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“I’m sure that’s how Bianchi will see it,” the blond man responds, lifting a phone to his ear.
I take a step closer to the kitchen island, where my phone is, and their attention snaps back to me.
“He’s not answering?” the dark-haired man asks the blond.
“No. I’d hate to be Bianchi when the boss finds out what went down here.”
Black eyebrows bunch together. “We should see if—”
“Mom?”
I close my eyes and mentally shout a long list of swears before turning to watch Leo walk down the hallway in his pajamas. I’m not sure what these men want. I can’t tell why they’re here or gauge how dangerous they are. That’s not a situation I ever wanted Leo walking into.
“Go back to your room, Leo.”
He doesn’t listen, stopping next to me and glaring at the two strangers.
There’s a rapid flurry of Russian. The men look between Leo and each other, their tones sharp and urgent. Worried and confused.
They know Nick. I’m not sure why that’s the first thought that occurs to me, but it’s one that sticks. It’s the only logical explanation for the recognition on their faces as they look at my son. For the appearance of awe I saw aimed at his father many times.
I’m not sure if it should ease some of the panic building inside of me, but it does.
I might no longer know Nick. I definitely don’t trust him. But I don’t believe he’d ever promote any ill will toward me or Leo. He’s still the guy I lay in bed next to, describing my chaotic childhood and recounting the night I found my mother’s lifeless body. If these men know him—respect him, it seems—it makes them far less of a threat in my eyes.
I pull Leo behind me, just in case.
The stream of Russian continues.
I eye my phone. If I run for it, I have no idea what they might do. It’s an action I might have attempted before Leo appeared. If I move now, he’ll be completely exposed. Either of the men could easily grab him, and that’s not a chance I’m willing to take.
“What do you want?” I ask.
The Russian stops.
“Want? Nothing,” the dark-haired man says. “I’ve been dying to kill an Italiankrysafor years. This was better than attending the meeting.”
“Grigoriy.” The blond adds something in Russian, then smirks. The other man glares. Amusement still covers the blond’s expression when he turns to me. “I’m Viktor.”
“I don’t care what your names are. I want you to leave.Now.”
Grigoriy smiles. “I’d expect you to feel differently if more Italians show up.”
His phone rings, and any humor drops off Grigoriy’s face as he glances at the screen. He answers immediately and starts speaking—in Russian.
I’m getting very tired of not understanding what is being said. Viktor is nodding along to whatever Grigoriy is saying.
They’re both distracted.
This is probably the best opening I’ll have to call 911.
But I can’t move. Can’t accept the slightest risk when it comes to Leo’s safety even if it will increase our odds overall.
Grigoriy hangs up the phone and looks at me. “Let’s go.”
I laugh, and it’s an unhinged sound. Ifeelunhinged. Grigoriy says it like it’s a reasonable request after barging into a stranger’s home to the tune of gunfire rather than knocking on the door like a civilized person.
Aside from that, he seems…normal. No crazy eyes or brandishing a gun. But this isnotnormal. It’s insane.He’sinsane if he thinks I’m going anywhere with him.
