“From what I’ve heard, that isn’t your style. Not now, and not when your daddy took his failures out on your momma.”
That changes the expression on his face in an instant. He looks seconds from killing me, the only reason he doesn’t is because there was nothing but respect in my tone when I spoke. If the rumors are true, if he gunned down his father like Rocco did his, he earned my respect. It takes guts to go against the man who created you—strength I’ve yet to garner.
“Between me and you, he deserved it.” Ryan doesn’t deny my claims, assuring me he believes the same thing.
Over our pointless chit-chat, I lift my chin in farewell before making my way to the tank Rocco is camped out in. I’m halfway there when the quickest warning stops me in my tracks. “They’re not the only Russians you should be watching.”
I have no clue who Ryan is talking about until he inconspicuously nudges his head to my right. A novice would immediately glance in the direction he nudged. I was born for this industry, so you can be guaranteed I won’t make a rookie mistake. I’ve only done that once. It cost me everything.
After slotting into the passenger seat of a prototype vehicle I had customized to withstand war, I instruct for Rocco to take the long route home. He doesn’t ask questions. He just strays his eyes to the side mirrors as swiftly as mine, aware I only ever say that when I’m suspicious we have a tail.
We’re almost at the end of the street before a vehicle parked a few spaces back from our original location pulls off the curb. From the outside, it appears to be a car an underpaid federal officer would get around in. It’s basic, modest, and has tinted windows. Regretfully, the plates aren’t government-issued. Smith was quick to run the tags through the system the instant Ryan pointed out I had an admirer. The modest thirty-thousand-dollar ride is straight off the lot. It was purchased with cash.
“Head for the tunnel. It can shelter a body for a couple of days.” I’m not in the mood to play games. As Rocco said, we play to play, we kill to kill, and we take down any fucker stupid enough to get in our way. This fucker is in my way.
While Rocco leads our prey to his final resting place, I remove the tripod and scope from my M4. I could use the weapon stuffed down the back of my trousers, but this will be more fun. An M4 wound shows precision and skill. My gun just blows people’s brains out. After the shit few weeks I’ve had, I need to flex a bit of muscle.
“Pull over here, then continue on.”
Although disappointed he will miss most of the action, Rocco does as instructed. He’s been a little quiet the past four weeks like Roxanne’s silence stung his ego as much as it did mine.
Once the taillights of Rocco’s ride are far enough away for our lead to continue the chase, I sink myself into the marshland on the side of the road, unfearful an alligator may be lying in wake. Even prehistoric creatures aren’t stupid enough to go against a madman with an M4.
As the blue sedan rolls down the asphalt, I take aim at his front passenger side tire. I don’t want the flip to kill him. I want that pleasure to be all mine.
Pop.His tire is taken out with a clean through-and-through, and as predicted, it causes his sedan to cartwheel. It somersaults down the isolated road before it comes to a dead stop mere feet from me.
I’m up and out of the marshland in an instant, my movements replicating those of men born for carnage. I am dripping wet, peering down my gun’s barrel, and ready to execute my third foot soldier this week. The only reason I hold back desires greater than anything I’ve ever experienced is because the man hanging upside down in the cab of his car, aiming his gun at my head, has a highly recognizable face.
Some may say he’s the real brother of Nikolai Popov.
I’m the only one who knows that’s far from the truth.
If DNA chooses your enemies as it does your family, Rico Popov should be Nikolai’s number one enemy. The war between the Popovs and the Perettis has been running longer than both of them have been born, and despite his last name, Nikolai is a Petretti, and I have the DNA evidence to prove it.
Nineteen
Dimitri
Rico’s dark eyes lift to Rocco when he places down a set of keys for a white Range Rover on the desk separating us. Rocco isn’t impressed I’m gifting one of our prized fleet to the enemy, but replacing the ride I totaled is the least I can do after all the information Rico unknowingly shared with me the past couple of hours.
It’s disappointing when you learn how far your father is willing to stoop for revenge. However, it’s also cathartic. My father has never given a shit about anyone but himself.
If it had the possibility of making him rich, he ran with it.
If he had to stomp on his family for it to occur, he still ran with it.
If it came with the risk of killing every single person with his blood, he still fucking ran with it.
Nothing stopped him, not a single thing, so you can imagine my surprise when I learned who his revenge centers around. He didn’t bring the law into a war they don’t belong in for his own benefit. He did it for Ophelia, the only daughter he ever acknowledged as his own.
His show of chivalry was years too late, but it’s better than it not happening at all.
“I’ll talk to my father.” My words are as bitter as the bile in the back of my throat. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my father since our canceled meeting weeks ago. Usually, I’d relish the silence, but Rico’s unexpected trip to this side of the country exposes that would be stupid for me to do. My father is making costly mistakes, blunders that could cost him more than his empire. They may even cause my demise. “But I should warn you, my father’s interest in Isabelle isn’t the only one you should be paying attention to.”
Rico arches a thick brow but remains silent. His respect sees me offering more information than I planned to give.
“Isabelle has been spotted numerous times with Isaac Holt the past couple of weeks.” I twist around the tablet Smith uploaded a range of long-range surveillance shots onto while watching Rico’s face to see if Isaac’s name registers as familiar.
