Page 2

CHAPTER 2

SCARLET

My uncle shoots me a disapproving glare as I sidle up to the bar. I return his glower, a subliminal dare. As expected, he frowns—the gray boss always frowns—and follows my mother, aunt, and cousin into the lift.

With an exhale, I raise my eyes to heaven and catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bartender. Wrinkles from travel mar my linen blouse, and unkempt tangles twist my otherwise straight strands. A person could be forgiven for believing I traveled through a wind funnel. I blow a blast of air upwards from my mouth to shift the unruly layers away from my eyes and turn my attention to the leather-bound Savoy cocktail menu.

Winston Churchill, the British bulldog who once redrew Europe’s boundaries and freed Italy, infamously frequented this establishment. Did the great man ever feel feeble and dead-tired from the fight? Probably. Funerals try the soul, and the warrior likely attended his fair share.

The funeral tomorrow will be the first I’ve attended for someone I love. The heavy weight on my chest differs greatly from the funerals in my past. My husband’s funeral, for one. On that day, I soared. My memories of my father’s funeral are hazy. I’d been too young to comprehend, and the years buried any emotion. This weekend, I fear drowning.

The bartender approaches in a pressed white blazer, oxford button-down, and black bowtie. Straight bangs hang a hairbreadth over her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

“May I help you?”

I force a cordial smile and, with one last glance at the menu, say, “I’ll have the Cardamom Angel Face.”

“And you, sir?”

Startled, I shift to see who she’s addressing. If it’s my uncle…

“The Dandy Beau,” Nikolai Ivanov answers, holding a credit card out for the bartender.

The titan’s trimmed auburn beard has grown in along the sides, rounding out his angular jawline, but otherwise, little has changed since I last saw him at my cousin Willow’s impromptu wedding when he swooped in last-minute to offer his services as best man. He’s still got the arrogant angled chin and judgy eagle eyes. He’s wearing a custom three-piece suit that declares he’s obscenely rich as he stands on a pedestal of his own, expecting that all the little people should admire him on bended knee.

“I’ll pay for my drink,” I clarify for the bartender, but she doesn’t seem to care as she’s already busy with our orders.

“Nonsense. I’m the host.”

“The host? Pff.” I lift my hands in disbelief. “Of a funeral?” Two funerals, to be exact. I eye the stools across the bar, but moving to another seat would be childish.

“Have I done something to offend?” His cultured Oxbridge accent rubs me the wrong way.

In all fairness, he’s done nothing to me. But I know his type, and pompous, self-absorbed men offend me. I’m also in the shittiest of moods, although he’s not to blame.

“I’m not in a social mood.”

“Are you ever?”

I side-eye him. Given he and I spent less than an hour in the same room at a wedding and had little interaction, he has no ground to stand.

“My uncle and aunt are in their hotel room. Should I…” I bite back my offer to ring them to join us. Sitting with them would be worse than sitting with the arrogant Brit.

This is all Willow’s fault. She had to go and die. I pinch the bridge of my nose and scrutinize the bartender, mentally urging her to hurry up and deliver my drink.

“For someone in mourning, you’re sporting some tough bark.”

Again, I side-eye him. If I’m quiet long enough, maybe he’ll move along. I don’t get weepy, but it doesn’t mean I don’t ache. Willow was not only my cousin, but she was also my best friend. My only friend, if I’m honest. I’d been happy for her when she married because she dodged a marriage that likely would’ve been worse than mine. I wouldn’t wish my hell on anyone, especially not Willow. She saw the best in everyone. She shunned the dark side of humankind.

I never expected that she’d be dead a month after her wedding. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. None of this feels real. I keep waiting for my mobile to light up with her number.

The bartender slides my frothy concoction across the bar.

“An angel,” she says to me, then she delivers a martini glass to Nikolai.

“An angel for an angel,” he says.

“And your drink is inspired by James Bond.” I, too, can read. The menu declared his drink to be what the modern-day Bond would drink. “Do you think of yourself as a 007?”

“Do you fancy yourself an angel?”

An unladylike snort escapes. “Some say demon would be more apt.” I stir my cocktail with the glass straw, evading his pointed gaze. “But you’ve heard the stories.”

“Don’t tell me you care what the monsters say?”

Is he calling the Italian mafia monsters? I twist in my seat, slightly more interested in the pretentious syndicate member. “Is that how you describe your own?”

“You think I’m a mobster?” He glances down at his chest as if to ask, do I not see his bespoke suit?

I run the pad of my finger over the gathering condensation on the glass while taking a moment to drink him in. He doesn’t look like one of the mafia men. There are no visible tattoos. None of his teeth are gold. There are no rings or thick necklaces.

