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The voice continued. “He will never, ever dignify himself to come here. It’s like asking Al Capone to take care of a pest problem for you. You’re going to get us killed!”
It was that annoying reporter, Harvey something-or-other. He’d been pestering me for an interview about my recent construction project. His lovely words touched my heart. It was time to get into character and live up to expectations.
I knocked on the door, and Bianchi opened. A wave of cigarette smoke and the scent of stale beer wafted my way. He looked all sleek and sleazy, and his ferret eyes scoured the narrow corridor behind me.
“You came alone.”
I walked past him and took in the other two people in the room. Harvey was plastered to the wall, his eyes huge. I stiffened when I recognized the woman strapped to a chair as Jocelyn Detta. What the fuck was my friend’s wife doing here? In our line of business, abducting innocent women went against the code. Bianchi was a small man, with apparently even smaller brains. Gio was going to butcher him.
“You sound surprised, Bianchi,” I said in a heavy Russian accent. “Yet this is what you requested, no? Now, show me this great deal you have for me.” My eyes darted toward Gio’s wife.
Her cheek sported a bruise. Her eyes were that of a puma; agile and strong. She didn’t look away from me, nor did she flinch, even though she must have been out of her mind with fear.
“You know, they call my husband Black Ice,” she said. “But I have a feeling he has nothing on you.”
Another compliment, this time from a woman with steel in her spine. She reminded me of Katya. An unwelcome image of my little cat in a similar situation popped into my head. A white-hot fury nearly overwhelmed me.
I pushed it back. “I will take that as a compliment, Mrs. Detta.”
“You know who she is?” Harvey chimed in.
I eyed the reporter. He gulped and looked as if he was about to have a heart attack. Katya had more guts in her little pinky than this asshole had in his entire body.
“Of course I know her. I know all the major players in my town. Even the insignificant ones who are like lice in my fur.”
Harvey blanched. He peeked outside through the dusty curtains, as if looking for an escape. There was none. So far, I’d ignored the nosy bastard, planning to discreetly take care of him later. He was digging too deep and getting into my business. I couldn’t risk him discovering who my father was and tipping him off.
Then Bianchi spoke. “I want you to take her. Sell the whore through your contacts.”
As I’d expected, this was personal. Bianchi chose the ultimate way to make my friend pay. Once again, it showed his lack of intelligence.
“He doesn’t trade in women,” the reporter said nervously.
“The nicotine-smellingsukais right. It’s the one thing I don’t actually trade in.” In fact, I found it incredibly offensive he would think I was some pimp. Worse, a pimp he had on speed-dial. The nerve of some people.
Bianchi frowned, but before he could open his mouth, I gave him a right hook and the bastard dropped like a rock.
I stared at his body. “I also don’t like to be summoned.” Had he been any other man, I’d have ended him on the spot. As it was, I had different plans for him.
Harvey took a step toward Jocelyn and cowered by her side. “Mr. Romanov—”
“I don’t like to be called Romanov. Didn’t your extensive research on me tell you that? I’m not impressed by your reporter skills, Harvey.”
“Sorry. Of course, I…I knew that. You hate your father’s name, and—”
“You called me a stone-cold killer,” I cut him off.
Harvey paled. “I didn’t mean anything by it…”
“Of course you did. And you should, because it is exactly what I am. Never apologize for telling the truth.”
He immediately relaxed. The poor sap seemed to think I was praising him.
He licked his lips. “Yes, yes, indeed. Speaking of the truth, I want to do an editorial on you. An exclusive, to show the public the real man behind the name.”
You mean a piece to publicly nail my coffin shut.
“Ah, yes, your editorial on the Bratva. What is it that you want to hear? Do you want to hear about how I grew up on the harsh streets of Moscow as an orphan?”
