Page 35

English or Russian, the shame is the same.

“Fuck you, old man,” I say, setting the bottle down and spinning my laptop toward me. The news remains the same: nada, and the dots on the screen of those out looking are still spread far and wide.

I pull up a different screen. This one with the faces of those who might have done this.

In truth, it could be anyone. People always try to snatch power and I have power. But the retributions are such that most who think about it, think again and slink back into the shadows.

But I’m not arrogant enough to believe I’m untouchable.

No one is.

It’s only how you play the game and the allies you make that change things.

I play smart, better than my father, but I also straddle the line between the old world and the new and that brings dangers of its own.

Some allies feel betrayed or sidelined. Most keep it to themselves. Those who don’t… they’re presented with an option, fall in line or walk away.

The third option always remains unspoken. Death.

With a sigh, I pull up the page on Sergio Augusto.

Powerful. Mafia. A man not to be underestimated.

He just might be behind this.

We had an exchange of words recently over territory issues. I believe we need more flexibility, judicious blind eye. He believes in iron walls and Old Testament punishments.

If it were just that, I’d dismiss him, but it’s not. The bearded man with the arrogant dark eyes seems to mock me in the image on the screen. There’s tension between us. He’s more my father’s school of doing things than mine and though he knows he needs me and I need him, the tensions have been festering. Slowly building.

An escalation to where he’d decided to take matters into his own hands, perhaps.

Out of all of them, he seems most likely. He’s powerful enough. Feared.

But not by me.

If he has taken matters into his own hands and his last few angry words to me that I’d regret the damn day I stood up to him, then that’s a decisionhe’llregret. I’ll make sure of it.

What I can’t be sure of is exactly how long he’ll regret that decision.

I’d like to make him suffer, but if my temper snaps… then his life is done. It’ll be done, anyway, but sooner rather than me drawing his death out.

“Boss?”

I look up from the computer as Ilya walks in, face grave, eyes blazing. I hate it when he calls me boss, but he does it when he means business, and in private, when he’s giving me shit. Considering we’re in private and there’s not a joking word that would come near him right now, I steel myself for whatever he’s going to say.

“Do you know where she is?”

He hands me a tablet. “I’ve got a location, but no confirmation of who’s holding Alina. The vehicle you saw matches, as well as the thugs.”

“Who?”

He smooths his hair. “I don’t know. This came from a source. He claims he saw her, described Alina pretty damn perfectly, down to the dress, and the car, too.”

“Could be a red herring.” Fuck. I press my lips together for a moment, then meet Ilya’s gaze. “Can this source be trusted?”

“Frankie’s a junkie working with three different gangs. So… probably not. He might have seen her or got word of her dress, though he doesn’t strike me as fashion forward.”

“Girl in white, Ilya. What’s he asking?”