Chapter 8 OKSANA #2
"Lunch," he says, like it’s a peace offering. "Before you start trying to hack the nurses’ station."
He sets everything down and eyes the phone in my hand. "Did you find anything out?"
I look up, study him for a beat. He looks infuriatingly good in dark slacks and rolled-up sleeves, like sin went casual. The light hits his jaw, catches in the hollow of his throat. I debate how much to say, then decide to poke the bear. "Does the name Igor Pavlov mean anything to you?"
The change is instant. He goes still, very still, his eyes narrow, and his shoulders stiffen. I love it when I hit an unexpected jackpot. His mouth forms a line.
"Why?" he asks carefully, drawing the word out. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for the paper bag—accidental, or not—I don't pull away. The heat of his fingers lingers longer than it should.
I definitely hit a nerve. Maybe this Italian king will prove useful after all.
"Because," I say, keeping my tone lazy, "your not-so-Italian Donna Margarita was born in Russia. By the way, her real name is Margarita Viktorovna Voronina. Her mother was Caterine Bellini; her father's records are sealed, but rumor says Viktor Voronin."
That gets him, too. I see it in the twitch of his jaw.
I keep going. "She escaped Moscow when she was sixteen, along with her half-brother, Igor Pavlov. Also rumored to be Voronin’s son."
Stephano frowns. "Voronin. Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
I stare at him. "Seriously?"
He lifts a shoulder, unbothered.
"Do you ever read up on the Russian Bratva?" I demand.
"Why would I?" he counters. "They haven’t crossed my radar yet."
I sigh and drop my head back against the pillow. "Unbelievable. You Italians think the world begins and ends with you."
He grins faintly, private and dangerous. "Well, when your ancestors built the world’s greatest empire, it’s hard not to take pride. Thousands of years of dominance don’t disappear overnight."
I snort. "Oh God. Don’t tell me you’re about to claim you’re a direct descendant of Caesar."
His grin widens, arrogant and entirely too pleased with himself. "I’m just saying the bloodlines run deep."
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Congratulations. Does that come with a laurel crown or just an oversized ego?"
"Both," he grins shamelessly. "But the ego’s the part you seem most interested in."
"Please." I pull the blanket higher. "You wish."
He shifts closer, eyes glinting. "So, are you going to fill me in, or do I need to assign myself homework?"
"Fine." I shift, propping the tray between us.
"Viktor Voronin was the worst Pakhan in Bratva history. So unforgiving that he made Caligula look like a wellness guru. He ran the Bratva before Yaroslav Arsenyev took him out. He was deeply paranoid but brilliant. He loved to break people just to see what shape they’d take when they healed. "
Stephano whistles under his breath. "Sounds like a lovely man."
"Oh, you have no idea," I say, watching his face. He watches mine like a man cataloguing angles; the look is almost intimate. "When Yaroslav Arsenyev ended him, he had to burn half of Moscow’s underworld with him."
He leans back, brows drawn. "So the Arsenyev family killed Donna Margarita’s."
"Welcome to Russian history 101," I reply dryly. His eyes drop to my mouth for a heartbeat before he looks away, and the tiny movement makes my chest tighten.
He nudges the sandwich my way and opens the soda, tattooed fingers flexing around the cap.
It hits me low, not in imagination, but in memory.
I know exactly what those fingers feel like gripping my throat…
applying just the right amount of pressure to make a girl see stars, while keeping her steady and ruining her ability to think.
A shudder moves through me at the memory and drenches me so fast I have to lock my knees.
God help me.
"Yeah, I know the name. Igor Pavlov." He nods.
I dry swallow and try to catch up with his words.
He leans in close enough that the smell of his cologne catches me—cedar and citrus—and I have to remind myself to breathe.
He continues, "Igor Pavlov was called Ledyanoy Prizrak—icy ghost—a high-caliber freelance assassin.
One of the best there ever was. He got on our radar when he kidnapped Enrico Sartori's sister," he looks at me, his eyes asking if I need more detail.
I wave my hand for him to continue; he can give me the nitty-gritty later.
