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Sidorov releases him, but he too turns sinister. “You’re going to regret this. I take deals seriously. A man’s word is everything. If a man goes back on his word, there are consequences.”
Bryant takes Lyriope by the arm—finally acknowledging she’s standing right beside him—and takes a few steps toward the door. He looks over his shoulder and says, “Threaten me again, and you’re a dead man. I give you one freebie. One.”
“I don’t make threats, Morelli,” Sidorov says as his eyes lock with men of his own on the far right of the room.
Bryant doesn’t notice me standing in the sidelines, or if he does, the rage inside of him is blinding the man. I wait until he and Lyriope exit the restaurant, but then I follow close behind. I know this doesn’t end well tonight. Sidorov isn’t known for his brains, but he is known for his ruthless actions. I half expect him and his thugs to come storming out of the restaurant to pounce on Bryant, and I want to be near to pull Lyriope to safety if I have to.
I watch as Lyriope enters the car to leave. She looks tiny next to Bryant and his goons. That ridiculous red dress—I know she was forced to wear—that molds to her body like a second skin. The bodice clings to very generous breasts that accentuate how small her waist is. The hem comes to mid-thigh, her legstrim and shapely, and I can see the muscles of her calves as she stands in ridiculously high heels. When she turns toward the restaurant, I appreciate that the woman has a figure any man would lust after. Her rounded ass is full and the dress tight enough to have me doubt she’s wearing anything beneath it. Long brown hair falls in curls to the middle of her back, held at the nape of her neck with some sort of clip, the stone of which glitter in the sun. Another flash of splintered light comes from a bracelet when she lifts her hand to swipe a piece of her hair from her eye. Every man with eyes watches her walk beside one of the most dangerous and powerful men in the world as they leave a wake of disaster behind them. Even as they disappear into the vehicle, I see that it takes a few seconds for Bryant’s underlings to seem to remember they have a job to do. I can’t blame them. The woman is gorgeous.
I’m proud of her. She’s holding her head high even though I’m sure confusion and the unknown is drowning her. She kept her face composed. She didn’t ask questions or try to get involved. She simply observed.
People who observe are the deadliest. Always fear a quiet assassin.
Yes, I’m so very proud of the strength she exuded as she stormed out of the restaurant by her father’s side as the fuse to my carefully orchestrated inferno is about to ignite.
She’s a Morelli now, and she actually looks it.
***
Lyriope
I don’t saya single word or ask a question. I want to. I almost choke on the flood of what-nows that are drowning in the back of my throat. But I simply clutch my shaking hands in front of me while I try not to look back toward the restaurant. I won’tbe able to stomach seeing Nick standing there, and I know he watched the entire exchange between my father and Sidorov. I don’t know what happens next, but my heart breaks in a million pieces as I stare down at the ground waiting for the door of the vehicle to be opened for me. Regardless if I marry Pavel or not, I know tonight’s incident isn’t a good thing. It’s not good news that I’m no longer marrying Pavel. Something worse will no doubt be taking its place. Resigning myself to the fact that I will indeed be captive of a world that I’ll never truly be accepted in, I follow my father’s lead and leave.
“Sir”—one of the guards enters the front seat of the vehicle, slightly out of breath—“we need to leave. There is word that the full force of the Sidorovs are arriving tonight to ambush you for canceling the wedding and going back on the deal. Sidorov just called for it. We need to get you to safety immediately.”
Bryant looks outside the window as if expecting to see his enemies with blazing guns, already attacking. “I don’t give a fuck what Sidorov does. Let them come and see my wrath.” He’s slurring his words as whatever he’s been drinking tonight has clearly taken hold. He should be thinking clearly right now, and it’s obvious he isn’t.
“Sir, I must respectfully insist. We aren’t strong enough to hold them off,” his driver says, agreeing with the man in the front seat. “We don’t have enough manpower of our own if they do plan to throw everything they have at us.”
“Let’s save this battle for when we can show them how mighty the Morellis truly are,” the other Bryant lackey pipes in.
“Please, can we go?” I begin. “I’m scared.” Morelli has kept an army around us since coming back from Italy. And he upped security even more after the explosion that ruined his classic car. But the visible show of guns and threats is too much for me. I’m actually terrified of what comes next.
Without warning, my father backhands me across the face, causing me to see nothing but a mixture of blackness and tiny silver lights. “I didn’t ask you. Shut your fucking mouth!”
As I regain my vision, I swipe at the blood trickling in the corner of my mouth, noticing that not one of Bryant’s cowardly men say or do a thing. Apparently seeing a woman getting struck is an everyday occurrence in their fucked-up lives.
“Sir”—the driver clears his throat before continuing—“what are your orders?”
Not being able to resist the urge any longer, I look out the window toward the restaurant to see if I can spot Nick. Scanning the people, I quickly conclude he’s gone, or not interested enough to follow us. Like a punch to the gut, I realize that my opportunity of rescue is truly over. Have I just made the worst mistake of my life?
I can see that all the men in our car have pulled out their weapons in preparation of being attacked before we can leave. There are four other cars that drive behind us, full of armed men, no doubt.
“Sir,” the driver calls over his shoulder again, “where to?”
“Home.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the driver asks. “Maybe we should go to one of your other houses just in case they are planning something.”
“I said home! I’m not going to let some fucking weasels chase me from my home. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
The engine starts, and the caravan of black vehicles begin their journey through the streets of New York like on any other night. But as I stare out the window of the car, I have a sickening premonition that this night is far from ordinary. I can sense something. The roads as we get closer to Bishop’s Landing seem… quiet. That is until I hear the first gunshot.
It takes everyone in the car a moment to realize what is happening when we stop behind a car that has suddenly slammed on its brakes. A rain of bullets fall upon our car as blood from the driver splatters the leather interior.
Pop.
Pop.