I know little about Nikolai Ivanov. I never asked and only assumed. The men respect him, and before his death, they respected his employee, Leo Sullivan.

But he can’t be a good man. My uncle saw a union between Willow and Leo to be advantageous to his business and therefore approved of the hasty union between his daughter and Nikolai’s employee, an American known to be an arms broker.

Nikolai showed up out of the blue minutes before the ceremony with wedding bands and sent the newlyweds off in a limousine he provided to a destination he picked. I presumed he did it to ensure their safety.

If Leo was an arms dealer, and he was Nikolai’s employee, then Nikolai is also an arms dealer. My uncle’s specific interest of late is submarines, so perhaps Nikolai deals in more than guns.

Assumptions are the province of fools. My uncle loves that saying, and the life philosophy has served him well. If the commanding prick is going to sit here, I might as well verify my assumptions.

“Were you close to Leo?”

Emotion flickers in his dark eyes. Is he hurting, like me? I suppose even arrogant men can hurt.

The titan’s lips miraculously bend, pursing. “He was my best mate.” He sips his martini. When he sets the glass back down, the perma-frown is back in place. Did I imagine the emotion?

“She was mine,” I say.

There’s no reason to open up to him, but we are at a bar, and tomorrow, we’ll bury our friends beneath six feet of earth. The official cause of death is an auto accident during heavy rains. The brief articles in the local papers refer to unsafe driving during hazardous conditions.

It’s a coverup. Leo was running from someone, of that, I’m certain. People don’t simply drive off bridges. Besides, Leandro DeLuca, our capo’s brother, had been after her. He’d been angry she chose someone else. There’s no telling what he planned. Maybe he wanted to kidnap her. Maybe he wanted to kill her. But Leo killed him. It doesn’t matter that Leandro was a narcissistic egomaniac who couldn’t handle rejection. Rules are rules, so I’m quite certain his brother, Massimo De Luca, the almighty feared head of our ungodly clan, set about getting vengeance for his brother’s death. His men or whoever he hired chased Willow and Leo to a watery grave. I hate them all. Every single member of the Lupi Grigi and their fucked-up traditions.

With that thought, anger swells. I could unleash it at the stranger at my side, but he hurts, too. Maybe . The jury’s still out.

“She’s in a better place.”

His sympathetic phrase pulls me back to the conversation, but it stirs agitation.

“Because she’s not in this fucked-up world, you mean?” I shift away from him, losing the desire to learn more about him. “I thought when she married, your lot would provide her safety.”

He keeps his poker face. The bastard doesn’t even blink. And yes, I’m blaming him because why not? He was higher in rank than Leo, so it should’ve fallen on him to protect them. That’s the world order.

“Is everything all right between us, love?”

“I’m not your love.”

“It’s an expression.”

I roll my eyes as much out of habit as anything. While I know little about the man sitting beside me, Massimo is the one I hate most. Hate for one doesn’t mean I can trust the man to my right, or that I shouldn’t hate him, too.

“What’s with the anger?”

“Was there nothing you could do to keep them safe? Is the Lupi Grigi that powerful?” My insides churn, dreading his answer.

“What have you heard?”

His elbows are on the bar, and he leans closer, so close I inadvertently inhale his cologne. The woodsy scent clears the fog of fury and sorrow, and I remind myself that he might have answers.

The bartender is occupied with other patrons, leaving us to our tense conversation.

With the staff far away, and no one seated nearby, I share my reservations in the hopes he will respond with information. “The rain wasn’t so heavy that he drove straight off a bridge. There were no other accidents on bridges that night.”

“You’ve heard nothing,” he says in a biting tone. “But you’re a clever one. Twisting the angles to sort them.”

I sip my drink, studying him over the rim.

He doesn’t shy away from my blatant perusal. No, he swivels on the stool, opening his chest to me.

It’s no secret that criminal organizations have been expanding throughout Europe. It’s not a stretch to believe they’d have authorities in their pocket, even in England, to provide cover.

He rubs the side of his neck, digging his fingers into the muscle that binds to his shoulders and releases a guttural, throaty noise. He scans the room and leans closer. “You’re correct. It wasn’t an accident.”

I knew it!

“You didn’t expect the interception?” Yes, I’m coming back to placing their deaths at his feet. As Leo’s boss, he should’ve protected them. I may not agree with the mafia traditions, but I understand protocol.

The tables are filling up with patrons, yet we’re alone at the bar for the moment. The low hum of unidentifiable conversation lends a dubious sense of privacy.

“Do you want revenge?” His voice is low and deep, and the rumble delivers chills. “Because I do.”

Oxygen leaves my lungs. I force myself to swallow and process his words. I want nothing more than to see every single one of those hateful freaks die a torturous death, but…how does the titan fit in?

