Page 27 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation

He finishes his, the cigar in the marble built-in ashtray sending up a slow curling tendril of smoke. Then he opens the bar, pulls out the frost-covered bottle, and refills his glass.

“You disappoint me, Ava.”

“How so?”

“Don’t play games with me,” he says. “You stole from Tatiana, from me. Jewels and the crest. I want it back. I want it all back.”

I reach into my bag and slap down the jewels I took from Murphy. “There.”

“All of them.”

“Your security guy stole them.”

“Murphy?” He doesn’t laugh, he only picks up the cigar to draw the tobacco into his mouth. Then he releases the stream. “Don’t play games. The crest is dangerous.”

“I don’t have it.”

Iosif leans forward. “Even more dangerous.” He takes me in, looking at me like he can see inside my soul. “You know, I think I’ve been too lenient. I think, to protect you, the legacy that is yours and your sister’s, I’ll arrange a marriage.”

“Tatiana’s only four. She’s a little young,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“You do know I’m not blind. I know you stole tonight. And I think you just might have overplayed your greedy little hand. And you also lost the crest that you say you didn’t take. A bad move.”

“I don’t know?—”

“Be quiet, Ava.” He takes a swallow of his drink. “Maybe you think you’re owed. You could live at my place, and I’ll look after you.”

I study him, my throat tight. Because I’m not opposed to adding him to my personal little hit list I’m building in my head. All the people who’ve harmed my family, the people in my way. “Did you kill my uncle?”

“The Volkov Bratva isn’t big, but it controls very strategic things,” he says, ignoring me. “And even without this sudden vacuum of leadership, it’s very tricky. It has very protected smuggling routes. There are many who want access to those routes.”

Like the Murphys? Or does Iosif want more? I glare at him. “I’m aware.”

“You’re a child,” he snaps. “Which is why your father wanted you and your sister safe. You can’t run it on your own. I’ve put people out to find this other Russian relative of yours, too.”

I take another sip of the vodka as a distraction. I don’t know if this is a threat. That’s the thing with Iosif. I just can’t tell, and normally I can read people. It pisses me off that he’s not one of them.

“Volkov isn’t yours, Iosif.”

He ignores me.

“My son’s moving back to New York end of next week,” he says, “and I think the best bet is to have you marry him.”

“You can’t make me marry your son.”

“Then behave.”

“If I don’t?” I ask.

“If you want to see your sister ever again, you will,” he says. “Or else I’ll move her to Russia. And you’ll never be allowed within a thousand feet of her.”

“Tell you what,” I say, something in my head snapping, “I’ll do what I want, and I’ll have my bratva.”

He shrugs and taps the thick partition between us and the driver, and the car stops.

“Your funeral, Ava. You’ve been warned.”

Fuck.