Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Gabriele
Katya emerges from her bathroom, wrapped in a white fluffy towel, and shrieks when she sees me on the bed. She's largely stayed out of my way since I fucked her on the stairs yesterday. I regret how carelessly I took her but I won't apologize.
We provoked each other and neither of us walked away feeling good about our encounter.
"Did I frighten you?" I ask.
"Yes, it's not every day I walk into my room and find a man on my bed."
"I would hope not." I aim for levity.
Katya cocks her head to the side and studies me carefully.
"You're dressed differently." It's not something I'd expected to conceal from her.
I am indeed dressed in an outfit I wouldn't normally wear.
With practicality in mind, I'm wearing black cargo pants, a black long-sleeved t-shirt and combat boots.
"Where are you going?" There's a note of suspicion in her voice. I have no doubt she's worked out exactly where I'd be going dressed like this.
"We got a tip-off about Orlov. He and Andretti are at a farmhouse just outside of Frascati."
She purses her lips. "A farmhouse? You mean a house surrounded by open fields? That sort of farmhouse."
I understand where her concern is coming from. It wouldn't usually be the ideal location for an ambush.
Katya shakes her head. "No. You'll be too exposed. They'll see you coming a mile away."
The corner of my mouth lifts. "I forgot how clever my wife is."
The compliment doesn't land. She huffs out a breath. "You don't have to be Einstein to see this is a bad idea."
"It will be fine, dolcezza. We're going in the back of a truck. They're expecting a delivery of guns to use against us. They'll get the shock of their lives."
Katya rests her hands on her hips, still not convinced. "How big is this truck?"
"Big enough."
"To hold how many men?"
"A half dozen."
"And they have how many men?"
"Our intelligence suggests two dozen."
Her eyes narrow as she considers that.
"So it's four to one?"
"We also have two men on the inside, so it's three to one." I grin, hoping to lighten her mood. "Decent odds."
"Crazy odds," she counters.
She's acting as if I haven't carried out raids like this a hundred times before. Every second is planned. We have insider information that makes me confident we can take on a larger number of men and win. We're going to catch the enemy sleeping.
"We've worked this all out carefully, Katya. It will go off without a hitch."
She turns away, signaling her displeasure with this conversation.
"Don't come crying to me if you get yourself killed," she mutters.
Despite myself I smile at the petulant tone in her voice. Her attitude this morning gives me hope that she might still care for me a little, even if things have been strained.
"Would you mind very much if I was killed? You'd be a very wealthy widow."
Katya whirls back around, eyes flashing with fury. "Of course I'd mind." She storms toward me and pokes a finger into my chest. "Never say that again."
She flings her arms around my neck. Her towel slips, giving me a quick glimpse of her dusky pink nipples. Now is not the time to think about wrapping my lips around them. I tug her towel back into place.
"I won't die, Katya."
"I still say you shouldn't go." She stands back and rubs her chin as if trying to come up with another method to dissuade me. “And you're leaving me here all alone. How will I manage? I'll drive myself mad with worry."
"You won't have time to worry. You'll have company."
"Who, Santo? I'm sick of playing cards with his cheating ass."
I grin at that. Santo has told me how my wife accuses him of foul play every time he wins. Katya, it seems, is a sore loser.
"Well, you won't have to play cards with him anymore if we defeat Orlov today. You'll be able to go out again."
"Hmm. That is true."
"And it's not Santo who'll be keeping you company anyway. Niamh is here."
Katya's face lights up. I wish I was as pleased that Niamh chose today to drop in and see how married life suited us. I'm going to have to do something about people arriving on my doorstep unannounced. Lately, it's been getting out of hand.
"Niamh is here? That's wonderful."
"Yes, but I should warn you, she's not alone. She brought Mila Lenkova with her."
Katya's eyes widen. "Mila Lenkova is here?"
"You've heard of her, then?"
I doubt there's a member of the Bratva anywhere in Russia or beyond who hasn't heard of Mila. She rules the Lenkov Bratva alongside her brothers and isn't afraid to get her hands bloody.
"Of course I've heard of her. She's a legend. The things I've heard about her would make your eyes water."
