Page 20 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Konstantin

“ T his one.”

The curator nods stiffly, jotting something down in his notepad before glancing at Holly, my acquisitions specialist. Her eyes run over the oil painting before us—an abstract, massive, in blues and blacks and greens.

It has stirred something in me that I both long for and hate. It looks like… home. Like the pine forests I used to stare at from the living room window, where Mikhail and I slept on pads on the floor.

The curator thumbs a small red sticker next to the piece and a few guests murmur, surprised or envious. Holly and the man walk away into the depths of the gallery to discuss payment.

Taking a sip of champagne, my eyes scan the room for the artist. I’m curious about her, and how she managed to capture such an evocative memory that has been buried in my mind for decades.

Instead, my gaze locks on someone else. Someone very, very familiar.

Giuseppe Sartorre.

His gray hair is slicked back, heavy black glasses resting on an aquiline nose. He’s tall and slim aside from the pouch that all Italian men seem to develop later in life, accentuated by the cashmere sweater tucked perfectly into his trousers.

A small group is being entertained by one of Giuseppe’s stories. He’s a charming man; we’ve met several times in life, almost always politely. Anything impolite between our factions takes place in back alleys, at night, in secret.

Giuseppe glances up and smiles when he sees me watching. His wave is so grandfatherly that I scowl, taking another sip of champagne.

With a word, the crowd around Giuseppe disperses. He strolls casually in my direction, hands in his pockets.

“Konstantin. I would say I’m surprised to see you here, but you’ve always been a man of good taste.”

“Giuseppe. Likewise. Though I didn’t strike you as a fan of abstract work.”

He shrugs, the cashmere sweater hiding his drooping shoulders. Giuseppe Sartorre, crime boss of the Italian mob, is aging. It’s beginning to get noticeable.

My eyes narrow.

“I’m not, really. You know, I prefer more realism.

Those old paintings of a table laid with a feast—pheasants, grapes, a cat trying to steal from a saucer of milk.

” He laughs, and it’s a pleasant sound. Maybe in another life a man like Giuseppe and I could’ve been friends.

I’d pay a pretty penny to be able to sit down with him and talk about our experiences; the men we’ve killed with our bare hands, the insurgents we’ve had to stifle in our ranks, maybe even the days before we became killers.

“This is more of my son’s interest.”

He lifts his chin in the direction of the crowded gallery and it’s suddenly easier to pick out Davide Sartorre, a gorgeous woman on his arm who must be his wife, Giacomo Sartorre, and Rocco Sartorre.

Rocco, though, is noticeably drunk. And harassing one of the curator’s young assistants.

Annoyance flashes across Giuseppe’s features. He’s an old man now, but if I were Rocco I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his father’s anger.

I also wouldn’t want to be in the running to become the next Don.

“Fia,” I comment drily, noticing the absence of his daughter, “she doesn’t enjoy art?”

He shrugs. “Fia is finishing up some… work for me. In upstate New York.” Giuseppe catches the way my face goes flat, and laughs.

“Don’t worry, Konstantin. We already know all about your warehouse up there; you have no competition from us.

My family is from Sicily, we prefer warmer climates.

North Carolina, Atlanta, Boca. No, Fia is just hunting down a runner. Getting what we’re owed.”

I relax, taking in the art once more as our conversation lapses into silence. My thoughts are with Audrey, who I didn’t dare bring to this event.

Yes, I made sure that she was very publicly declared mine.

But now that she’s carrying my child, I don’t want to put her in unnecessary danger.

As if reading my mind, Giuseppe casually comments, “I heard you’re starting a family. Congratulations.”

Immediately, panic, fear and anger balloon in my chest. Glancing toward the street, I have the urge to text Lev—to ask him to make sure that Audrey is safe.

“How do you know?” I ground out, grip tightening on the champagne glass.

“Ah, well. Lucia,” he gestures toward Davide’s wife, “she has been struggling—please keep this private, Konstantin—for a long time with infertility. I believe she and your… child’s mother visit the same clinic.

” His smile is flat, calm. “I’ve paid them, of course, to keep me updated on changes to their clientele. Imagine my surprise…”

He trails off, leaving me to roast in my own shame.

I should’ve thought of that.

I should’ve requested immediate notification of potential threats, paid the staff off to break HIPAA law and tell me every last detail about every woman’s spread legs in that place.