I've heard rumors about the Icy Ghost. Grigori liked to joke that he'd send him after me if I didn't behave. Every Russian knows him because he was rumored to be one. His hits cost over a billion dollars, and they were masterfully executed.
"One master assassin, and one cold-blooded manipulator," I say around a bite of sandwich. "Makes you wonder if Viktor had any more kids."
"God," Stephano takes a sip of his soda, "let's hope not." Then he looks at me, "He’s dead. Igor."
"Bummer." I retort, emotionless. I don't care one way or another, still, "Sounds like a man who knew how to make an exit." I murmur, taking another bite.
"So, what does any of this have to do with the Venezuelans?"
"I'm not sure yet," I decide to test him a bit further, "but while I was in Venezuela," he looks like he's about to interrupt me, but changes his mind, "I saw Donna Margarita with one of your men."
He wipes his hands, the motion slow and measured. The pad of his thumb grazes the back of my hand as he pulls a napkin free — a small, deliberate contact—and the heat from it crawls under my skin.
"Raf," I watch him intently, "Raffael DeSantis."
"He was in Venezuela under my orders," Stephano tells me. I arch an eyebrow for him to elaborate. "The Venezuelans killed our bookkeeper, and our Don decided not to do anything about it."
"So you send one of your guys to find out more, and he… what? Just happened to run into Donna Margarita? How would a low-level—no offense to your guy—soldier even know her, let alone be in her company?"
"He's now a newly appointed capo to La Famiglia. He took over the void the Giordanos left."
"Hmm," that's news to me. Raf is a capo now?
My earlier suspicion rise to the forefront of my mind, and I file it for later.
Taking another bite, I give Stephano a sideways glance, stalling to settle myself again.
The way he leans in when he speaks makes the space between us feel both dangerous and soft.
"What?"
"Sounds like there's more to the story." I sense some kind of relationship shift between Stephano and Raf, I'm just not sure if it's good or bad.
"There is," he continues. "Raf found out that Donna Margarita and Silvano Valverde have been working together for years. She even has three daughters by him."
I wipe some mustard off my lips with a napkin, drumming the fingers of my other hand against the tray.
I'm not letting him see that I already knew that.
My knee brushes his under the low bedside table, and the small electric jolt further tests my stubborn refusal to acknowledge my body's awareness of him.
"How in the hell did you guys not know that?" I'm genuinely curious about his answer.
He shrugs. "She made Isabella look legit, like she was her late husband's… the other two…" another shrug, "nobody dared ask or talk about it. In a way, she was a capo in her own right, running the Giordano family. So everybody turned their heads."
"But the daughters are illegitimate and married within the family?
" I realize how old-fashioned I sound, but we're talking about the Cosa Nostra, which, just like the Bratva, is very much run by old traditions. Maybe I underestimated the Cosa Nostra; maybe they're changing. I push the thought aside and return to more important issues than Donna Margarita’s children’s parentage.
"So Donna Margarita has beef with La Famiglia and the Bratva. And she convinced the Venezuelans to help her."
"Looks like it. That woman has her claws everywhere."
I can't help having a little woman crush. "I'd really like to meet her. Do you think you could introduce me?"
He gives me a look. "Do you have any normal idols?"
"Define normal."
"Not someone who built an empire on graves and watered their family tree with blood." He deadpans.
I grin. "You?"
He snorts. "You’ve got terrible taste, Zhena."
"I’ve heard worse from better men," I shoot back.
For a second, the air softens between us, like the crackle before thunder.
He leans forward, and his voice drops, private.
"I don't know if this has anything to do with anything, but what was she doing in Russia?
What was her life like growing up?" His knee brushes mine again—intentional this time—and the contact is a claim.
"I'm looking into it," I assure him. Then I raise my soda, "Well, here’s to family legacies."
He taps his bottle against mine. "You really are dangerous when you’re bored."
"Good thing you brought lunch," I say. "Otherwise, I might’ve started plotting your assassination."
"Next time," he says dryly, "I’ll bring dessert."