Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
LUKA
The waiters descend with more food and a gin and tonic for Edie.
“Drink, eat.” I set a piece of rosemary bread and a slab of feta on her plate.
“Not hungry.” She gives me another one of her fake smiles, all wide green eyes and cherry lip gloss.
“You knew you were coming to dinner, but you’re not hungry?”
She shrugs, expression vacant.
I take a strand of her hair between my fingers. What’s going on with her?
Orton discreetly presses the guys for information about something that happened years ago, back when my brother, Alteo, took a bigger role in the family. Alteo would be forty now if I hadn’t killed him.
Only Orton and Storm know I’m here for vengeance. You never show your hand, and you never reveal what’s important in life.
My brother ordered the Tucumayo killing. That’s why he died. But there are still actual killers to find.
Everybody involved in her death dies— that was my vow to Sara all those years ago.
I don’t care who they are; they die. Ultimately it’s my fault, of course, and a lot of indiscriminate killing won’t change that, but that’s one of the good things about being all-powerful—the shit you do doesn’t need to make sense.
As luck would have it, I’m good at running this clan. One month in, and they’ve never been stronger. Never richer.
You came for the vengeance, and you stayed for the power trip.
I catch her staring at the bread, practically drooling over it. Oh, she’s definitely hungry.
I take a piece for myself and load it up with cheese and peppers. I let her watch me take a bite. I dab the corners of my mouth. “You’re missing out.”
She smiles and shrugs.
I grit my teeth. I know when a person’s hungry. They’d keep us so hungry in that place.
God, why does her hunger feel like a three-alarm fucking fire? If she wants to deny herself, who am I to interfere? If she wants to play cat-and-mouse with where she lives or what she’s doing during the day, why do I care?
But the bland act? No.
I settle my hand onto her thigh and hover my lips over her ear, warm and electric. “I will break you of this so hard.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
She pulls back with a frown as though she doesn’t understand.
There are five other men at this table besides Orton and me. My top brass. Two of them were my brother’s top guys—the only ones out of his whole crew I deemed trustworthy. The other three I handpicked.
They know to ignore us.
Storm eats alone at the bar because he rarely joins the group; he’s too far gone to be anywhere but on the fringes.
I turn back to her. “I will find you. You think I can’t?”
She pretends to be confused.
West pockets his phone. “Florian’s coming. He’s shook up about something.”
I exchange glances with Orton. What now?
Florian arrives a few minutes later, looking stressed. He puts his palms down on the table. “Bloody Lazarus might be alive .”
I straighten. “Bloody Lazarus? Not possible. He got blown up. There were witnesses.”
“And did they find his body?” Florian says. “No.”
“Because it was incinerated,” I say. “Aleksio and his brothers saw it themselves.”
“They never found the body, though, did they? Nobody found that body. This is Lazarus we’re talking about.”
Orton narrows his eyes. “Bloody Lazarus? Are we talking about that psychotic enforcer for... who was it?”
“Aldo Nikolla, the Chicago kyre,” I say to him.
“Lazarus and Aldo did a big, bloody massacre twenty years back, just before I was sent down to Tucumayo. You were already down there, but man, it was fucked up. They slaughtered the Chicago Dragushas and took a lot of territory. Two decades of darkness and violence. And then the Dragusha boys came back for vengeance...”
People fill him in on the more gory details, which ended in Lazarus being incinerated in a Hummer “with enough C-4 to take down a football stadium.”
“Well, apparently, Lazarus survived that incineration,” Florian says.
My East Side guy, Cards, isn’t convinced. He thinks it’s bullshit.
Orton sits back. “I’ve learned not to believe a man is dead until I see the body and maybe poke at it.”
“Did somebody actually see him? Did somebody talk to him?” I ask. “Who is this coming from?”
“Aleksio Dragusha,” Florian says.
A hush falls over the table.
“There was a murder out in the Poconos with Lazarus’s signature,” Florian continues. “Aleksio went down there himself. Got some criminologists or profilers or whatever involved. They’re all pretty sure. I didn’t get all the details, but...”
“Fuck,” somebody whispers, speaking for everyone.
Lazarus is back?
