Chapter 8 #2
Anthony leans back in his chair beside me, one ankle over his knee, like he owns all the air in the room. Maybe he does. Maybe they all do in this building. I hate that it bothers me.
Alex stays standing near the door, arms folded, jaw hard. My brother has always preferred looming to speaking. When we were children, it made him look protective. Now it only makes him look like he’s waiting for something.
“The Dragunoviks are in New York,” I say.
That gets a reaction. Slight, but it’s there.
Anthony’s gaze narrows on me while Lucien’s fingers tap once on the arm of his chair.
I continue before either of them can interrupt.
“They’ve been sniffing around for several months.
Quietly at first. Testing my family's boundaries. Feeling out our suppliers. But now they’re undercutting established channels enough to make themselves attractive without starting a war too early. ”
Anthony scoffs. “Sounds like sloppy business practices, but then the Russians never did understand finesse.”
I turn my head and give him a cold smile.
“Sloppy or not, they’ve managed to take clients from the Romeros.
Good clients, too, reliable ones. Clients who know discretion, who know payment schedules, who know the value of staying loyal.
” I let that settle, hope the fool gets my hidden meaning.
“Now they’re buying loyalty with lower prices and bigger risks. ”
Lucien’s expression remains unreadable. “And you’re here because?”
“Because I want to know if they’ve been bold enough to touch your world too.”
For the first time, Lucien shifts. Not much, but enough to confirm what I need.
So they have.
Interesting.
Anthony beats Lucien to speaking. “A few of our interests have had offers floated their way. Security contracts, distribution, protection…” He says the last word like it tastes foul. “They’re pushing where they shouldn’t.”
I nod slowly. “Then you understand why I’m here.”
I glance between them, hating every word that comes next.
“The Dragunoviks are trying to establish themselves by bleeding both our families dry. One client here, one route there, one whisper in the right ear. By the time they’re done, they won’t need to declare war, they’ll already be standing on our necks. ”
Alex shifts near the door, and I feel it more than see it. I don’t look at him. I keep my attention on Lucien. Lucien, however, glances at my brother and then back at me.
“We can’t allow that,” I push, needing their support. “Not me. Not you.”
Lucien steeples his fingers. “And your solution?”
“A truce and alliance. For a little while at least.”
The words fall like paper over a blade. Anthony laughs, the sound low and mocking. “You must be out of your fucking mind, Isabella.”
“Am I?” I turn to him and ignore what the sound of my name on his lips does to my insides. “Because from where I’m sitting, this is the first intelligent thing either of our families has done in years.”
His mouth hardens. “Careful.”
“No.” I lean in. “You be careful. I’m not asking the Morettis to share a family dinner with the Romeros. I’m saying we have a common enemy, and it would be in everyone’s best interest to make the Dragunoviks regret ever setting foot in this country.”
Lucien watches me. “How?”
I smile then, slow and humorless. “We squeeze, everywhere.”
Anthony’s brows lift despite himself.
“We threaten suppliers who even think about working with them. We undercut their undercutting until they choke on it. We make every port, every warehouse, every club owner, every real estate deal, every middleman understand that doing business with the Dragunoviks means losing protection from both the Romeros and the Morettis when they scuttle back to Russia.” I let my voice harden.
“We isolate them. Freeze them out. Make New York so hostile they crawl back to whatever frozen hole they call home.”
Anthony’s mouth twitches. Do I sense approval from him? I narrow my eyes when he catches himself.
“And what do you offer in return for this truce?” Lucien asks. “If I were to consider this offer?”
I hate him for asking, because of course, there is a price.
If the Morettis had come to me, I would have asked the same of them.
Tit for tat. “For the duration of the problem,” I say carefully, “the Romeros and Morettis stay out of each other’s operations.
No picking at weak spots. No retaliation for old grudges.
No opportunistic grabs while the other side is focused on the Russians. ”
Anthony laughs. “You’re asking for trust.” His smile turns into a snarl. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I turn to him. “No. I’m asking for practicality. And I don’t think you’re a reliable source to preach trust, so sit down, little boy, and shut the fuck up.”
“Funny,” he says, voice low enough for only me to hear. “I remember a time when you used to trust me just fine.”
