AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You kiddin’ me? He killed the Zanetti princess. Vittorio’s old, but he’s still a mean bastard. He’ll want payback.”
“The old don blames no one but Egorov for what happened to his girl. There’s talk…” Whoever’s speaking hushes and I can hear more rustling as they all lean in to hear him. His voice, when it emerges again, is a barely audible croak. “There’s talk that, apparently, he was fucking some two-bit whore on the side. Knocked her up and was planning on forcing the Zanetti broad to play the mother. And here’s the kicker: someone’s been sayin’ to me that the whore in question was bangin’ the Italian princess, too. Playin’ ‘em both—you believe that shit?!”
The cluster breaks up with grunts of derision, laughter, murmured thoughtfulness. One man in particular is unconvinced. “Fat fuckin’ chance of that, stronzo. No child of Vittorio Zanetti could ever be gay.”
“Ha!” A hand slaps the table. “You must be on the good shit to believe that Beatrice Zanetti didn’t bat clean-up for the other team, brother.”
More indistinct cross-talk as they all start laughing and cracking vicious jokes at Bee’s expense back and forth. My teeth go tighter and tighter, my knuckles whiter and whiter where they’re gripping the edge of my desk.
When it settles down again, one of the more thoughtful idiots speaks up first. “Surely, this means that Zanetti will go after Egorov’s slut, right? I certainly would if he pulled that shit on my daughter.”
“Not so fast. Apparently, Cian O’Gadhra already beat Vittorio to the punch.”
That puts them all silent for a moment. Then someone asks, “What does that mean? She’s dead?”
“Dead, abducted, tortured, raped—you name it, it either happened already or it’s gonna happen any goddamn second.”
“Shiiiiit,” one proclaims. “I can’t imagine Dmitri Egorov would take that lying down.”
“The bastard loses wives like fuckin’ coins in the couch cushions, man. He couldn’t do a thing about it if he tried.”
I’ve had enough. I’m this close to smashing Aleksandr’s phone into dust on the table. He seems to sense the same thing because he retrieves it and turns off the recording. “I just thought you should know…”
I try to unlock my jaw, which is an effort unto itself. “Double security around Wren. Make sure she?—”
“Brother,” Aleksandr interjects gently, “don’t you think that’s the problem?” I frown and he continues hastily before my temper gets away from me. “Hiding her away only fuels the rumors that she was taken. And clearly, someone is fueling them plenty without our help. Wren needs to be seen. She needs to be seen as being under your protection, specifically. You need to grab hold of the narrative and twist it to your advantage. There are dozens of conversations like this happening every night around the city, man. We need to take control of them.”
He’s not wrong, not by a long shot. But his advice goes against my natural instincts. For the first time, I find myself thinking, What do I care what they say about me?
But this is about more than just me. This is about the Egorov Bratva, too. And neither my Bratva nor the man who leads it can be seen as weak.
Too much hangs in the balance.
“Have I mentioned that I hate it when you’re right?” I sigh at last.
“Frequently. Every time I’m right, in fact.”
I meet his eyes miserably. “I despise exposing her.”
Aleksandr nods in sympathy. “I get it, dude, I really do. But this serves a dual purpose. Reclaim the story and give Wren some room to breathe. She’s not some caged bird you can keep locked away. It’s a nice place you’ve got here, but at the end of the day, it’s still four walls and a roof.”
It’s a subtle reminder that Wren is not Elena. Elena craved the cage, so long as I was in there with her.
Wren, on the other hand, wants out. Wren wants blue skies and room to stretch her wings.
I can’t blame her for that, no matter how much I hate it.
“I’ll think about next steps where Wren is concerned,” I assure him. “As for the narrative, you’re right: we need to put some fresh details out there. Get in touch with Locksmith: we’ll need some tech expertise to get the story we want circulating right where we want it.”
Aleksandr arches a brow, intrigued. “Which story is that?”
“The one where Beatrice Zanetti died unexpectedly days before her wedding. Make sure the circumstances around her death are vague. I want people guessing.”
He rises to his feet. “I’ll get right on it.”
On his way out, he almost runs into Wren in the doorway. She stifles a shriek and comes to a standstill. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nope, we just finished. He’s all yours. I doubt you like to share, anyway.”
