Chapter 68 Ivan
IVAN
I shoot Yuri a glance as I follow Dominic back to the living area of the penthouse, unable to shake a sense of foreboding.
We don’t have weapons, but I bet Matteo and Dominic are armed to the teeth.
Then there is the ever-absent Benedict, still on his ‘call’ in Matteo’s office, wherever that may be, ready to pick us off like ducks on a pond.
With a deep inhale, I steady my nerves. This is not a trap.
And if it is, I walked into it blindly.
I curse under my breath. I should have left Yuri with the girls. Milana isn’t even here—
What if I’ve put my sister in danger, now with Gabriella locked up in a room where she won’t witness what her brothers do to me? And thank God for that.
Then I recall we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Gabriella. Her brothers didn’t even know she was being hunted until I told them so.
Trust. Just learn to trust again. One fucking inch at a time.
I’m neurotic and shove my hands into my pockets, biting down on my jaw and tasting blood.
“All clear,” Matteo says. “They’re getting into the elevator.”
“I’d bloody hope they’re all clear,” Dominic says with a cocked brow. “Our security team stripped them down in fucking Rome before they got on our jet. You verified it’s the man you met in Sicily?”
“Yep, it’s our mole,” Matteo says on a nod. “I wasn’t paying the closest attention that day in Randazzo’s compound, but I’d bet it’s the same woman, too.”
“Make sure, face to face,” Dominic says. “We’re on standby.”
Matteo nods and heads for the front door. “Party’s starting, folks. Whatever happens, don’t kill the woman. She needs to talk first. See you on the other side.”
Fuck me.
“We’re not exactly prepared for a friendly shootout,” I say, my gaze jumping from Dominic’s to Yuri’s, where he’s standing ramrod straight, reading the room and coming to the same conclusions as me.
“Matteo’s just kidding,” Dominic says. “We try to limit shootouts in this apartment. The cleanup isn’t an issue. It’s getting a renovations team in to fix blown-up shit that’s a fucking nightmare.”
“You’re telling me. Hosted a pretty exciting Fourth of July party this year. Still trying to clean up that mess.”
“You should let me come over and assess. We know people who could help out.”
“I bet you do.” I’ll see how today goes before I let the Scaleras onto my property. I suspect they won’t appreciate an anal probing, so we’ll need some more trust before we can skip that part.
Voices sound from the foyer. Speaking fucking Italian. Now I’m not going to understand a word.
“Let’s hope this goes down a breeze,” Dominic mutters under his breath. “I’m not in the habit of extracting information out of women.”
I’ll happily deal with her, for what she’s done to Gabriella.
“So, who’s getting a tattoo if this Mara isn’t the same woman who…worked on Gabriella?” I ask. “And she basically knows nothing?” They did, after all, lure her here with the promise of work.
Around the room, we shoot each other glances, then Yuri raises his hand and says in Russian. “I’ll take one for the team. In honor of the Pakhan.”
I nod, and then two strangers walk in, Matteo right behind them.
A man in a suit, clearly Italian, suave, with dark hair worn longer and brushing his collar, brown eyes, a good tan, and just the right height not to draw attention.
His eyes are on me, though, taking me in, and as he does, there’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze.
Do I know him?
I brush the thought aside, turning my focus to the woman.
She’s short, scrawny, black hair falling loose over her shoulders.
She’s wearing tight white jeans, blood-red high heels, a cropped black leather jacket, and a figure-hugging white T-shirt, with a red scarf hiding her neck.
Her outfit shows off her navel piercing and a midriff tattoo.
She’s not young, anything between forty and sixty, but she’s toned, all right.
Who knows with all the procedures available nowadays, her age is just a number, but her face tells the story: I’ve seen some shit in my life, so don’t fuck with me.
Yep, this one has miles on her.
She’s pulling a small travel case, typical for a tattoo artist on the go.
Her gaze flicks around the room, landing on each man, then falls on mine, and hovers just that split-second longer than on the others.
It rankles that they seem to isolate me from the crowd.
What the fuck is up with these Italians?
“Hello,” she says in English, holding her hand out to greet us. “Who’s the client?”
Good. Keeping it professional.
I shoot Yuri a look, but he’s watching the new arrivals like a hawk. Fuck. Something’s off.
“Mara Pesci, this is Dominic Scalera, Ivan Petrov, and Yuri Sokolov.” Matteo introduces us, and fuck knows why but suddenly, I want to be very anonymous.
She does the rounds, shaking our hands, and as I wrap her hand in mine, she’s cold, and quivering a bit.
“Ivan Petrov,” she says. “Pakhan Alexei Petrov’s son?”
“Yes.”
As I let go of her hand, it hits me that Matteo doesn’t intend for this woman to go back to Italy. She’s done something to piss Il Consiglio off, and this is a trap—for her.
“Mara,” The Mole says, skipping introductions and gently touching her on her shoulder. “Pardon me…uhm…you have—” He breaks off and indicates toward her butt. “Something to take care of.”
She reaches behind her, and around the room, gazes volley between each other.
"Fottuta menopausa,” she mutters as she drags in a breath. “Pensavo di aver chiuso con ‘sta merda! Please excuse me. Don Scalera, may I use the washroom?”
“Of course,” Matteo says with a hitched brow and guides her to the guest toilet, located on the kitchen’s side of things but down a separate corridor. We couldn’t have staged this better for our benefit.
As Mara turns, she shrugs her jacket off but not fast enough, revealing a red splotch of blood on her white jeans in a most…
unfortunate location. She wraps her jacket around her waist, and we all seem to register the situation at the same time.
The others are averting their eyes and shuffling on their feet as only men who grew up without women around could when this happens.
“What did she say?” I mutter to Dominic as they disappear down the side passage.
“Fucking menopause, I thought I was done with this shit,” he translates.
It’s fucking awkward, that’s what it is.
Matteo has barely returned when The Mole’s phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says. “It’s Mara. Sì. Sì. Certo. Mi dai dieci minuti?” He nods and rings off. “Mara asks if I can fetch some clean clothes for her. We left our suitcases with the driver. It will only take five minutes. Pants and underwear.”
“Sure,” Matteo says, indicating to The Mole to go back to the front door and elevator.
Because what the fuck else are you going to say? I have no idea what their plans are, but they are approaching this in a more poetic way than I would. Fucking Italians. Fuck her period and tie her to a chair and choke her until she tells us what she knows.
“Stan will meet you and escort you,” is the last I hear from Matteo, and then the front door clicks closed.