Page 38 of City Of Thieves

As I make my way back through the lobby, each step grows heavy with intent. It’s time for another game of lies and truth with Miss Sanders, with a greater emphasis on the latter.

Keeping my eyes averted from the pastel walls, I head for the elevator, my mind filled with the unwanted image of her face. That irate, terrified, infuriatingly beautiful face that gazed at me with determination and regret for a fraction of a second before the doors closed.

Then I hear Vasily’s warning in my head.

“That girl is no innocent.”

He’s right. She’s a Molotov cocktail. One wrong step in her line of fire, and we’ll both go down in flames.

A couple of steps out from the open carriage, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Without slowing my stride, I yank it out and answer it. “Killian, I told you—”

“Lorenzo, where the hell are you?”

Lorenzo.

Only one man calls me by my given name. The same man I’ve been avoiding for three months, whose demands can't be met until every drop of Nero’s blood is washed from my hands. Who, until I lay the head of his son’s killer at his feet, will never see me as anything other than a poor replacement.

“Hello to you, too, Dad.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” he says with a growl. “Your Uncle Sal informed me the jet departed Teterboro early this morning.”

“Good news travels fast.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” His demand is dangerously calm. I don’t bother answering because I know what’s coming next. “It’s been three months of silence, Renzo. You’re about to become my goddamn underboss.”

I slip in an alcove next to the elevator, my response as short as my patience. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Other than finding Nero’s killer, becoming underboss is the only thing I want in life, but it’s a responsibility I claimed, then kept at arm’s length. Anything to prevent Uncle Sal and Paulie from swinging their dicks around and gaining support for an honor that wasn’t meant for them.

A door slams somewhere in the background. “Questions are being asked, and I can’t keep making excuses for you.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m done waiting, Renzo. You’re my son, but I’m the boss of this family, and I won’t have it weakened by a hole in the infrastructure.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the ceremony will take place tonight.”

“That’s going to be a little difficult, considering I’m in London.”

There’s a pause. “Are you still chasing that fucking painting?”

I clench my fist. “Thatfucking paintingis the reason your son is dead. You remember, the one you groomed from birth to run your empire?”

“Lorenzo—”

“You made me wait thirty-three years for the chance to prove I have what it takes to rule beside you. Now, it’s your turn to wait.”

Since being named Nero’s successor, I’ve given numerous excuses to delay the closed-door ceremony that solidifies my position as underboss of the Marchesi crime family. As far as I’m concerned, I can’t take his place until his killer is brought to justice.

“You have forty-eight hours,” he says coldly. “Or I have no choice.”

“Meaning?”

Spell it out and throw down the gauntlet, Dad.

“Or Salvatore gets the job.”