“Go help her, Katya,” Maksim says to Ekaterina, who reluctantly gets to her feet, leaving her purse behind on the sofa, and follows my wife.
Son of a bitch. There goes that idea. Ekaterina will be watching Blake while Maksim watches me.
My heart pounds against my ribcage like a ritual drum. There’s got to be something I can do.
“Nero?”
My gaze snaps to Maksim. He slides his phone back inside his jacket and looks at me.
“The pakhan’s ready. If you’re armed, this would be the time to hand me your weapons.”
What would happen if I refuse? I could kill Maksim and Ekaterina and call Gino. The pakhan won’t be able to get past the biometric lock and the steel front door if I don’t let him inside. Once he realizes we’ve tried to play him, he’ll flee the building. There’s even a chance Gino will be able to grab him or track him to wherever he goes.
A sound from the foyer reaches my ears. It sounds like the front door opening.
No. That can’t be.
Maksim smirks. “I was afraid you might get cold feet.”
A thin layer of sweat breaks out over my skin.
“So I made sure to get your fingerprints from every glass you’ve ever left around me. That came in handy with your fancy lock.”
Steady footsteps sound from down the hall, the sound echoing inside my head. Horror drips into my bloodstream.
“Your weapons, Nero,” Maksim croons. “If I were you, I’d hurry.”
I’m out of options. The only thing I can do is play along and pray Gino won’t interfere before we wrap up this spectacle.
I slide my gun across the coffee table toward Maksim just as Yaroslav Andreyevich Sokolov, the pakhan of the Boston Bratva, walks into my living room.
CHAPTER 32
BLAKE
Ekaterina’s hands tremble as she places the coffee mugs on the tray. “Your husband better know what he’s doing,” she mutters under her breath. “You don’t want to see how the pakhan reacts when he’s disappointed.”
My gaze locks on the gray-haired man who just entered the living room flanked by four armed men. Even from twenty feet away, the dark, hollow pits of his eyes are unmistakable. There’s something utterly soulless about them.
My pulse quickens. It's a steady thrum in my throat. The only thing keeping me grounded is how composed Nero remains. If he’s feeling any stress, he hides it well, even as one of the guards pats him down.
Nero expected Maksim to take him to the pakhan, not bring him here unannounced. What does this mean for the plan he and Gino Ferraro put together? It’s likely out the window now, and we’re left improvising.
I have no idea what I can do to help ensure we survive this meeting.
But I must stay calm. Freezing up like I did in Maksim’s office isn’t an option. Not when both our lives are on the line.
“Nero De Luca,” the pakhan rasps in a voice ruined by cigarettes and age. “We finally meet.”
“Welcome,” Nero says gruffly, shaking the man’s hand. “Please, have a seat.”
I focus on the task at hand, taking a small jar of sugar from the cupboard and placing it on the tray. It’s easier to stay calm if I keep busy. “Does he take his coffee with milk?” I ask Ekaterina.
She crosses her arms, her eyes cold as they follow my movements. “No. He takes it black.”
Across the room, the pakhan’s lips curl into a half smile. “I always thought Messero was a smart man,” he says to Nero. “Yet what he’s done with you appears to be a gross miscalculation. By all accounts, you were a good consigliere. What happened that night?”
Nero shrugs. “Rafaele panicked. I had no idea the Ferraros were coming, so I mistook them for the enemy.”
