Chapter 22 #2
One hour later, the six of us board the military jet that shouldn’t exist and somehow does.
Destination: St Petersburg.
I fasten my belt and stare straight ahead.
No more cat and mouse and traitor nuns hiding behind habits.
This ends now.
* * *
Renzo
St Petersburg
Palinski’s stronghold is less a dacha and more of a zamok – a fucking castle. Stone walls thick enough to laugh at artillery. Towers. Floodlights. Cameras nestled in the snow like mechanical vultures.
Unfortunately for me and my brothers – and the treasure of my heart I brought along when I should’ve put my damn foot down, left her safe and sound back—
No.
Fuck that.
The safest place for Giada is by my side. I grip the hand clasped in mine tighter, revel in the warm silk of her touch. ‘Repeat the instruction,’ I say.
She rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, looking stunning as hell in the all-black bullet-proof gear her sister Sofiya conjured up from fuck knows where. ‘I stay at your side at all times unless you tell me otherwise.’
‘And?’
‘And if shit goes sideways, I don’t run or freeze. I stick with you, no matter what.’
I open my mouth, either to give her an atta girl or to tease her for being so comfortable swearing again.
She leans in and kisses me, quick and firm. A shut-up kiss. Effective.
Dante snorts behind us. ‘Jesus Christ. Get a room or get shot. I’m flexible.’
Rafa doesn’t look at us. His eyes are already on the gates. ‘Focus.’
We focus.
The iron gates grind open with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Six armed men step out. Calm. Professional. Not local thugs. These are soldiers who expect violence and plan to survive it.
They watch us. We watch them.
One steps forward.
Tall and blond with a scar down one cheek and a misshapen ear that looks like someone started to hack it off then abandoned the task halfway through. His icy eyes scan us like laser beams before they lift upwards.
He knows about the illegal as fuck predator drone Rafa has hovering above our heads. I have no idea what my brother’s ultimate plan with the drone is but I guess we’ll find out if, as my beautiful love put it so eloquently, ‘shit goes sideways’.
Her hand trembles in mine now but she breathes calmly. In and out.
When the guard’s gaze descends, his expression doesn’t give away his feelings on the aerial threat one way or the other.
‘Mr Palinski is expecting you,’ he says in clean English with a thick Russian accent. ‘Come this way. Without your security men, please.’
Cesare smiles without humour. ‘That’s adorable.’
‘We will ensure your safety,’ the man replies.
‘Of course you will,’ Dante mutters. ‘That’s always how these stories start.’
We leave most of the muscle outside but we bring Cesare’s personal bodyguard, Umberto ‘Fist’ Laslo, one of Dante’s, and two of mine. Rafa put his foot down way back when Orazio offered a personal guard. To this day, I still don’t know why the old man backed down.
We move inside the compound with no visible weapons beyond what we’re always carrying.
Giada’s fingers stay locked in mine.
Inside, the castle smells like old stone and money. Heat hums through the floors. Men line the halls. Too many. This place has been a fortress for decades.
Palinski waits in a high-ceilinged room with windows cut narrow into the walls. White hair slicked back. Skin pale and thin. Eyes light enough to look colourless. Vicious doesn’t begin to cover it. This is a man who has outlived enemies by watching them die.
He studies us without rising. ‘Salvatore,’ he says. ‘You travel loudly.’
‘We like to be heard,’ Cesare replies.
Palinski’s gaze drifts to Giada. Lingers a beat too long.
I shift half a step, blocking her without breaking stride.
Palinski smiles faintly. ‘Ah. The girl.’
Rafa doesn’t bother with pleasantries. ‘Your nephew has been making a nuisance of himself in Italy.’
He remains silent for a full minute, clearly not being a man who likes to rush into speech. ‘Liv,’ Palinski says. ‘He is young. What you call a… hothead.’
‘He is sloppy,’ Cesare counters. ‘And a pussy, if you pardon my French. He’s hiding in the shadows while stirring shit with Vittore Mancinelli.’
Palinski lifts one shoulder, even as his gaze slides once more to Giada. I promise myself, one more look and I’ll pluck at least one eye out.
‘Italy is far from here,’ he eventually says.
‘So is Vegas,’ Dante says. ‘Didn’t stop your son from trying to kill Cesare with a racing car. While he was high on coke. Remember that?’
A flicker. Just a flicker.
Palinski’s eyes return to Cesare. ‘True. My son lives because you allowed it.’
‘Correct,’ Cesare says. ‘And now you get to decide if that courtesy and mercy goes both ways. Because both of your nephew’s funded attacks were within two miles of my son.’
Rafa steps forward. ‘Not to mention Ivanov orchestrated the hit that killed our mother. Carried out by a woman we believe is now in this city. Possibly within these walls.’
Palinski’s face doesn’t change as he switches his gaze from Cesare to Rafa. ‘And?’ he asks.
Rafa’s jaw tightens. I feel the room lean towards violence.
Cesare shrugs, cool as shit. ‘It’s up to you. You can decide to make her disappear in a very Russian way. Ice suit in the Baltic. Bullet with no name.’
Palinski’s lips thin.
‘Or,’ Cesare continues, ‘you withdraw your hospitality and we walk out of here. And next time we might not come through your front door. We might just drop in through your roof. Or your tunnels. Or your grandchildren’s schools.’
Silence stretches.
Palinski exhales slowly. ‘You make very serious threats.’
‘We make promises,’ Dante says.
Palinski studies us again. Calculates. He’s deciding how expensive this is going to be.
‘What do you want?’ he asks finally.
‘Your nephew on a very short leash,’ Rafa says. ‘Your borders closed to Vittore. And the woman.’
Palinski eases back in his chair. After another minute, he taps two fingers on the arm of his chair. Once. Twice. Then he nods.
He lifts his hand. A subtle gesture.
The doors at the far end of the room open almost immediately. Two men drag someone forward across the vast hall.
Twenty feet away she stumbles and the soldiers harshly right her. But it’s not until she’s another ten feet away that I recognise her.
She’s not wearing her habit. Her hair hangs loose and filthy. One eye is swollen shut. Blood is crusted at her mouth and her wrists are bound.
Madre Superiora.
The room detonates.
I don’t move, but everything inside me does. Heat. Rage. Memory. My mother’s face flashes behind my eyes. The way her grave looked so fucking cold for the warm mother who loved us all.
Cesare swears softly as Dante goes still. Dangerously still.
Rafa’s breath leaves him in a rough pull. Sofiya moves a half inch closer, infusing him with love and support in her own unique way.
Giada stiffens beside me, her fingers tightening until it hurts. When I glance at her I see a sheen of tears. Tears of rage and regret and recrimination for the woman who played a pivotal role in this cycle of carnage we all got dragged into.
Palinski watches us closely. ‘She arrived three days ago,’ he says. ‘Asking for sanctuary. Offering information.’
‘And you beat it out of her,’ Cesare notes.
‘She was uncooperative,’ Palinski replies. ‘Now she is not.’
The nun lifts her head. Her remaining eye finds me. Recognition sparks.
Fear follows.
The castle feels very small.
And this is where we stop.