The things I know about Mila do make my eyes water. She isn't shy about hitting a man where it hurts. Or stabbing. Or burning. I get to my feet and look down at Katya. I place a finger under her chin and raise it until her eyes meet mine.
"Everything will be fine, Katya. I'll be back before you know it."
I drop a kiss on her forehead. We still haven't kissed properly but I don't intend to do it now. It would be like saying goodbye and that's not what this is.
"You'd better be." She turns and walks to her closet as I head for the door. "Now what the fuck am I supposed to wear?"
I glance over my shoulder just once before I leave. This is harder than I thought it would be because, for the first time, I have someone else to live for. It strengthens my resolve. I will not die today.
Katya
Mila Lenkova is both exactly how I imagined she would be and not at all what I imagined at the same time. She's as beautiful as her reputation suggests. She's tall, though still an inch or two shorter than me.
Her chestnut hair falls in waves over her shoulders and she has bee-stung lips that make me seriously contemplate getting fillers for the first time.
It's clear she's tough. Her manner is reserved and there's a shrewdness in her gaze that lets you know she's watching every move, assessing the level of threat in the room.
There’s something about her that reminds me of a coiled snake. She could strike at any moment.
She’s civil to me, bordering on cold, but when she speaks directly to Niamh she's almost girly. They treat each other like sisters, something I find myself envying. I'd like a relationship like that.
Perhaps Anna and I will grow closer once we've spent more time together, but I can't see us forming a familial bond.
"Do you ever miss it?" I ask Mila as I pour her another cup of tea. Maria has been learning to make it the Russian way. She even obtained a samovar from who knows where. "Russia, I mean."
"I miss the food. You can't get decent medovik outside of Moscow."
Coming from St. Petersburg I would dispute that. Our bakeries are incomparable.
"I do crave a decent sharlotka." It's my favorite dessert. Maria could probably make one for me if I asked. "And vodka."
Mila nods. "That's easily fixed. What you can't buy are the winters."
I nod. "I imagine I'll miss those too."
"Marseilles is so hot all year round," Mila says. "There's no respite."
Niamh shakes her head. "Listen to the pair of you complaining about the weather. Come spend December in Scotland with me and you'll soon realize you're better off here."
I frown at that. "Is Scotland as cold as Russia?"
"Not quite," Niamh admits, "but in winter it can be very gray and rainy. Try going a month without seeing the sun and then you can grumble."
Mila snorts derisively. "You were moaning it was too hot in Glasgow last week." She turns to me and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Complaining about the weather is a national pastime for the Brits.”
That earns her a playful punch on the arm from Niamh. I smile at the good-natured bickering. Beneath their formidable reputations, they’re just ordinary women, like me.
As the conversation lulls, Niamh sets down her cup and pins me with an inquisitive stare.
"So tell me, Katya, how are things with Gabriele? Did I make a mistake putting you two together?"
I consider the question. It has not been plain sailing for me and my husband but there have been plenty of moments where I've seen the potential for something great to develop.
"No, you didn't make a mistake. We have our disagreements, but everyone does, I think?"
"Oh, god, yes," Mila says. "There are days when I want to wring Nicky's neck."
"Ah, but you could wring his neck if you wanted to," Niamh says. "Katya does not have that option."
"No," Mila agrees. She throws me a wicked smile. "You have other weapons at your disposal and I'm sure you know how to use those."
"I'm learning." As Mila and Niamh exchange a look, I worry I've said the wrong thing. "Not that my marriage is a battle, you understand?"
"Of course not," Niamh says.
As I sip my tea, a wave of dread sweeps over me. Until now I've been keeping a lid on it.
"Any news?" I ask.
I was hoping Mila might get an update since, for some reason, her husband has tagged along on Gabriele's mission.
At first I imagined it was because he has some business of his own with Orlov, but it turns out he just really enjoys killing people.
The only reason Mila didn't go too is that she's pregnant, a fact that isn't particularly obvious even though she's five months along. It seems such a contradiction that this ruthless woman would possess such a maternal instinct.
Each of us hides something beneath the surface, I suppose.
