Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“ W e need to find an emergency vet around here,” I said to Matt, who still looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
If the pup belonged to someone—even though it looked very much like it had spent quite some time out in the elements by its shaggy look and the feel of its fur—it should have a microchip that made it identifiable.
Matt pulled away from the curb and snorted. “Of course, you do. Because the big, bad Vince Salvini can’t just leave a helpless little creature on the side of the road. If word gets out, your image is toast, bro.”
A lopsided grin crept across Matt’s face. “You remember that time when we were kids, and you and Dante tried to save that stray cat? You were, what, thirteen?”
The memory flickered in my mind—a scrawny, mangey thing cowering under a dumpster, eyes wide with fear. I’d smuggled it scraps from the kitchen for weeks, slowly gaining its trust until I could pet its coarse fur and take it home. Then, one day, Father caught me with it tucked inside my shirt.
I clenched my jaw at the recollection of his cold, berating words as he wrenched the cat from my arms and snapped its neck right in front of me. That day, he taught me a harsh lesson about what showing any weakness gets you.
He’d shown me how I wasn’t even strong enough to protect a measly cat.
“Shut it,” I said to Matt, hugging the puppy closer to drown out the echoes of my father’s cruel laugh when I couldn’t hold back the tears. “Let’s just find a vet around here.”
He fell silent, that stupid grin never fading as he checked the GPS for directions to the closest vet.
I stroked the pup’s head, feeling its shallow breaths against my palm.
It was so small and fragile—just like that scrawny cat way back.
I shook my head to dislodge the thought.
Somehow, animals still got to me in a way no human ever could. Killing a rival—no problem; torturing someone to get vital information or to send a message—not my favorite thing in the world, but sure—count me in.
But animals? Different beast entirely.
“Let’s just head back to the helicopter and get it checked out in the city; we can always bring it back when we visit your future wife the next time.”
Matt groaned, then glanced at me again. “Are you really going to take this mutt on the heli? Overprotective much?”
I glared at him. “Look at the pot calling the kettle black. Didn’t you just take a bullet for a random woman?”
Now, it was his turn to glare. “As if this is even comparable. And Fee is not some random woman. She’s Alex’s.”
Yes, she was, and it still left me wondering about Matt’s role in Alex and Fee’s relationship. “And yet it was you and not him who took a bullet for her.”
I glanced at the side mirror. There was a black Mercedes limousine behind us. The same black Mercedes I’d noticed a while ago.
Matt shrugged. “It was just a coincidence. Right person, wrong place.”
I nodded while still focusing on the car following us. “More like wrong place, wrong person. Did you notice the car behind us?” I asked Matt.
He immediately straightened in his seat and tightened his grip on the wheel. “I didn’t really pay attention,” he said while casting a glance through the rearview mirror.
“Let’s loop around. Don’t go to the helipad immediately,” I said.
I didn’t think anyone would actually follow us. Checking the traffic and making mental notes of the cars was more of a habit.
Of course, there was one possibility.
If those were Donnelly’s men, why would he send them after us?
Our conversation had actually been really civilized, especially after he met Matt. Somehow, Matt had the opposite impact on people I had.
He was a charmer…which I was…not.
We went back to silence while cruising around for a while, and I got increasingly irritated. The black Mercedes followed, keeping the same distance.
We needed to get back to the city so I could get the pup to see a vet.
I looked down at the little ball of fur in my hand. My mother would’ve loved it.
Its button eyes looked up at me, then it started licking my wrist.
My chest tightened. Fuck me.
How could I not protect this helpless creature? I usually avoided anyone and anything apart from my siblings for that exact reason—because I became over-committed if I cared too much.
But how could I not? At least, nothing was standing in my way.
Especially not my father.
If only I could’ve done that in the past. The stray cat…my mother. If only I could’ve protected her all those years ago—shielded her from my father’s manipulative mind games and his cruelty that ultimately drove her to take her own life. A familiar rage bubbled up deep in my gut, molten and caustic.
One day, I would make that cold-hearted bastard pay for all the suffering he caused her.
And that day would be soon.
For now, I focused on the tiny heartbeat fluttering beneath my fingers and whispered a promise.
“I’ve got you, Picco. I’ll keep you safe.”
My phone rang and pulled me out of my entirely too-sappy thoughts. I looked at the caller ID, then immediately took the call while keeping the limousine behind us under surveillance. “Hey, Hawk.”
Matt’s eyes snapped to me for a split second before he focused back on the road and driving.
“Just wanted to give you a quick update. Goofy and Peaches are all settled and ready to finish the forensic investigation and start implementing the changes we talked about.” Noah Hawthorne, boss of Raptor Security, was not wasting time with pleasantries.
I nodded. “Great, I’ll see the guys tomorrow morning then.”
“I might come to the city in a couple of days,” Hawk said.
I’d never actually met the guy or worked with an outside company like Raptor Security. But Hawk was Gabe’s former boss. Well, he had been his boss during the time Gabe worked as a gun for hire, and before he went back to Italy and his family to take back his rightful place as the head of the Falcone family.
Gabe was the only one I told about my IT troubles, and when I did, he immediately arranged things with Hawk. Apparently, Raptor Security had some super geeks on their payroll, and Hawk assured me confidentiality was a given. Also, the results of their initial assessment were what put Jemma on my radar and got us right where we were.