“Take my advice,” Giuseppe sighs, “maybe stop at… one. Or two, if you feel you need a contingency plan. But more than that.” He shakes his head, watching his children arguing—grown adults almost causing a scene at an art gallery opening.

His admission makes me feel calmer, though not safe. Not anywhere near safe.

I didn’t want Giuseppe Sartorre to know about my heir until I was positive I could keep the baby safe. Until Audrey was on her way to the west coast—though my heart aches to think that—and I had security in place.

“Maybe,” Giuseppe smiles, “it will make you a more forgiving man. I’ve heard what your men did to mine at the Hudson.”

The champagne glass shatters in my hand.

Guests nearby pause, a woman gasping in surprise as blood pools and drips from my palm. Holly hurries over, pressing a napkin into my hand, shielding me from as many people as she can.

“Mr. Martynov, do you?—”

“I’m fine.”

My tone scares her off. She drops her gaze, nods, and disappears. Hopefully to get more napkins. The blood comes fast. This may need stitches.

Clenching my jaw, I slide my phone out of my pocket with one hand and text Lev: Make sure the physician is at my home by the time I leave.

He doesn’t ask why. It’s not his job to.

Giuseppe’s eyebrows are raised. Davide looks like he wants to come over, but his wife and Giacomo are talking him down.

Good move. I never imagined I’d take the Sartorre family out so publicly, in an art gallery, but if I have to…

“Calm yourself, Konstantin,” Giuseppe murmurs. “It was not a threat. Just a joke. Truly,” he speaks quieter, leaning toward me, “I’m happy for you. Family gives your life meaning. And from what I know of you, you’ve been without family for a long, long time.”

I let that sit, squeezing the napkin until it’s bloody pulp in my hand.

When my pulse steadies and Holly reappears with another stack of napkins, some staff member already on their knees wiping up the blood drops, I finally answer: “My men went after yours, Giuseppe, because yours no longer seem to know where the boundaries lie. Are you bringing on new blood without educating them?”

His face hardens.

There—there’s the man who started his empire. Who took over half of this city, gave me a run for my money until I proved myself.

We’ve had a peaceful few decades, more or less. If my men and I kill it’s out of necessity; and it isn’t usually a rival group.

But things seem to be changing.

“My men,” he says through clenched teeth, “no, those are not my men. They are masquerading as loyalists, but Giacomo tells me…” He glances around the room. The guests, recognizing us, know enough to turn away. Not just to pretend not to listen, but to be sure they don’t listen.

“Giacomo tells me that there is a group pushing back. Skimming from their own.” He shakes his head, rage purpling his throat and crawling in an ugly way up toward his face.

“I’m trying to avoid an all-out riot, Konstantin, trying to find the bad seed quietly.

In the background. But between you and I,” our eyes meet.

The blood has stopped running, but I can feel my pulse in my palm.

“Between you and I, I’m expecting nothing short of an uprising.

Soon. So, if your men feel the need to exterminate the rats… ”

He shrugs.

I know where we stand now. As much as I feel for Giuseppe, it’s a relief to know that he isn’t immortal. That he, too, has to put his own dogs down sometimes.

“What are the chances,” I ask drily, “that your men would do something so stupid as to pit us against one another? To hope that we take each other out?”

An ugly smile curls Giuseppe’s lips. Giacomo, who I sense is the true leader of the three brothers, is watching us intently as Davide and his wife laugh with guests.

“The chances are low,” Giuseppe grunts, “but never zero. The man who plans something like that—he would be uno scemo. ”

A fool.

The gears are turning in my head. In this world, in my dark world, there is no such thing as a coincidence. If tonight is a kind of truce, I decide to take a chance.

“Sal Imperi.”

The flash of recognition in Giuseppe’s eyes, alone, is enough to confirm it.

“What are the chances that he’s a bigger imbecile than I realized when we met?”

Giuseppe nods. “I’d say you have a good sense of people, if you caught onto that.

Sal has been oily since the day he started climbing the ranks.

Of course,” Giuseppe grins, holding a hand out to shake mine, “men like us, you and I, we would never work together… but do whatever you need to. I won’t get in your way unless… ”

He looks meaningfully toward his boys, his heirs, and there’s no further need to explain.

I won’t touch any of the Sartorres.

I don’t need to. Giuseppe Sartorre has confirmed a suspicion that has been growing like a vine in me for weeks now.

Sal Imperi isn’t just the rat—he’s the nest.