Page 21 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

“What is it?” I ask, tension spiking in my gut as I catch a frown on her face in the rearview mirror.

Instead of answering me, she leans forward between the seats and smiles at the woman sitting beside me. “Izzie, do you mind if we make a quick stop before we drop you off?”

“Sure, I don’t mind.”

“But I do,” I mutter, meeting my sister’s gaze through the mirror.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Stella snaps. “Frankie needs a ride, so we’re going to give her one.”

“Get Lucky to pick up his girlfriend,” I say, unable to hide my reluctance.

It’s not that I don’t want to pick up Frankie. It’s about avoiding spending another second this close to Izzie.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mar, stop acting like a grouch. It’s just a quick pit stop. Five minutes, tops.”

“Fine,” I grit through my teeth. “Where is she?”

Stella leans back in her seat and stares out the window, unwilling to give me an answer right away. “Little Russia.”

Fuck. In other words, she’s with the Petrovs. Now it all makes sense why Frankie called Stella instead of Lucky.

My brother’s been very clear that he doesn’t want Frankie anywhere near her uncles when they are conducting business. And I get it. Little Russia is bad enough without the added risk of Frankie wandering around Kirill’s strip club and being mistaken for a dancer instead of his niece.

Regardless of that, what I don’t like is the fact that Frankie felt comfortable calling Stella as her backup. Stella shouldn’t be going anywhere near Little Russia. Not if she wants to be inducted into the Outfit in a few months. I told her as much and she swore to my face it wouldn’t be a problem.

Well, this feels like a fucking problem.

Sensing the tension in the air, Izzie is smart enough to remain quiet, while Stella pretends not to see me scowling at her through the rearview mirror.

When we pull up, the club’s obnoxious neon signs glare at us like a warning. Heavy snow still falls outside, but Frankie stands dry beneath the awning, laughing with two men, sporting jet-black hair and more ink than a Picasso painting.

I cut the engine and catch Stella’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Stay here.”

“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” she sulks.

I then turn over to Izzie and level her with a look sharp enough to pin her in place, too.

She raises her hands, smiles, and states, “I get it. Stay in the car. Strip clubs aren’t my thing anyway.”

Once I’m sure the girls will stay put, I get out and rush over to Frankie, snow soaking into my hair within seconds.

“Marcello?” she says, confused when I reach her and her uncles. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your ride,” I explain, my eyes flicking to the two Bratva scum at her side.

One of them is young, maybe Stella’s age, with the same mischievous glint in his eyes.

But the other brother, the older one, is the one who holds my attention most. And from the way his dark eyes size me up and down, he doesn’t need to introduce himself for me to know exactly who he is—Kirill Petrov.

“Marcello Romano,” he says, smirking. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you at my club.”

“Wasn’t my plan either,” I mutter, not hiding my disdain. “A decent uncle would’ve driven his niece home.”

His taunting grin doesn’t falter. “Never claimed to be decent.”

“Uncle,” Frankie interjects. “Be nice.”

“Only for you, plemyannitsa. ” He softens immediately. “Besides, we both know I would have driven you to the moon and back if you asked. I just had… something come up.”

“It’s okay. It’s my fault for dropping by without calling you first. Maybe we can have a family dinner this weekend? My place. I’ll cook.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He smiles at her tenderly.

“Are you coming too, Uncle Kostya?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” the younger Petrov says. But I can tell he’s only half-listening. His gaze is fixed on my car.

“Stella’s here,” he murmurs to Kirill. “And she’s not alone.”

“Oh?” Kirill’s attention falls instantly behind me, spotting a flash of red hair through the windshield. His smirk falters when Kostya leans in and whispers something in his ear. In an instant, rage darkens his face. “Change of plans,” Kirill says coldly. “I’m taking my niece home.”

Before I can stop him, he bolts into the snowstorm, crossing the lot in long, furious strides. Unforgiving snow and wind whips around him as he yanks open the back door of my car. Even through the pounding weather, I can hear the command he throws at my sister.

“Get out,” he orders Stella.

“No.”

“I’m in no mood for games, milaya. Get out of the car,” he says, his tone softer now. But to Kirill’s chagrin, his soft words are met with silence. “I said get your sweet little ass out of this car. Now, Stella!”

“And I said no, Kirill. Go away!”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, grabs her by the arm, and drags her out of the seat. I move for my gun, but Kostya is already discreetly jamming his into my ribs.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says, voice low and deadly.

I bare my teeth at him as Kirill and Stella reach us, both caked in snow.

“Take them inside,” Kirill orders his brother.

“Uncle, what are you doing?” Frankie calls over her shoulder, voice tight with confusion and worry, as Kostya steers her and Stella toward the club doors.

Stella keeps cursing loudly, but I know it’s mostly for show. If she really wanted to stop Kostya from manhandling her, he would be on the ground by now.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” I warn through clenched teeth. “Wars have started for less.”

Undeterred by my threat, Kirill steps in close. “Agreed.” He then lowers his voice to a whisper. “You brought a Fed to my club, Romano? The fuck are you playing at?”

“What?” The word stumbles out.

He studies me intently until he realizes I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Fuck.” He drags a hand through his wet hair. “You don’t know.”

“Know what, Kirill?” I ask, my fury only tempered by my confusion.

He leans in again, this time to my ear, his voice like ice. “The woman in your passenger seat is an undercover FBI agent.”

I freeze. “What?”

“She’s a Fed,” he growls. “Kostya ran into her in San Francisco. She and her team took down good men. Seized enough of our product to cripple us out west. Months of work gone. All because of her.”

“She’s… FBI?” I whisper, my mind racing while pieces fall into place.

“Yeah. And if you care about this fragile truce our families have right now, you’ll keep her the hell away from anything Bratva -related.

” He then leans in so close I can almost feel the heat off his breath.

“And if I ever see her near Stella or any of my family again, I’ll kill her myself and leave her corpse at your doorstep. Fed or not. Understood?”

Kirill throws one last disdainful look toward my car, where Izzie still sits, oblivious to the threat he just made. Then he turns his back on me, disappearing into his club like he didn’t just turn my whole world inside out.