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Luca
It starts to rain as Giulia Rossi’s casket is being lowered into the ground. The cemetery turns into a field of black umbrellas. Caterina is crying quietly, her gloved hand pressed over her mouth, and even Franco has grown solemn, his hands crossed in front of him as he stands beneath the umbrella that he’s holding over them both.
Up on the hill where the road runs past, I see a long black car pull up. A moment later, two thickly built men step out, wearing jackets too warm for the weather that almost definitely are concealing guns, and I know with a tightening in my gut who it must be.
Viktor Andreyev.
I lean towards Franco. “I’ll be back in a moment,” I say quietly and nod towards the hill where the car is idling. Franco follows my gaze, and I see a flicker of nervousness cross his face.
“Do you want me to go with you?” His voice is low, anxious, and I shake my head.
“Stay here with Caterina. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m your second-in-command. I should be at your side—”
“Today, you’re her husband-to-be. She just lost her mother, Franco, and Rossi is still in critical condition. Have some compassion.” My tone is harsher than it’s ever been with him. Still, I’m beginning to worry that the easygoing life Franco has led in my shadow, has failed to prepare him for his new position.
Maybe I should have been harder on him, the way Rossi was with me.
But there’s nothing I can do about that now.
I stride up the hill, feeling a faint sheen of sweat down my back that makes my shirt cling to me uncomfortably. I haven’t been face to face with Viktor since my father was killed, when he and Rossi came to a temporary peace. The memory of that, too, burns in my gut. Rossi was willing to make peace then, but not now.
Then, it was Viktor who came asking for a cease-fire, though. We killed more Russians that week than we had in decades.
The car windows are tinted too darkly to see inside, but I approach the guards surrounding the car turn to keep their eyes on me. One opens the passenger door closest to me, and a moment later, a tall, grey-suited man steps out, unfolding himself to his full height.
He looks older than I remember, although Viktor is only six or seven years older than I am—in his late thirties. He’s unsmiling, his hard and clean-shaven face stony, and his ice-blue eyes are cold.
I’ve heard that women think he’s handsome. He doesn’t have a reputation for womanizing, though. His wife died last year, leaving him with two young daughters, and he has yet to remarry. I’m surprised that every high-ranking man in Russia and America hasn’t been throwing their eligible daughters at him. Though maybe they have, and we just aren’t aware of it. Or perhaps no one wants to marry the cold widower whose men call himUssuri.
The Bear.
If I were a woman, I wouldn’t be inclined to wed someone who traffics in sex slavery. The Bratva is well known for their cruel treatment of women—wives, daughters, and slaves alike. I have no reason to think that Viktor Andreyev is any different, though there were whispers that his marriage was one made out of love.
I find that laughable. Viktor is a man-made even less for love of a wife and family than I am.
“Luca Romano,” Viktor speaks in a cultured Russian accent, more elegant than Levin’s, or the soldiers who find themselves being tortured in our warehouses. “I heard you wished to speak with me. It’s been a long time.”
“Let’s not pretend this is a social call. You know why I wanted to meet.”
Viktor’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Levin spoke to me of peace. I find that odd, considering that your don’s wife was just killed. Murdered, I suppose you would call it. Although—” he pauses for effect, his cold gaze sweeping over me. “I hear, too, that you have usurped Vitto Rossi’s place.”
“The title was passed to me, yes.” I keep my tone as even as I can, even though I can feel an unfamiliar rage starting to simmer deep in my gut. I’ve always been the calmest and most collected of Rossi’s inner circle—that’s why he so often sends me to do his dirty work. But seeing Viktor is making me want blood, despite all my protestations of wanting peace.
This man had Sofia kidnapped.I remember the bruises on her face, the fear in her eyes when she’d woken up.He’s responsible for Giulia’s death.
“And now you want to call for a cease-fire between us?” He still looks amused, and it makes me feel almost uncontrollably violent. Visions of grabbing the front of his shirt and shoving him back against his car or balling up my fist and striking the smile off of his face go through my head, but I know better. His guards would be on me in a second, and everything I’m trying to achieve would absolutely fail.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to remain calm.
“I want peace, yes. No more explosions in hotels or shootouts in the streets. No more kidnapping and threats. Let’s talk this out between us, man to man, leader to leader, and come to an agreement.”
Viktor looks at me appraisingly. “And what will you give me for this peace, Luca?”
“Aren’t the lives of your men enough? I wonder how they would feel if they knew how little you valued them.”
His expression darkens. “My men know their value to me. I ask again, what will you offer me for peace?”
