24. Manuel
TWENTY-FOUR
MANUEL
I parked my G-Class Mercedes Benz and walked inside the warehouse where our men were unloading the crates.
Danil Popov was leaning against the wall, one foot propped against the wall as he typed on his phone. Two of his men stood next to him, the infamous Soren with the gruesome scar slashed across his face being one of them, while the other stood near the crates, arguing with Umbrio, my right-hand man, and one of his helpers.
I tilted my chin toward the crates left on the truck. “What happened with the shipment?”
“One of my men fucked up,” Danil said, meeting my gaze. “Don’t worry, he’s dead.”
“Hopefully not his first fuckup.”
The dry look he gave me told me that Danil didn’t give second chances.
“Do you extend the same treatment to family members who fuck up?” I asked dryly.
“Sometimes.”
In Italian families, business was important, but family was even more so. I didn’t think Danil stuck to the same code. It was a good insight into the Popov family.
If it were up to me, Athena would never cross paths with her half-siblings or father. Her mother might be an idiot, but the Popovs were cruel motherfuckers.
“How many crates are messed up?” I asked.
The sooner I got this done, the sooner I could get back to the party and leave Paris with Athena.
“Four. I’ll have the replacement ammunition within two weeks.”
I looked back at Umbrio who usually handled our arms shipments. “When did we promise to deliver these to our customer?”
“On Friday.”
I turned back to Danil. “I need the correct ammo in five days.”
To his credit, he didn’t even flinch, his cold blue eyes studying me.
“Fine, five days it is.” I nodded and turned to leave when his next words stopped me. “Athena Kosta, do you know her?”
I forced a neutral expression on my face. “What makes you think I do?”
Danil shrugged, returning his attention to his cell phone and appearing unbothered. I knew it was a mask. “Isn’t she friends with Isla Marchetti, the new member of your tight-knit family?”
The muscle twitching in his jaw told me he was more attuned to this conversation than whatever he was typing on his phone.
“Hard to tell,” I drawled just as my phone rang. “She has many friends.”
He raised his head, assessing me. The look on his face let me know he was annoyed. But the Marchettis didn’t dance to the Popovs’ tunes and we never would.
“I’ll be seeing you around,” he stated confidently as I pulled my keys from my pocket, making my way out of the warehouse. My phone rang persistently, showing Enrico’s name. Maybe he needed assurance that I didn’t kill Danil. I let the phone ring as I got behind the wheel and threw it onto the passenger seat.
I’d catch up with him later. Right now, I was on my way to teach a certain smartass Italian a lesson.