Bonus Epilogue
“You will not”—my husband points a warning finger at my face—“under any circumstances, leave this house until the last one of those lunatics is, at least, ten miles away.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Not greeting them would be extremely rude.”
“Are you aware that the nine men currently infesting our library are responsible for enough dead bodies that the headcount could easily rival the population of a small country?” Adriano wraps his arms around me, his palms spreading across and stroking my belly.
“I don’t want my wife—my pregnant wife—anywhere near them. ”
“Sounds like a marvelous group of law-abiding citizens,” Mom chirps from her favorite recliner in front of her big-screen TV.
I sigh.
Last month, Adriano had the guest house on our property renovated into a beautiful home for my mother, because he decided that Mom’s apartment building (which he bought months ago!) should be put to better use.
A parking lot, was one of his mentioned options.
I was so mad at him… Until I found a report in his desk drawer that noted the building had failed several safety codes.
Under that report was a proforma invoice for the extensive repairs and facelift on the entire complex.
But of course, my husband would rather drop dead than confess to doing something nice for other people.
Adriano focuses his glare on my mother. “Indeed, Mrs. Fabbri.”
“And, once you join them, that body count statistic will change from a small to a medium-sized country, dear Adriano.”
“Your high opinion of me never ceases to amaze,” he deadpans. “Will you please make sure Iris doesn’t leave this place until I come to collect her?”
“Sure. If you can’t keep your wife safe in your own home, I’m happy to help.”
A full-on growl rips from my husband’s throat, and I slam my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh.
Adriano might very well regret my mom’s new place of residence, and probably already has a thousand times or more. She enjoys needling him far too much.
“Oh, come on.” I wrap my arms around his, pulling him toward the door. “These are your friends—”
“They are not my friends!”
“Business associates, then. But this is the first time you’ve invited all of them over. It would be terribly rude if you didn’t introduce me to them. Especially after I spent all that time making tiramisu for your meeting.”
Adriano goes stone-still. “You told me you ordered it.”
Oh. I grin sheepishly. “Oops.”
“You’re seven months pregnant, Iris. It’s absolutely unacceptable that you work for hours to make dessert for a bunch of criminals.”
“I’m pregnant, not impaired.” I lift onto my toes and press my lips to his. “I made it for you, because I know how much you love it. But you’ll need to share.”
“I’m not sharing anything that you made for me. They can have the store-bought cookies,” he mumbles into my mouth, then nips my lower lip.
“I made five large baking pans, Adriano.”
“They are all mine.”
I smile. My husband is weirdly attached to all the food I make. He won’t let anyone touch it, other than him. I’m not exactly sure how things will go down if I do end up opening my pastry shop next year, as he and I talked about.
“Okay, honey,” I bite him back. “Let’s go say hello.”
***
While Adriano was on his renovation kick, he had the east wing of our house redone.
The suite of rooms that used to belong to me, as well as the bedroom next door, were turned into an enormous library, big enough to fit at least thirty people without them feeling cramped.
But, with these particular nine men plus my husband, the space feels like a matchbox.
We barely set a foot inside before Adriano stops and wraps his arms around me. Looks like we won’t be going further than the doorway.
“The Bratva.” My husband indicates the group of four men around the poker table.
My eyes flit from one grim-looking face to another as Adriano recites their names.
Pakhan Roman Petrov.
His “damage control specialist,” Mikhail Orlov. Whatever that means.
Adriano introduces the tall, dark-haired guy as Pavel Morozov and mentions that he runs Bratva’s nightclubs, before moving to the last guy at the table, one with strikingly blond hair.
“And that’s Belov.”
I’m wondering about the lack of details when Taffy bounces past us into the room.
“There’s my sweet grandpuppy!” Belov shouts, dropping to the floor to wrestle with the dog.
“Luca Rossi, Don of Chicago Famiglia,” Adriano continues, nodding at the guy with shoulder-length hair leaning on the mantel, while everyone completely ignores the blond Russian rolling around on our floor, receiving doggy kisses from a hundred-pound cane corso.
Adriano skips over Don Spada, who is slouching in a recliner near a window, looking pissed as hell. According to Ms. Zara, Massimo did not take it well when my husband informed him of the actual extent of Ruffo Enterprises’ operations.
“Drago Popov, the head of the Serbian Syndicate in New York.” Adriano motions to the other side of the room, to the man in a leather jacket with a biker’s helmet under his arm.
I do a double take. There seem to be glittery pink butterfly stickers all over the man’s black headgear, and a bunch of them are plastered to his leather jacket, too.
Finally, Adriano faces the last two men, who are standing near one of the bookshelves that has my collection of new mystery novels, and introduces them as Don Salvatore Ajello of New York Famiglia and his underboss, Arturo DeVille.
“Um… Welcome,” I say.
All nine men nod in unison; even Belov, who’s back in his seat with Taffy calmly sitting at his side.
Some of the guys even attempt to smile at me politely, but it looks kinda odd.
The Russian pakhan’s brother, however, is grinning our way like he doesn’t have a worry in the world.
As for the rest, there’s no mistaking the charged atmosphere that surrounds them.
