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I look away at the gray stretch of tarmac.
Memories of the last time I was here haunt me. The panic. The fear. The terror.
“That was big of her. For a guy she thought hit it and quit it.”
I fiddle with the lighter in my pocket. “We should get going.”
“You’re still in love with her.”
“Still?” I scoff. “We were kids.”
“And now?”
“She wants to get back here as soon as possible,” I say.
We start walking toward the waiting car.
“Have you asked her to stay?”
I stop and fix him with a stare. “I didn’t come here to discuss Lyla. I came to settle things with Bianchi. You can help with that, or you can stay behind.”
Alex stares at me, then nods. “You got it,boss.”
I grit my teeth and keep walking.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside one of Bianchi’s legal establishments around the city. I avoided them all, even as a college freshman with a fake last name. The Italians had no idea a Morozov was living in their territory, but I knew I was living in theirs.
The Italian restaurant we park outside is cozy and homey. More than half full when we walk inside and completely stuffed with lively chatter. It smells delicious inside, like tomatoes and warm bread and oregano. But we’re not here to eat.
I blow past the hostess stand, where a brunette wearing a revealing white button-down is batting her eyelashes at a guy in his early twenties. I’m guessing he’s one of Bianchi’s soldiers.
I stride toward an empty table and take a seat, flinging my arm over the empty chair beside me in an exaggerated show of casualness.
The lighter in my pocket gets pulled out and tossed on the white tablecloth. If I have to burn this place down to get Bianchi’s attention, I will. Based on his radio silence since that fateful afternoon, he’s enjoying playing hard to get.
For the first time since we were elevated within our respective organizations, he has an advantage over me. Or at least he thinks he does.
All the chatter has dimmed considerably. When I glance toward the front of the restaurant, the kid up there is no longer focused on the hostess’s cleavage. He’s staring straight at me, his expression tense and disbelieving.
Some of Bianchi’s legal businesses are nothing but a front. This place has been in his family for generations. It’s where he hosts birthday parties for his kids and eats spaghetti with hisnonna. There are a few dozen places I could have shown up to force a meeting with Luca, but this sends the most direct message.
If my family is fair game, so is his.
Alex leans back in his chair across the table from me, an excited smile stretching across his face.
An older woman approaches our table. More strands of white than brown thread through her bun. She glances between me and Alex with an apprehensive expression. She recognizes me or senses danger. Her knuckles are white as she clutches the ordering pad. “Can I get you anything?”
“A cappuccino, please,” I order.
Alex shakes his head. “Nothing for me.”
She nods, then hastily hurries away.
As soon as she’s gone, Alex raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re not worried they’ll poison it?”
“No. That would be a very stupid decision.”