“Help me understand. How do the Grigi work with your organization? It’s called the syndicate, right?”

“First, there is no syndicate.”

I shift back on my stool, putting space between us. He’s lying to me.

“The first rule of the syndicate is there is no syndicate.” His dark eyes sparkle with mirth. He’s playing.

“ Fight Club ? I might be Italian, but I’ve seen the movie.”

A maddening smirk flashes across his face. This is not a humorous situation. His lips flatline once again, and all evidence of humor evaporates.

“If such an organization existed, the Grigi would be one of many that exist under its protection.”

“You protect the monsters?” My gut churns with wariness. I can’t trust this man. I lift my clutch to leave.

My gaze falls to a suited man in the corner. His back is to the corner. He’s angled to observe, and he’s far too obvious. My skin chills.

Is he here for me? Would they break protocol?

“No.” Mr. Ivanov reaches for my wrist, and my gaze cuts to the point of contact and the heat penetrating my chilled skin.

“Do not touch me.”

Wisely, he obeys. The sensation of his touch remains after he lifts his fingers, and I stare at the tingling area.

“I want you to help me take them down.” His measured words are both preposterous and promising.

I glance over my shoulder, but the suited man is gone. To the restroom, or for good? Am I being paranoid?

The ice clinks against Mr. Ivanov’s glass, bringing me back to the moment and his claim.

In a hushed voice, I ask, “Did you not just say that they’re protected? By your organization?”

He can deny the syndicate all he wants, but we both know it exists. And he’s a member, if not the leader. Is he looking to trick me?

“They targeted someone I love.”

“Leo?”

He chuckles and swirls his drink. I raise an eyebrow. My patience is nonexistent. His sexuality is not a concern of mine. He’s teasing, but I’m not in the mood. I want to learn his purpose. And if he won’t be honest with me, then I’d rather be alone.

“I speak of someone else.” He traces the base of his glass with his index finger, giving me a moment to process. “It’s my understanding that you possess knowledge that could be beneficial to my purposes.”

I’m the bookkeeper for my uncle’s business, Titan Shipping, and a handful of other small-scale mafia-run businesses, laundromats, and tours. Understanding dawns.

“Are you amenable to my proposition?” Dark, sinful eyes center on me, and the earlier chills intensify.

“What if I told my uncle about your proposal? Why risk your life?”

“First, I’d deny it. Second, from what Leo shared, you have reason to hate them more than I do. Even more so now. Your logic is spot on. Bad weather was not a contributing factor to the accident.”

“Massimo,” I whisper, and the name rings of an evil incantation.

“Let’s work together, angel.” His deep voice drips with temptation.

He can’t possibly know how desperately I’ve wanted to bring them all down, or how I’ve trained and positioned myself to accomplish the task.

Energy buzzes between us as I weigh the risks. Nikolai has no reason to lie, unless Massimo put him up to it, but Massimo has disregarded me for years. I’m dead to the man. A useless, spent woman. Do I believe Nikolai? Would Massimo risk creating an enemy? Yes, Massimo is foolish enough to forge a dangerous enemy. I am living proof.

When I look into Nikolai’s gray eyes, I see determination. He’s intent, and so am I. Nikolai Ivanov may be the partner I didn’t dare pray would arrive. I’ve been planning a solo war, and now I’ve been gifted a powerful knight.

I tap my glass against his. “Let’s.”

“Would you care to come up to my room?”

“No.” I look directly at him, wiping that too-confident and smarmy expression right off his face. My free hand rises in full orchestra mode, insisting he pause. “You may be the ally I’ve been seeking, but there will be no bedroom visits. Nothing of the sort. That is not what I am agreeing to.”

He holds both hands up in a defensive gesture, sloshing his drink with the movement.

“I understand. I meant nothing by it. I was simply suggesting we could talk in private.”

Bull .

“Let’s talk tomorrow in my office.” He lowers his hands, and I slide off my stool and get the bartender’s attention.

“Can I carry this to my room?”

“Oh, that’s unnecessary,” Nikolai rushes to say.

I pointedly shoot him a glare. I am not one of those women who feigns politeness. No, I have zero fucks to give. I ran out years ago.

“Stay. Enjoy your drink with company,” he urges.

“I’d rather not.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go up to my room and enjoy my drink with my book.”

“Oh, come now. Surely I’m more entertaining than a book.”

“I assure you that’s not the case.”

He laughs.

I depart.

On my way to the lift, I find myself smiling.

Come up to my room to talk business .

What does he take me for? Regardless, he’s likely the ally I’ve been seeking. He’s also a pompous, arrogant prick who wields his handsome face and wealth to get whatever he wants, something I’d best remember.