I roll my shoulders back and let out a long breath. I can handle Maksim. I’ve handled men far more clever and dangerous.
But something about this doesn’t sit well with me. Was it right to allow Blake to get involved in this?
Forget the fact that she’s the one who wanted to do it. She doesn’t understand how quickly things like this can go off the rails. It’s my job to make sure they don’t, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to control a situation when you’ve got an arsenal at your disposal, and right now, all I’ve got is me.
I might be putting her in danger. Again.
I let out a sigh.
She won’t agree to call this off so quickly, not after fighting so hard to do it in the first place. And wasn’t last night great for us? Didn’t it feel like I was getting through to her? I made her smile. I made her blush. I offered her the support she needed without her even asking.
There’s a selfish part of me that doesn’t want to give that up, despite my anxiety.
The next few days only serve to agitate my nerves even more. The black Mercedes is out there day and night. Blake doesn’t leave the penthouse while I’m working, but I worry about the men staking out the building. They wouldn’t dare try to come inside. Then again, the Bratva are daring and not always logical. I ask Gino to station a car with three guys a few blocks away, just in case the Russians make a move. He agrees.
On Wednesday, my phone rings with an unknown number just as I pull into the parking lot of the penthouse. I turn off the ignition and pick up the call.
“Mr. De Luca.” The accented voice on the other end of the line is instantly recognizable.
“Garin. I don’t recall giving you my number.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
I roll my eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure? In case it wasn’t obvious at the gala, I’m happily married, so if you’re calling to ask me out on a date, the answer is no.”
He chuckles. “I’ve heard you have a sense of humor.”
“From whom?”
“Some mutual friends.”
I flick through my mental Rolodex. Everyone in the underground knows about the turf war between the Italians and the Bratva, and most have picked sides, except for—
“There’s a poker game at Red Vines on Friday. I wanted to extend an invitation.”
Ah. Red Vines is neutral territory. Been that way for a few decades. It’s a club run by a Greek called Yannis. I wouldn’t call him a friend, but I’ve been to some of his game nights. Maksim must have spoken to him about me.
I toss my car keys in my palms. “Those seats usually get taken quickly.”
“There’s room for one more. I thought you might enjoy a friendly game.”
As in, he wants an opportunity to put me under the microscope.
Gino will be happy. I hate making him happy.
I rub my jaw with my palm. “It’s been a while since I’ve played.”
“It’ll be a good time.”
“I’m sure it will be, but you know, I’ve got a packed social calendar.”
“Oh?” Annoyance creeps into Maksim’s voice. He knows it’s a lie given I haven’t gone out or had anyone visit me since he put his guys on watch.
But I can’t seem too eager.
“Let me check my agenda.” I swipe through the promotions tab in my email for a full minute before I finally say, “Looks like I’m free that night.”
“Great.” There’s a bite to his tone. “My wife is hosting a dinner that same night with a few of her girlfriends at a restaurant not too far from the game. She took a real liking to your lovely wife at the gala. Would Blake like to join them?”
