Chapter 15 #2
“Good call.” Saint picks up his phone and hits a contact, striding to the far corner of my office as he instructs one of our crew to put eyes on Cantarelli. “Call me when you know where he’s at, and don’t let him see you.”
I go back to scrolling through camera footage on my computer, determined to find proof that the Bratva was involved in this one way or another.
Priest is pacing like a lion in an enclosure at the zoo, Lucky’s clacking away on his keyboard, and Saint is hammering down the details of keeping tabs on Cantarelli so he can’t give us the slip.
Chances are high that he’ll try to run, especially knowing he’s attempting to send a million dollars to an offshore account.
As I’m watching the footage, I can’t help admiring Katya every time she comes into the frame, her wedding dress hugging every inch of her lithe curves.
Damn, she’s beautiful. I hit pause and study her for a beat, then click play and watch as she talks with Svetlana, the stepmother who raised her.
Her smile is genuine, her posture relaxed.
She’s every bit as gorgeous when she’s subdued as she is when she’s spitting fire.
Watching her move is like looking at the ocean—she’s naturally graceful.
It’s the same way she looks when she’s dancing on a stage.
Effortless, stunning, like she was born there.
“Ogling your wife, fratello?”
Saint’s voice gives me a jolt. Cazzo, is that what I’m doing?
“Looking for Sidorov in the frame,” I lie, cutting a glare in his direction before I click and let the video continue.
This obsession I have with my wife is getting out of hand. I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman as badly as I do her. Chiara texted me a picture of her cleavage this morning and told me she misses me.
But the thought of touching Chiara leaves me feeling numb. She’s not the one who’s been driving me crazy with her saucy mouth and her toned ballerina legs. She’s not the one who smells like ripe summer berries, the one I’ve been jerking my cock to ever since I pulled her off the street.
More time ticks by as I comb through the footage. Saint’s phone buzzes, and when he answers and is on instant alert, I know why without having to ask.
“You’re sure?” he bites out. “Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let him see that you’re tailing him either. Let me know if anything changes.” He hangs up and then looks to Priest. “Cantarelli just left his house. They’re trailing him, and I have a live pin.”
“Thank fuck.” Priest glances my way. “You up for this?”
The distraction is exactly what I need.
“Always,” I tell him, ready to go. “I found one shot of Sidorov on the phone at about quarter after eight. It could be the call we’re looking for.”
“We won’t know until we have more information. Grill Cantarelli. Do whatever you have to do. But you shouldn’t go alone.”
“Count me in,” Lucky offers.
I get out a burner phone and fire it up. “Send me the location for the tail.”
The less we can be traced, the better. Today isn’t going to end well for Giuseppe Cantarelli. We’re going to find out what that bastard knows if it’s the last thing we fucking do.
Katya
“Can I help with anything?” I ask for what must be the tenth time.
I’m awkwardly hanging out in the massive kitchen of Priest and Luna’s incredible home.
Yesterday was so busy that I didn’t get the grand tour.
I can see why. There wouldn’t have been time to take me through the sprawling estate, room by room.
Let’s just say the kitchen is the size of my apartment times three.
And there’s even a scullery kitchen off to the side that makes the tiny kitchen I’ve been using for years look like the toy version Svetlana got for me from a yard sale when I was a girl.
“We’ve got this,” Luna assures me as she brushes olive oil and freshly pressed garlic onto the dough she’s rolled into breadsticks on her cookie sheet. “Please, just sit and enjoy yourself. Right, Isla?”
“Right,” Isla agrees. “It’s the perfect chance for us to all catch up.”
They’ve both been incredibly kind and welcoming, especially considering I’m the sister of the man who was responsible for taking Isla hostage.
They could easily look at me with suspicion, ice me out, keep me confined to a room.
But ever since I showed up with my overnight bag and Scorpion abandoned me here for whatever business he and his brothers needed to attend in the city, Luna and Isla have been chatting with me like we’re old friends and seeing to my every need.
