She fists a hand in the back of my hair and tugs.
"Your people need you. Go. Work."
I sigh, because she's right. I turn her by the hips back toward the kitchen. I watch until she's fully inside. I spot Ada lean in and ask her something too quiet for me to catch. Nora nods. Ada kisses her cheek.
My jaw tightens.
Ada probably told her how I haven’t been focusing on work as much as I should, probably asked her to do something about it.
Fuck. Is it really that obvious that she's my only weakness?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Slava
My left eye keeps twitching.
What the fuck is wrong with these sad excuses for men?
We're on neutral ground for this—the back room of a restaurant on the border between territories. I don’t trust a single person in this room besides Ilya and our men.
"I'm telling you, we saw Pyotr at the docks last night," the man to Spada's right says, jabbing a finger at the table. "This morning, another one of our shipments goes missing. You tell me if that's a coincidence."
I glance at Ilya. Same disbelief sitting on his face that's sitting on mine. Pyotr's been in Mexico two days, running our supply route. He hasn't set foot within a thousand miles of these docks.
"That so?" Ilya says, leaning back in his chair, hands loose on the table like he couldn't care less either way. Total performance. He's laying track for exactly where this conversation is about to derail.
Spada takes the bait. "My men confirmed it themselves. Clear as day. Your man walking our side of the docks right before the shipment disappeared."
"Huh." I tilt my head slightly. "Alone?"
A flush crawls up Spada's neck as he realizes he's walked himself into a corner. "It appeared so, yes."
"And you didn't grab him." I hum. "We all operate under the same understanding, Don Spada. Anyone caught on docks that aren't theirs gets his legs blown off. Every family in this city knows the rule. So why is my man still breathing, if your men caught him red-handed on your territory?"
A muscle jumps in Spada's jaw. Behind him, his men go very still, watching their Don get walked into his own trap.
"Have you really lost that much of your edge?" Ilya asks, voice bored, entirely at odds with how furious I know he actually is under it. We've both understood something in the last ninety seconds that Spada apparently hasn't caught yet—the Italians know we didn’t steal. Because no one actually stole. This is a test to see if the Bratva would roll over and hand out a "peace offering" rather than deal with the headache of a dispute.
Cowardly, lazy, and insulting, in that order.
"It's your man's mess. We wanted to talk first, before things got ugly between our families," Spada says through gritted teeth. "We were being mature about it."
"Sure," I say.
"Sure," he repeats.
"You get him on camera?" Ilya asks, finishing the noose.
"No," the man beside Spada cuts in fast. "Cameras were down that stretch. Bad timing."
"Interesting," Ilya says, and doesn't elaborate.
I shake my head slowly. "See, here's my problem, Spada. Pyotr's been across the border two days, moving product so the Bratva doesn't have to run games on other outfits just to pad our own supply. You wouldn't know anything about running games like that, though. Would you."
"Are you calling me a liar?" Spada's voice climbs, and behind him three men shift, hands drifting toward their waistbands.
I laugh. "Walk me through your story again, because it's not adding up. Pyotr strolls onto your docks, past your men,past your security, steals product—and then your cameras just happen to be down for exactly that window. Are you fucking serious?"
