10. Valentin
10
VALENTIN
Two more warehouses up in flames, half a dozen men dead, and a shipment of expensive construction equipment destroyed before it even left the port.
Putain de merde.
After three weeks of searching, we were no closer to finding Ana Costa. This fucking war with the Tchérnovs was costing me millions of euros and tearing Angelo’s sanity to pieces, bit by bit.
My phone rang—Boris Tchérnov himself, the father of the asshole who’d kidnapped Ana and treated her so well that when she left, she’d done millions of euros of damage on her way out as revenge.
Women didn’t pull that shit for the fun of it, and a woman like Ana, well aware that actions had consequences, certainly wouldn’t have.
That stupid slut knew exactly what she was doing when she blew up that boat. She started this war on purpose, and when I got my hands on her, I intended to make her pay for every centime of damage Tchérnov inflicted on me.
“Valentin,” Tchérnov said, his Russian accent overpowering the French. “You better find her and hand her over to me.”
That was the problem. We didn’t know where the fuck she was, except that she’d warned a cook to get off the boat, and none of us thought she was suicidal.
“She’s not mine to hand over.”
“She’s your boyfriend’s,” Tchérnov snarled. “Her father promised her to my son, and instead of shutting the fuck up and behaving, she blew up my fucking yacht. I may not have an American network to destroy Angelo’s new empire, but I can tear your construction business apart from here in France.”
Boris failed to mention that if his son married her, the Tchérnovs would take over the Costa empire in the United States, as if I weren’t perfectly aware of the real reason he was hunting Angelo’s obsession, despite the Costa’s outrageous debts. I scrubbed my face with my hands. No brat was worth this hassle.
Fuck Tchérnov. Fuck him for running France’s biggest trafficking network, fuck him for not teaching his son who he could and couldn’t fuck with, and fuck him for making this about our business rivalry and not the girl who was running around Europe making life miserable for all of us right now.
“Catch her yourself,” I snapped. “I have other things to do than traipse across the Continent looking for an American brat who’s no doubt prostituting herself for food by now.”
Lies—we needed to find her before someone else did. Penniless or not, she was the key to Gio Costa’s legacy. If someone snatched her up before we found her, who knew what damage they’d do to our alliances.
Tchérnov cursed at me in several languages. “Her father made a promise. And if Costa doesn’t deliver, I’ll consider it an act of war.”
The war had already begun. Boris was systematically attacking my businesses to pressure the Costas into giving Ana up. I swore angrily, furious at the situation Angelo created when he sent her off unsupervised to his father’s, furious at the Costas, furious at fucking Ana who’d always needed a firmer hand—not the beatings her father gave her, but someone to set clear boundaries for her so she didn’t lash out when she wanted attention—furious at the goddamned world.
“Go fuck yourself, Tchérnov.”
“Rochefort,” the oligarch said, his voice turning serious. “I know where you came from, and more importantly, I know where Angelo came from. The Costas’ American operations are roughly equivalent to the value of the yacht she blew up. Turn the bitch over to me, ready to get on her knees and blow me at the fucking wedding, and we’ll call it even.”
I hung up the phone before opening the door to the luxurious pied-à-terre we were using while we hunted for Angelo’s wayward niece. Angelo sat at the table, his commanding presence taking up the room while he barked orders into his phone in Italian.
“He can’t have her,” he snarled.
I heard the silent claim that he didn’t dare express out loud. His obsession with her had brought us nothing but heartache as he stalked her from afar, unable to have her.
“They’re not just fighting with you,” I snapped. The construction company was my pride and joy, built from nothing, started when I had nothing, and was now the biggest firm in France—a billion-euro company I’d built with my bare hands and blood. “Your niece is costing me a fucking fortune.”
“My adopted brother’s daughter,” he muttered, scrubbing his face. “Fuck.”
It suited my purposes for him to ruminate on their relationship rather than remembering they weren’t blood relatives and letting his cock lead him instead of his brain. The last fucking thing I needed was for him to decide to ride in on a white horse and save the miserable little brat.
Why hadn’t she just picked up the phone and come home when she escaped, like a good girl?
A whisper of guilt for my apathy toward the frustrating little slut wound through my chest. We both knew what kind of man Gio Costa had been. It stood to reason the child he’d raised would be as bad—inconsiderate, intemperate, and now leading us on this ridiculous fucking chase across Southern Europe when Angelo needed to be in the United States, consolidating his hold on the mess Gio left when the Russos murdered him a month ago.
I poured two tumblers of whiskey, neat for Angelo and the other with a lone ice cube for myself, then wrapped my fingers around his jaw and tipped his face up to mine. “We’ll find her, and she’ll pay the price in blood for starting this war.”