“These aren’t exactly the circumstances I had in mind when I thought about getting to know you better,” Luna adds, dabbing some olive oil on another breadstick, “but I guess, if life hands you lemons…”
“Make lemon drops,” Isla finishes.
If I didn’t already know they were besties, the way they finish each other’s sentences would be my first clue.
“Exactly.” Luna grins. “Fabulous idea. Let’s make martinis.”
I think they’re trying very hard not to be worried about their men, who all left here armed to the teeth and looking grim.
Not a good sign. But Luna and Isla have been distracting themselves by fawning over me, having lunch on the patio, and now cooking dinner.
Priest’s chef was sent home for the evening with the promise that he’ll be back in the morning to make me my smoothie.
“I’ll make the martinis,” I volunteer, needing something to focus on too.
Something to feel useful.
“Perfect.” Luna flashes me a smile. “The bar is in the next room. Make yourself at home. It’s fully stocked, and there’s a fridge and ice maker, glasses, a shaker, whatever you need. If you can’t find something, just yell.”
I’m not sure I know how to properly make a lemon drop, but I head to the bar anyway, grateful for something to keep myself occupied.
Everything is top-shelf and neatly arranged, but then, I didn’t expect any less.
The pleasant, homey clinking of cutlery and cooking sounds in the next room are accompanied by laughter.
My nerves are wound tight. I’m like a crystal vase being dangled by someone’s fingertips, about to drop and shatter.
The weight of the last two weeks comes tumbling down on me as I pour ingredients into the shaker. A strange sensation is gnawing at my chest that feels a whole lot like worry. Scorpion’s reaction to that call hasn’t been sitting well. He seemed tense and strained. Almost angry.
I shake the martini and then divide it evenly between three glasses. Taking up one in each hand, I return to the kitchen, delivering them to Luna and Isla. Then I fetch mine. They’re waiting for me.
“To new beginnings and new friendships,” Luna announces, raising her glass.
We toast, and I take a sip, wincing. It’s too strong.
“Sorry, ladies,” I apologize. “I’m not the world’s best bartender.”
“It’s perfect,” Isla reassures me, smiling.
She’s blonde to Luna’s dark, but while the two are physical opposites, they seem to have everything else in common. But although they’re presenting a calm, united front, they must be worried about their men disappearing so suddenly.
I’ve distanced myself from my brothers’ business dealings since I was a teenager and I started completely immersing myself in ballet.
But I remember the blood, the violence, the danger of this world.
The uncertainty. The fear. The knowledge that anything could happen at any time.
It’s chased me, haunting me all my life, until one day it reared its ugly head in the form of my brother becoming the new Pakhan.
“Does this happen often?” I blurt, giving voice to the emotions roiling inside me.
Isla takes another sip of her martini. “Don’t ask me. I’m still new around here.”
“Not often,” Luna answers, her expression turning pensive. “But I do my best to take each day as it comes. If a work thing happens, I try not to worry about it until I need to worry about it. Sometimes that’s easier said than done.”
Isla raises her glass. “And sometimes, it’s accomplished with a little help.”
“Priest and the boys are very careful,” Luna adds, and I’m starting to think it’s not just for my benefit, but for Isla’s too. “They don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
I inhale slowly, trying to cling to her words. I don’t even know why I need reassurance. Why I’d worry about a man I didn’t want to marry, a man who held me hostage not long ago and used me as a bargaining chip. Not to mention the times he threatened to do me bodily harm.
But is he as terrible as I think he is? Would these friendly, intelligent women care about him as much as they obviously do if he was a sadistic, dangerous psychopath like Misha? Part of me says no. The other part of me doesn’t trust anything rattling around in my head right now.
“This isn’t new to you, is it?” Isla asks me, jolting me from my thoughts.
I don’t have to question what she’s talking about.
I swirl my martini in my glass, thinking about the unorthodox way I grew up.
“In a way, it is. I was born and raised in the Bratva. My father worked his way up to brigadier, and then he became Pakhan after my mother was killed. But my stepmother insulated me from a lot of what went on, and when she left my father, she took me with her. My world became ballet instead of bullets.”