Page 173 of Bitter Poetry

That’s my plan.

To escape.

Catch a train into the city.

Get picked up by his men.

Claim the Russians held me, and I got away.

Ettore will be relieved. It might start a war, but he’ll be dead that first night, and then Dante can step into the void and put an end to it.

It sounds easy.

I’m not naïve enough to presume it will be.

CHRISTIAN

“They know something’s going down,” Roman says as we navigate the downtown traffic. We’re following two Russian lackeys and are not being subtle about it.

There are no rules about them being on our turf, but there are about them dealing or engaging in other illegal activities. They keep that shit on their own patch, and we’re all good. Which means there’s nothing we can do about their suspiciously heavy presence, beyond following them to see where they go.

Ettore is convinced that they’ve taken Carmela. Following their every move is his plan.

I don’t question orders. I do as I’m told, which I’ve always done, and it makes it easy for me to play stupid now.

“We have three times the usual numbers of soldiers on the streets. They probably think we’re about to launch a turf war.”

“Are we?” Roman asks. He’s driving, and I’m glad about that because the most he can do is spare a glance at me. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Roman is in the out of the loop group. All he knows is that Ettore has raised the alert and wants a presence on the streets. “Don’t have a fucking clue, mate.”

Fuck, I sound like Jero.

“You sound like Jero,” he says, smirking.

“Thanks. I just realized that myself.”

He grins, but it fades, and he clears his throat. “So, you think it’s something to do with Mrs. Gallo? A week after Cosmo loses his mind and head. Feels like too much of a coincidence. Maybe Cosmo was working for the Russians?”

Cosmo was a dipshit of the highest order. Him working with the Russians makes zero fucking sense, but I’m not going to point that out.

“Who knows? I just do as I’m told and don’t ask any questions.”

“I mean, you two must be close,” he continues, not taking the hint to shut the fuck up. “You’ve been her driver pretty much since their wedding.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just an observation.”

“Well, don’t fucking observe. Drive the car and observe the Russian pricks. I recognized Koyla in the passenger seat. I want to shake that slimy fuckwit down for no reason other than the fun of it.”

“The don was pretty clear,” Roman points out. “We don’t touch them unless they do something that breaks the treaty. All they’re doing is driving around and being nosy fuckers.”

He’s right. I wish Ettore would go ahead and do something fucking stupid that gets him killed. So far, other than being pissed at everybody, tensions haven’t escalated in the way we might have hoped.

The pressure is constant. It’s only a matter of time before someone uncovers something that points to me or Dante, and it’s for sure more likely to be me. I haven’t seen her in a fucking week. Dante promised me he wouldn’t fuck her. At the time, I didn’t think of adding any other rules. But yeah, not fucking still leaves a lot of scope.

I never saw myself as this territorial. I was always looking after her for him. But something’s changed somewhere along the way. The ants are restless under my skin, urging me to act, and warning me that danger is near. Maybe they’re just acting out due to the separation. This is the longest I’ve been apart from her since that time she told Ettore I’d put my hands on her. That was six days in total, and this is now up to eight—more than a week.