“I couldn’t plant the logger,” I said.
Matt’s head snapped to me, his eyes round, and his raised brows showing his surprise. “Logger?” he mouthed.
I shook my head. “Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said to Hawk and ended the call.
“Logger? You tried to plant a logger on Craig Donnelly?”
I watched the black car through the side mirror. “Let’s go to the helipad and face whatever asshole is following us there.”
Matt kept casting glances at me but did as I said.
I pulled my weapon out of my ankle holster and checked it while balancing the little pup on my lap.
Once we arrived at the helipad, the black Mercedes hung back, then disappeared.
“They’re gone,” Matt said.
I nodded. Was this just Donnelly’s way to make sure we were leaving?
Matt parked the car, and we got out. “So, the logger?” he asked.
I shook my head. The fewer people who knew, the better. Also, I didn’t even get to plant it on Jemma’s laptop, which was my own damn fault for losing my head. What was it about Jemma Donnelly’s presence and sassy attitude that fried my brain to the point where I could only see her?
This was irritating and infuriating. I always got what I set out to do.
But it wouldn’t keep me from getting definitive proof. And once I had that, whoever was behind it, be it Jemma Donnelly or not, would pay—with more than being forced to marry my brother.
I turned before mounting the helicopter and froze at the sight of someone in the distance leaning against a black SUV—watching me.
Someone I immediately recognized.
“Take the pup,” I said, handing the little thing to Matt, who looked disgusted for a moment but took him immediately.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmured while marching toward the unmoving statue.
So Ivan Zotov was the one having us followed.
Having us followed, watching us instead of threatening or even killing us.
Why?
I crossed the distance and looked around; there was a second black Mercedes—the one that had been following us—a little farther back, with men dressed in tracksuits lingering around. I zoomed back on the man in the black suit and stopped right in front of him. “Zotov.”
He bowed his head. “Salvini.”
I narrowed my brows. He looked completely relaxed as if he hadn’t just been following us, as if he wasn’t one of the most noticeable Bratva bosses out there.
His role and demeanor in Ireland at Donnelly’s side had left a niggling sensation in the back of my mind ever since. But his appearance here in the States? In Boston? That didn’t bode well.
He clearly had followed us since we left the Donnelly mansion. Was he in business with Craig Donnelly now, as well?
But then, why follow us?
I met his gaze head-on. “You got too much free time?”
The left corner of his mouth lifted slightly, the only reaction. “Probably about as much as you,” he said.
Revealing absolutely nothing.
What the hell did he want? His arranged marriage with Fiona Donnelly didn’t work out. Was he now here to establish an alliance with Craig Donnelly? What was it the Donnellys had that he wanted? “So you’re kissing up to Craig Donnelly now?”
He grinned. “Not exactly. Is that your reason to demand this arranged marriage? You need a new ally?”
I forced myself to release all the tension that had built up in my face. The last thing I needed was this asshole anywhere near my territory or my business. Or him second-guessing my intentions and motivations. “I suggest we keep our distance and don’t bother each other.”
He bowed, but he looked as if he really had to think about my suggestion.
Why?
What was it he wanted? The Zotov brothers were legendary players in the international market. Arms deals and coups destabilize the political situations in random countries, and everybody knew if you needed things to blow up and change on a large scale, the Zotov brothers were the ones to call.
But to my knowledge, they’d never operated in the US; at least, they never crept into our area of operations.
“Well, I can’t promise our paths won’t cross,” he said.
I stared at him and he at me. “You better make sure our paths won’t cross,” I said, then paused. “I don’t like people invading my personal space.”
He raised a single brow. “So you consider Boston your personal space, now? Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? The Donnellys aren’t family, quite yet.”
I slowly inhaled, then controlled my exhale. This asshole was getting on my nerves, which usually made me calmer and even more calculated.
I took a step closer. “I consider everything I can see, hear, smell, and breathe my space. So you better make sure I don’t see you, or even hear anything about you in the future.”
He looked over my shoulder for a second, then nodded, saluted, opened the door, got into his car, and started the engine. Then he rolled down the window. “You forgot the ‘breathing the same air’ part.” He winked. “See you soon, Vincenzo Salvini.”
I was suddenly sure his plan was to throw me off. The question was why and off what?
Well, two could play the game. I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s not. Next time, I won’t be so civilized.”
He chuckled, then shook his head. “Who would’ve thought you were a hothead?” he murmured while driving away.
Apparently, he bought the bullshit I fed him.
I stared after him. He was not wrong.
We might be American, but we Salvinis were far closer to our Italian roots than your usual Italian-American family. And Italian blood ran a lot hotter than any other.
Though, if he thought that just because I showed him my teeth meant I was riled up, he was plain wrong.
Psychological warfare was my area of expertise, and he was sorely mistaken if he thought he could faze me. I turned and walked back to the helicopter while making a phone call. “Get me everything on Ivan Zotov,” I barked at Michele, then ended the call.
If Ivan Zotov wanted to play, he wouldn’t know what hit him.
Because I wasn’t one to waste time playing games.
Not with Jemma Donnelly and not with Ivan Zotov.
I was the one who set up the board and made the rules. And if necessary, blew it all up and started anew.
For as often and as long as it took to win.