"I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a mob wife." I start to chew on my thumbnail and then stop myself. My last manicure was weeks ago and my nails are already looking rough. "I hate all this sitting around."
"How does your mother cope with it?" Mila asks. "Your father is Bratva, right?"
"My father doesn't do his own dirty work. He sits in his office and issues orders."
"Ugh. My father was the same. It makes you wonder how they ever fought their way to the top."
I know the answer to that. My father didn't. He made money early in life and then placed it in the right hands to ensure his rise to power. As far as I know he's never personally killed anyone.
It's a flaw, for sure. His men are only loyal because he pays them well. They don't respect him and eventually one of them will overthrow him and take his crown. I'm glad I won't be around when that happens. Women always bear the consequences of their men's actions.
At least with Gabriele I don't have to worry about that. Nobody is likely to come for him. Not only because he has two brothers to avenge him but because he has the respect of his soldiers.
"They're assholes, that's for sure."
"Aren't they all?" Mila asks.
"Mine wasn't." Niamh smiles sadly.
"No," Mila agrees. "Patrick was the best. He was more of a father to me than Mikhail Lenkov ever was. Do you know the bastard tried to turn me over to a rogue intelligence officer? British guy, totally obsessed with me."
"You got your revenge," Niamh says wryly. She turns back to me. "This conversation's getting heavy. Tell us something fun."
Something fun. That requires some thought. "Oh, I'm thinking of putting a pool in the garden."
"Oh, where?" If she's faking her interest, Niamh does a good job.
"I don't know. Close to the house, I suppose."
For the next hour, we talk about domestic things. It strikes me as odd to indulge in such pedestrian conversation with two of the most powerful women I will ever meet.
The real surprise comes when Mila reveals her love of baking. Apparently she takes every opportunity she can to create delicious cakes and pastries.
"Does Gabriele still draw?" Niamh asks.
"Draw?" Is that something he does? "I don't think so."
"Pity. He was really good."
"Is that so?" This is obviously news to Mila too.
"Has he shown you his drawings?" I can't help the prickle of jealousy that runs through me at the thought of him sharing something like that with her. Art is personal. You don't show just anyone.
Niamh shakes her head. "No, but I've seen Lorenzo's tattoos."
Mila's eyes widen. "Gabriele did those?"
"According to Lorenzo he did, but Damiano says he just sketched them out. Someone else did the actual inking."
"What are the tattoos like?"
Niamh bends to pick her purse up from the floor and retrieves her phone.
She scrolls through it and then hands it to me.
There's an image of a man's upper body. His left arm is covered with trees.
Birds burst from the canopy at his shoulder.
His other arm has roses in black and red.
The design spans his shoulders to meet at the center of his chest. It's stunning.
"Gabriele did this?" I can hardly believe the man who created such vivid images lives in such a drab, soulless house.
Mila holds her hand out for the phone and I pass it to her.
"He did," Niamh confirms.
"It's remarkable." Mila returns Niamh's phone to her. "But perhaps the most pertinent question is why do you have pictures of a naked Lorenzo on your phone?"
The explanation never comes. Just as Niamh opens her mouth to respond, Mila's phone pings loudly with an incoming message. As she opens it, I hold my breath. She reads what's on the screen and nods decisively.
"They're five minutes out. The mission was a success." She reads on. "Gabriele is hurt but it's nothing serious. He took a hit to the face."
"The face?" I can't keep the horror out of my voice. If someone has damaged the other side of his face I will hunt down their corpse and disembowel it.
Mila sends a message and then grimaces when the reply comes. "He has a black eye and a small cut to the brow."
I shake my head. Stupid, stupid man. He cannot take risks with his eye.
"Santo!" I yell.
He's been standing guard outside the room. He enters immediately.
"Can you find me an ice pack, some painkillers and a frying pan?"
"A frying pan?" He looks bemused.
"Yes. Once I've seen to his eye I'm going to use it to knock some sense into my husband."
"And you were worried you weren't cut out to be a mob wife." Niamh laughs. "I think you'll do fine."
Yes, I think. I will. I was born to rule this world. It's about time I started to believe it.