Page 54 of Thorns of Death

“I ran into a woman. Girl. Young woman.” I shook my head. “Whatever she was, but she was her daughter, and it stopped them.”

“Donatella’s daughter?” Reina’s blonde brows furrowed.

“No, the other woman’s daughter.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Raven demanded to know, her head swiveling between Phoenix and Reina, then back to me, long black hair reflecting the harsh lights of the bathroom. “I thought Enrico was a single, hot daddy. And who is this other woman?”

Oh shit, I forgot I hadn’t updated the rest of the group on the Marchetti situation. “Short story is that his wife is alive and has been stalking me,” I said with a shrug. “And I don’t fucking know, Raven. I’ve never seen her before. She said she’s the ‘Pakhan,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“No, it can’t be,” Reina muttered. “Women are rarely leaders of criminal organizations, and anyway… I know for a fact that a woman isn’t the head of the Russian Bratva.”

“How would you know that?” Raven, Athena, and I questioned at the same time.

Phoenix and Reina shared a glance. “Because Illias Konstantin is Pakhan.”

SEVENTEEN

ENRICO

Iwas back in my villa in Italy, handling my local businesses. For a change, it was my legal business. The Marchetti legacy had its roots in vineyards and farming. Lemons. Oranges. Olives. Even producing and distributing exquisite chocolate based on a family recipe. I’d handled all of it, on top of the fashion empire, before I took over as the head of our organization.

Now, I spent most of my time ensuring our drug business boomed. Our weapon-smuggling routes were clear. And nobody was stealing from us.

I missed my legitimate businesses.

But the choice to take over the Marchetti empire and a seat at the Omertà table wasn’t really a choice. If we’d given up our position, the family to take our spot at the table would have come after us to ensure we’d never return to claim what was ours.

So I had no choice. This was to protect my family.

Beads of sweat cascaded off my body as I finished the final sprint of my ten-mile run on the treadmill. I worked out every morning, but today I couldn’t seem to stop without running an extra mile. Lifting an extra ten pounds.

The goddamned video that Isla sent me last night played on repeat in my skull. The woman looked happy and so fucking sexy, it made my balls ache. All night I fantasized about having her in every position imaginable to man—up against a wall, bent over a couch, from behind, on her hands and knees, under me, over me, in the shower. I wanted to fuck her into oblivion until she screamed and begged for me to stop, unable to handle any more.

Cazzo, why did the woman who had such a hold on me have to be almost half my age?

I cranked up the speed, running faster, my muscles screaming in protest. I’d tell myself not to obsess over the woman, but I knew it was too late. She was already a dark obsession of mine and there was no turning back.

Not that I wanted to turn back.

It was way too late for that. I needed to drink her sighs. I wanted to inhale her into my lungs and have her take up a corner in my black heart. I wanted her to light it up with her fire and be one with my darkness.

Slapping the stop button, I slowed down and let my heart rate ease into its normal rhythm. My cell phone rang just as I was stepping off the deck of my treadmill.

“Pronto,” I answered, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

My erection was so hard, it hurt. I’d have to jerk myself off in the shower to the fantasy of Isla’s moans and whimpers.Again, for fuck’s sake. I needed that ginger-haired woman back, writhing under me as I fucked her hard.

“Donatella is in Russia.” I tensed at Kingston’s voice. “If I had to bet, she’s there for your woman.”

“Cazzo.” I dried the sweat off my chest. “I’m going to Russia myself.”

“Not a good idea, Marchetti. Konstantin will consider it poaching.”

“I don’t want his freeze-your-balls-off territory,” I hissed, my muscles tensing. I trusted Kingston to keep Isla safe. The unhinged Nikolaevs not so much. And considering Isla was Konstantin’s sister, he was out of the question to ask. I couldn’t reveal my cards too soon. “I’ll go.”

“I strongly advise you not to.”

“Donatella ispazza.” Then just to ensure he understood the Italian word, I added, “Crazy. Off the deep end. Isla doesn’t stand a chance if I don’t go.”