These men don’t look all that happy to be together in the same room.
That must be the reason they were asked to disarm upon arrival.
When Adriano and I walked in after leaving Mom’s, I saw the collection of weapons, all neatly stacked in cute baskets that I had left near the front door.
One of the guns looked like it might be a rocket launcher.
“I assume you’re wondering why I have invited all of you here, so I will make it quick. Then, you can all return to your homes and wives, as far away from mine as possible.” Adriano’s voice seems to echo in the utter stillness that has gripped the library.
“There’s no love lost among many of you.
That’s fairly obvious. But in business, there’s no room for personal grudges.
Thus far, I tried to hedge against your mutual animosity, mainly because I have to work with each of you directly or, at least, with your organizations.
” He pauses, and his icy gaze sweeps over the men.
“That nonsense ends today. It affects my business, and frankly, I’m sick of all the shit you motherfuckers try to pile on me every fucking week.”
Adriano abruptly turns to Don Rossi. “Luca, you haven’t caused any direct headaches for me, yet, but you’re here because I’m sure you know what the hell I’m talking about. But also, I would appreciate it if you stop trying to outbid me on every damn warehouse in the Midwest.”
The Chicago Don only nods in return.
My husband’s attention zeros in on the big Russian casually holding a cane. “You’ll stop trying to bribe my drivers to sneak additional crates into your deliveries, Roman. You get what you pay for, nothing more. Frightening them with your butcher won’t work either.”
Then he turns to the man with an eyepatch. “Mikhail, you ever get tired of being brandished as Baba Yaga, give me a call.” The scarred man almost smiles, but it’s not easy to tell with the hard lines on his face.
“Also,” Adriano redirects back to Roman Petrov.
“If I receive one more report that someone tried to sneak a one-off assault weapon into the hidden compartment of one of my trucks to get it smuggled across the border, things won’t end well.
For you, when it comes to the bottom line. Or for your brother.”
The Russian leader grits his teeth, his face a mask of boiling rage. Slowly, he twists to face the man whistling innocently while petting Taffy.
“I’m going to strangle you, Sergei,” Petrov growls.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen, Roman,” the blond guy throws back. “I was only— Ouch!” He rubs his shin. “That hurt!”
“Your head will be next,” the pakhan bites out, pointing his cane at his brother, then faces Adriano. “Agreed.”
“Good.” My husband nods and shifts his gaze to the biker.
“You, Drago, will stop trying to sabotage the deliveries I’m handling for your brother-in-law.
If even one more of my vehicles headed to Arturo ends up with an unexpected malfunction, we’re done.
And you”—Adriano’s head whips toward the New York underboss—“You’ll cease messing around when it comes to Drago’s shit.
I’m tired of ‘random’ border inspections that only creep up when my trucks are loaded with product for your wife’s brother. Am I clear, Arturo?”
“Fine,” the Italian grumbles.
My husband nods. “Perfect.”
“What about if the product is for his sister’s husband instead?” pipes up Belov.
Everyone ignores the blond guy, except for Pavel Morozov, who punches him in the arm.
“Ajello,” Adriano addresses the Italian don.
“If my team discovers any more of your spies trying to weasel into my company by attempting to be hired on for a job… Or if it’s discovered that one has infiltrated any of the other la Famiglia businesses, I have Don Spada’s approval to act in Boston Cosa Nostra’s best interest. And that means, taking a leaf out of your book and returning your man to you in body bags. Multiple body bags.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The don shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.
“Mm-hmm, sure.” Adriano’s gaze makes another sweep around the room, stopping briefly on each man. “Get your shit together, gentlemen, or find someone else to transport your crap. With that, consider this meeting adjourned.”
Heavy silence descends upon the room. My husband pulls me closer into his side, then turns and leads us out, leaving nine of the deadliest men in the country enjoying the rest of their whiskey in our library.
Once we reach the grand foyer, Adriano stops by the wall of framed diplomas and accolades that feature Bartholomew Shaw’s name. He had them moved here from the late psychiatrist’s office. I often find my husband gazing at this wall in silence.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
“Why would I miss that demented ass?” I hear the lie in his tone as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
“Are all the teams in place?” he asks as soon as his call connects.
“Affirmative,” a deep male voice says on the other end of the line. It sounds familiar. “Az is on the roof, covering the main gate. Just in case.”
“I don’t care who it is, anyone makes a dumb move or lingers longer than five minutes, shoot him.”
“Ten-four.” The short reply comes through before the call goes dead.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Kai Mazur. He’s the leader of the sniper team covering the estate today.”
I widen my eyes at him. That’s Nera’s husband.
“You hired a sniper team?”
“Yes. And they are outfitted with top-of-the-line rifles, courtesy of one Don Luca Rossi.”
“Good God, Adriano. Isn’t that overkill?”
My husband frames my face with his hands. “Hardly. Nothing is too much when it comes to your and our precious baby girl’s safety, Little Iris.” He presses his lips to mine.
“You can’t shoot your friends,” I mumble into his mouth.
“They are not my friends,” he grumbles while his lips feather along the column of my neck.