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“Russian mob,” he clarifies. “I’m guessing Burian was sent to clear them out. The Russians probably sniffed out the feds.”
“That explains a lot then.” I drum my fingers against the island, eyebrows knotted down. “What do we do with that? I mean, how does it help?”
“Narrows the targets. Carmine’s going to send me a list of Bratva members with some suggestions toward which ones he thinks might be agents. We’ll have to do a little digging, but it shouldn’t be impossible.”
“Itshouldbe impossible.” I take a long drink, thinking. Feds shouldn’t get caught like this. “How does Burian know who the feds are?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Bratva hired him, right? Which meanstheyknew.”
“Someone blew their cover.”
“How does that work?”
He cocks his head. “How am I supposed to know that?”
I sit back, arms crossed. “Whatdoyou know?”
“Not enough,” he growls at me. Then, softer, “But we’ll work it out.”
I don’t reply. After eating, I head into the shower, thinking about the night before. Not the job, not the fingers, but after. My feet in Lanzo’s lap, him rubbing my soles, talking me through the pain.
It shouldn’t have worked. His weird psychoanalysis should’ve fallen flat. Instead, it wormed its way into my brain, softening me up. That, or the alcohol, I’m not sure which.
Then when he kissed me, I was properly ready for him, calmed enough to let his tongue in my mouth, his fingers between my legs.
Calmed enough to let him fuck me as he pulled my hair.
I’ve never met someone that could talk me down before.
Not that I panic often. But a few times, dealing with Grandpop felt like too much. It felt like the world was going to collapse onto my head. Amy wasn’t any help, and neither were Fran nor Penny. They listened, they offered advice, but none of ithelped.
Instead, it left me feeling guiltier for whining about Grandpop, but I really do want to take care of him.
I need to be stronger. Armor myself. Build myself a wall.
Lanzo found the right combination of words. Or maybe it wasn’t his words but his bearing. The way he listened intently. The way he seemed to know how I felt without trying to take ownership of it. Instead, he affirmed that I was going through something hard, without trying to solve the problem. He only wanted to smooth the rough edges.
I feel smoothed. God, that man cansmooththe hell out of me.
I’m starting to feel something for Lanzo. Something big, complicated. Something I definitely don’t want to analyze. If I look too closely at these feelings, I’m going to run away screaming. That’s how I operate. But if I glance at them sideways, try to ignore them for long enough—
Maybe they’ll take root before I can stop it.
As I climb from the shower, my phone rings. I stare at the screen then yelp in shock as the name registers.
Dimitry.
I try to pick it up, but my fingers feel numb. The phone falls to the floor, clattering.
The door flies open. Lanzo appears, eyes wide. He storms into the room, looking around like he’s searching for an attacker. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, heart racing up into my throat. “He’s calling again.”
His eyes narrow until he understands. He picks up the phone, pinching it between two fingers until it goes quiet. “Come on. Let’s plug it in.”
“Think he’ll leave a message?”
