53. Tomas
53
TOMAS
O f course, it’s not that simple. As ready as I am to take Damir Malinov down, I know I can’t do it by myself. And Gabriel flat-out refuses to let Antonio send troops to Valencia.
“Fine,” I snap, feeling my grip on my temper slipping. “Then I’ll do it by myself.” I’m aware I’m acting recklessly, but I don’t care. Damir Malinov tried to kill Alina. I will not let him survive.
“And then you will die,” Gabriel replies. “You need a plan, Tomas.” He turns to Alina. “I deeply regret that you’ve been placed in danger in my city,” he says. “Please let me make amends.”
She lifts her head. “Do these amends include a doctor to look at Tomas’s arm?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s go.”
Gabriel whisks us away to his house. His on-call doctor cleans my wound and puts a bandage on it without blinking an eye. Alina hovers near me while that happens. “I hate this,” she says. “You’d think I’d be used to blood, but when it’s yours…”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m fine.”
She takes a deep breath. “I know you want to kill Damir Malinov,” she says. “And I understand. I want to kill him, too. But tell me why we can’t just go back to Venice.”
“This isn’t about revenge.” The hot flash of anger has evaporated, leaving behind a cold resolve. “Your father is desperate to honor the contract, and Gregori Malinov is just as desperate to end it. We can go back to Venice, but neither of them will leave you alone. Vidone Laurenti wants you married to Damir Malinov, and Gregori wants you dead. There’s only one way to end this.”
Realization dawns on her face. “Kill Damir Malinov.”
“He’s Gregori’s only son,” I reply. “If he’s dead, the alliance between VDL and Kutuzovo is done. And you get your life back.”
“But you can’t storm his compound by yourself,” she whispers, her expression desperately worried. “And if Gabriel won’t let Antonio Moretti send you help…”
“Antonio can’t help,” Gabriel says, walking into the room and overhearing that last part. No such thing as knocking for d’Este, I see. “But here’s someone who can.” He steps aside, and I suck in a breath as I see the face of the man behind him.
Andrei Sidorov. The pakhan himself.
What the fuck?
The Sidorov Bratva controls large areas of Russia, Belarus, Romania, Hungary, and Croatia. For Andrei to be here in person…
“Damir Malinov killed one of my emissaries,” he says grimly. “He put out word that the Kutuzovo were interested in negotiating for peace, and when Vassili approached him under a flag of truce, he tortured and killed him.” His eyes are blocks of ice. “My sister Natalya was in love with Vassili. Damir sent her the footage of him being tortured.” He holds out his hand to me. “Andrei Sidorov. Let’s go kill the bastard.”