Page 58 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
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 notmy 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 tobe surethey 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,” oureyes 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?”