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I sucked in a breath. Calling Vincenzo Salvini, who was probably in his late thirties or early forties, easily 6’5”, a boy was preposterous.
This would not end well.
But apparently, Salvini had massive amounts of self-control because he didn’t even physically react to being called a boy. “I’m not giving you an order,” he said softly. “I’m giving you a warning. And an out. Leave. Now. While you still can.”
My father’s face reddened even more. But then Uncle Craig stepped forward and whispered something in his ear.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he spat, storming toward the door. Zotov’s eyes followed him. When he reached the door, he paused to glance back at us, his gaze lingering on me.
I could feel Alex tighten next to me. Then my father scoffed and left, closing the door behind him.
A growl rose in my throat.
“How can we solve this?” Uncle Craig asked.
“Easy,” Zotov said. “An alliance with the Salvini family, the Falcone family, and the Donnelly family, and I’m satisfied.”
I narrowed my eyes. Was this what he wanted? An in with not only the Irish mob but also the Italian Mafia?
Uncle Craig stared at him. “You’re a scheming asshole as always, Zotov.”
Alex straightened next to me.
“You orchestrated all of this, didn’t you?” Salvini said.
I stared at him. The way they talked to each other, it was as if they were well acquainted with each other.
What the fuck?
“Potentially having the Moretti family on board is the cherry on top,” Zotov said, staring at Alex, who stared back.
“There’s just one little problem,” Vince said.
Uncle Craig sighed. “What do you want?”
Vince took a beat before answering. “Matteo’s still in the hospital. I will not just let this go.”
Jemma, who, up until now, had remained silent behind Salvini’s back, gave him a shove.
Salvini barely budged. “Come on, Mr. Grumpy Pants. We’re all playing nice here. Don’t be a bully.”
“Jemma,” Uncle Craig said.
Salvini turned around, his face a terrifying mixture of anger and amusement, then he took a step forward and another, crowding Jemma. “Don’t be a bully? That’s rich coming from you.”
Not good.
Jemma raised her chin defiantly but yielded until her back hit the wall, and she was toe to toe with Salvini. “What does that mean? Coming from me?”
Vince narrowed his eyes at her, but didn’t say anything.
This was bad. Very bad.
“How about Jemma and I go up and pack our things while you talk things out?” I said, let go of Alex’s hand, and grabbed Jemma’s.
She didn’t even look at me—just kept glaring at Salvini as if she wasn’t half his size and two-thirds his weight. As if he wasn’t one of the most dangerous men in the world.
Maybe letting your inner badass out was far more tricky and dangerous than we both thought.
