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A raccoon darts into the street, forcing me to hit the brakes. My phone slides from my hand and hits the ground. I curse at the creature and pop the car into park, reaching under my legs to find my phone. The device buzzes a few times.
My daughter finally responds with a curt text. “I’m not a whore.”
I grunt and scrape my scalp. I click on the voice message and say, “Then stop acting like one. You’ve been spreading your legs all over town. You think I don’t hear about that? You think Iwantto hear about that?”
“If I’m such a whore, then why did you bother listening to me about Sharp?”
“Because you wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”
I can hear her frustrated grumbling and see the vein stuttering in her neck without needing to be near her. I know my daughter too well. Her annoyance is as obvious as her sadness. Nobody needed to hear her crying after that meeting with Pavel went south, when he officially decided to throw us all to the wolves. The look on her face was enough to say how deep that disappointment cut.
My daughter, myworld, got snubbed by that selfish prick. He’s a child, for fuck’s sake, yet the rest of the brigadiers treat him like a king. He can’t even hold his word. He’s not worth his word.
Not like me.
The phone vibrates in my hand, prompting my gaze.
“Because you can’t fight this war alone,” Zoya argues for the millionth time. “Having a don on your side would give you the right backing.”
“If Vorobyov hadn’t gotten himself killed, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
Somewhere in the distance, a crash echoes through the empty streets. I glance around, keeping my vision sharp and my body alert. I touch the gun in its holster at my side, undoing the safety strap. Nothing appears near the vehicle, so I turn back to my phone, remaining aware of my surroundings.
“Vorobyov was an idiot. He thought he could take control,” my daughter writes. “You need a partner, not a lapdog trying to impress you.”
I snicker. “And you think Felix Cardona is going to be any better?”
“I know he’s going to be better. He has the men and the resources.” Three dots bounce on the bottom of the screen before a new text rolls in. “He has the loyalty.”
“You’re smart, Zoyechka,” I say into the phone. “Why don’t youactsmart?”
No response.
“Zoyechka, don’t go out tonight,” I add. It’s just text. She can’t hear the urgency in my voice. But maybe it would do her good to hear it. “Please stay home. Take care of yourself. It’s dangerous out there.”
Still no response.
Color me surprised.
A new text rolls in from a blocked number: “Where are you?”
“I’ll be there soon.” I respond.
I toss the device into the passenger seat and shift the car into gear, idling forward. I couldn’t control Vorobyov. I can’t control my daughter. I’m losing traction here.
And I’m not sure which one pisses me off more.
The leather of the steering wheel chafes my hand, but I ignore it. I’ve had worse things than a burn on my palm. My hand instinctively flies for my chest and I sneer, the familiar sting of a blade cutting right through my memory.
That goddamn traitor.
He had no right to pick that Bernadetti bitch over my daughter. Who better to give him a proper heir and support the Bratva than one of his own? His wife knows nothing of our traditions, our system, ourloyalty. She was booted out the second her father was murdered by Cardona.
She doesn’t know shit.
But I do. And my Zoyechka does too.
And I’ll be sure to right the wrongs that have been done to us.
