians and Bulgarians. It would be a stronger message, and the bikers—who were rough sons of bitches of Polish descent—would slink back to their streets.
I forced my body to relax. I fought the urge to act.
I wasn’t an animal, not anymore. We weren’t going to grow and thrive living by the rules of guerilla warfare. No, we could control ourselves. We could grow into a force this city would stand in awe of for generations to come.
“That one doesn’t fit either,” Boris grumped. “Do you have a ten in there?”
Smirking, I pulled the gun from the waistband of my jeans and handed it to him as he bent over the unit.
Boris’s fingers closed around the butt of the pistol and his head shot up. A grin split his face. “A wrench, you idiot.”
“Oops, sorry,” I chuckled and took the gun back.
It was a small thing, but the comradery I shared with my men set us apart. We might be itching for bigger business moves, placing ourselves to be a prominent part of the underworld, but we would always be this: A band of brothers with twisted jokes and friendship that transcended the ranks.