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At nearby tables, Dario sits with a few of our men. A few Bratva are at another table in case Fyodor or I physically attack each other.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Fyodor says, sounding almost genuine.
I incline my head. Under his orders, countless evil things have been done. There’s no use letting him see how angry I am—how much I’d like to smash his bald, pale head like an egg and watch the goddamn yolk spill out. He’s done these evil things inmycity. I’m going to be raising a family here soon.
“And you, Fyodor.”
“Have you thought about my offer?”
“I’m not splitting the city in two.”
“It has worked before. Borderlines don’t have to be immovable things.”
“The city is mine. The war is close, but recently, when we burned your crap, we gained the upper hand. You’ll threaten me with hurting innocents, but we both know that if you stayed here and were allowed to operate, countless more would die or be trafficked. Lives would be ruined.”
Fyodor flinches, then masks it behind his placid expression. I know I’ve gotten to him. I can sense it like a shark with blood.
“We can fight for two, three more years,” Fyodor says. “So much bloodshed.”
“If I give even an inch, the Bratva will never leave. Decades of hell for people who just want to live their lives.”
“So soft, Italian, sohumane.”
I bare my teeth, not quite a grin. “If I were as soft as you wish, I wouldn’t be here. You’d already be king.”
He picks at the table, then quickly stills the movement as if annoyed at himself for the weakness.
“When I was a boy, my father taught me a valuable lesson. One day, without warning, he struck me hard across the face and told me it was my fault. I was not ready. I should always be ready.”
A waiter is walking across the room. He is moving oddly, holding a tray with a dishcloth placed over it, hiding his hand. Fyodor smirks, eyebrow raised, reveling in what’s about to happen, but nothing’s going to happen. Not to my men. Not when I can do something about it. I see it. I have always seen things. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m alive.
The Family shaped me. The life. The violence. The waiter walks toward Dario, drops his tray, and aims his gun at mybrother. I’m running fast. I grab the waiter’s forearm and twist it so sharply it cracks with an audiblepop. He yelps and then starts coughing when I punch him in the throat, letting him fall to the floor.
Dario picks up the gun. “What thefuck?”
He aims it at the man on the floor, then swivels, pointing it at Fyodor. The Russians rise to their feet. The Italians do the same. All around us, civilians are yelling, panicking, and screaming for somebody to call the police.
“I had nothing to do with this,” Fyodor says innocently. “Lower the gun before you force me to respond.”
“You can’t expect me to belie—”
“Dario,” I growl, glaring at him.
Fyodor wants this. There’s chaos in his eyes, a sick enjoyment in the curve of his pale lips. He’s ready to die, or at least doing an incredible job ofseemingprepared to die. He likely wanted Dario reflexively to kill the waiter, the assassin, or for Dario to die. Dario lowers the gun. There’s nothing we can do, not in public.
“It seems our meeting has been cut short,” Fyodor says.
“This is the last time we show you civility,” I tell him, keeping my voice cold. “Only a rat fuck pulls a move like that.”
“I honestly don’t kn—”
“Enough. We all know what happened here. Time for you to leave.”
I’m going to kill you, Fyodor, I almost say, but there are too many civilians around. He and the other Bratva leave the restaurant, Fyodor stopping to grin at me over his shoulder, so goddamn proud of himself.
“Why did you do that, eh?” Dario snaps, prodding the waiter in the leg.
He lies on the floor, nursing his busted arm. The man says something in Russian, then spits at Dario.