The words hit where they shouldn’t, and I hate him more for it. I smile anyway. “I remember a time when I was young and stupid.” I lean back in my chair. “That time is long over.”
His eyes flare.
Lucien rises at last, moving toward the windows behind his desk.
The city stretches beyond the glass, brilliant and dangerous, New York glowing like the jewel it is.
He clasps his hands behind his back. “You’re right.
We’ve felt the impact of this family since their relocation to the city.
If the Dragunoviks are pushing this hard,” he says, “they either think we’re weak, or they’ve got help. ”
My stomach tightens after surmising the same. “I know.”
“A mole,” Anthony says.
I nod. “In one family, definitely. Maybe both.”
Lucien looks back at me over his shoulder.
“It’s not my family, so it must be yours.
” I don’t answer. I don’t like the implication or the accusation.
But then, my family wasn't as aligned, as loyal as they should be, not yet. Not after all the upheaval we’ve endured these past two years.
I cannot deny that it could be my family who’s helping the Russians. But who was it?
“Perhaps,” I say, hating that possibility and accepting the probability for what it was. “But if I find a traitor in my family, they won’t live long enough to regret it, I can promise you that.”
Anthony studies me with an intensity I wish I didn’t feel. He knows I mean it. Perhaps that’s the one language we have always spoken fluently to one another. Violence. Consequence. Desire…
Lucien returns to his desk and leans over it, his hands pressing down on the mahogany wood. “Let’s say you have a mole. What’s next? What are your plans?”
“We send a message.” I uncross my legs and stand, because some things should be said on your feet, and I don’t like Lucien Moretti towering over me. “Together.”
Alex moves in my peripheral vision again, and I ignore it. My brother was always eager for a fight, and now was no different.
“We let the Dragunoviks know New York is closed to them,” I say.
“We tell them their low prices, their threats, their men won’t save them for what’s coming.
That they’ve overstepped their bounds. If they want to keep breathing, earning their millions, they leave the USA and find clients elsewhere and stay the fuck out of our way. ”
Anthony stands too. I can feel him tense beside me, and I hate that I’m still so in tune with him. I shouldn’t react at all or know what he’s feeling, and yet damn the man, I do.
“And if they don’t?” Lucien asks.
I hold his gaze. “Then we bury them. All of them, until there’s no one left to carry on the business.”
A beat of silence follows, and then in the distance, I hear the elevator ping open. Every muscle in my body locks. I'm not aware that Lucien Moretti invited others to this meeting. The shut office doors slam open, and for a moment, I’m frozen with shock.
Igor Dragunovik, the younger brother of Rodin, strolls into the office like he’s been invited to cocktails.
A man shadowing him—possibly his bodyguard—stands not far behind.
Broad-shouldered, smiling with one gold tooth exposed, he raises my hackles and sends ice tingling through my veins.
Wearing an expensive suit, outfitted with blood, stretched over a body made for violence, he looks too pleased with himself, too comfortable, and that alone tells me something has gone horribly wrong.
“Well,” he says in that thick Russian accent, amusement dripping from every word. “This is insulting. You talk about me, and I’m not invited? Very poor form from my American friends.”
Anthony is moving before the sentence is done, stepping in front of Lucien’s desk. Lucien goes still in the way only truly dangerous men do. I don’t know what chills me more. Igor being here, or the fact that he got in here at all. My hand slips toward my jacket.
“Get out,” Lucien says, his voice flat as if he’s unbothered, but he is. We all are, even if right at this moment we’re pretending everything is normal.
Rodin grins wider. “No hello? No welcome?” His gaze slides to me. “Isabella Romero. More beautiful in person. Though I admit I expected you to keep better company.”
“Leave,” I snap.
He tsks. “Temper, darling girl. You should not be so angry. I have only come to discuss business. My brother, you see,” he says, inspecting his fingernails, “has much to say to you all, so I have come in his stead. To discuss, you understand.”
Anthony takes another step forward this time, placing himself slightly in front of me. I don’t need his care or his security. Always acting the hero.
“You’ve got three seconds before I put you through that fucking wall,” Anthony says, his voice devoid of feeling.
Igor’s eyes gleam. “You can try, Moretti.”
Movement to the side catches my attention. Not Igor. Not a Moretti, but a Romero.
Alex.