Cards’s expression darkens. “Nobody wants Lazarus dead more than those Dragusha boys. There will be blood.”
I can feel Edie’s interest. It’s strange. I turn to her. “You got something to add?”
Her eyes widen. “No! This guy sounds... twisted.”
I grunt. The chat rolls on with people saying where they were during the war that broke out after the Dragushas were hit all those years ago.
We fall silent as the second course arrives.
“Eat. Go ahead.”
Edie tries a compliant smile. “I’ll gladly do whatever you say.”
I settle my hand onto her thigh and lower my voice. “Don’t play a game you can’t win.”
“What? You wanted me to smile last time.”
“You think you can play a part with me? Hide from me? I’ll find you.”
“I’m right here.”
I slide my hand down before gathering the silky fabric and pulling up her skirt, exposing more and more skin under the table. I lean in, and in a low voice only she can hear, say, “I’ll find you so hard.”
She blinks, keeping up the bland look. “I’m here for whatever you want.”
“No, you’re not. You’re trying to deny me it.” I slide my hand higher.
Her chest jerks with the sudden intake of air when I hit the edge of her panties. She widens her eyes. “Whatever you say.”
I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all, but the next course is here. “Byrek,” I say to her. “Thin layers of phyllo with cheese, spinach, chicken, and pumpkin. Delicious.” I remove my hand from her thigh long enough to load a bit onto her plate and then mine. “They make an incredible red sauce.”
“Really not hungry.”
Yeah, right. She’s not hungry ; she’s full-on ravenous.
Shouts come from a table up front. West is tussling with one of the diners near the door.
A man stands.
West grabs something—a plate, from the looks of it—and marches out the door. He comes back empty-handed. More people are standing now. More shouts.
The guys are looking at me expectantly. My brother would’ve gone ballistic at a guy acting out. He didn’t like anything to be out of his control. All those years I didn’t see him, but I know what he was.
“West’s a big boy,” I say. “Free to be as fucked up as he wants to be, as long as it doesn’t affect the clan.”
Kress the Shadow smiles. The guys approve. Guys like this don’t take to a short leash.
West comes back looking outraged. “Bringing circle cookies into an Albanian restaurant?”
“No!” Orton barks. “What? No!”
I stifle a groan. That’s what it was about?
“I told them to take them out of the restaurant, but...” West shakes his head. “Feeding circle cookies to their kids just days before Good Friday. Here of all places!”
He and Orton bond over that while Florian grumbles darkly.
I look over at Edie. She’s curious as hell, but she doesn’t want to ask because she’s desperate to play her game.
“It’s not exactly common knowledge,” Kress the Shadow says.
“There’s a menu,” Florian says. “They can choose from that. They decide to bring in outside food, and it’s circle cookies?”
“Circle cookies,” I growl, just to fuck with Edie. “What the fuck? ”
The waiter comes back. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Zogaj. If I’d seen they had such cookies, I’d have taken them out myself.”
“Of course,” I say. “Comp their dinner and get them out of here.”
Edie’s watching the side of my face. If she wants to know, she can ask.
The waiter comes with sides and more fresh bread. Dishes are passed. People help themselves.
“Stuffed peppers with bechamel sauce.” I dish some onto her plate that’s still loaded with uneaten food.
“Thanks.”
I dig in.
Edie’s taken to staring at a painting on the wall—a man atop a majestic horse. He wears a white embroidered shirt under a colorful vest. His pants are tucked into knee-high leather boots, and his woolen cloak is slung over his shoulders. Behind him are ancient stone walls and distant mountains.
“The Albanian Alps,” I supply.
“Mmm,” she says with that fake smile. She doesn’t fool me. She wants to know about the cookies.
I take a bite of the peppers. They’ve outdone themselves today. “Delicious.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. I shouldn’t care—I really shouldn’t. She’s just a kurve . She’ll spread her legs for me, so what do I care if she’s doing her best imitation of a blow-up doll?
But she’s my kurve , that’s the problem. Mine.
I swipe a finger in the pale sauce and bring it to her lips. “Open.”
“No, thanks.”
I lean in. “Not a request.”
“What if I’m allergic?”
“Are you?” I ask.
She hesitates.
Holding her gaze, I press my finger between her lips.