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“I appreciate it, but no.”
He smirked and then spoke to her in Russian. She smiled at him and then left. She was the spitting image of Ava. I took the seat he offered, and Mooch planted himself in front of me, almost on my feet.
“How about Dr. Toe Sucker? You are her type.”
“Seen one, seen them all,” I said, getting comfortable.
He narrowed his eyes at me. Sometimes things still got lost in translation for him, but because he knew I wouldn’t fuck with him like that, he took my comments in stride. He was always trying to offer me things—alcohol, women, and deals.
Finally, he smiled. Ava had told me he had a pirate smile, whatever the fuck that meant to her. He was older than me, but it almost seemed like he would forever look the way he did. He hadn’t changed since I’d known him. His head was shaved to a glint. His blue eyes matched the neon lights in his office. And he was built like a man who didn’t need a running start to make a dent.
“I appreciate you letting my sister-in-law go,” I said to him before he could offer me anything else. “In-laws, you understand?” I hadn’t had much time to speak to him earlier. It was a rush deal because I was on my way to see ma. Ava calling me was out of the blue. She rarely called anyone for help, usually able to get out of her messes herself. So, the situation with Balabanov had to be serious for her to pick up the phone and make the call.
“I did not realize you were married, Valentino.”
I waved a hand. “Everything but the paperwork.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That is a curious way of looking at things.”
“For now,” I said, grinning.
His laughter tapered and his mouth turned down into a frown. “I did not want to let my doll go again,” he said. “I do this for you.”
Because he knew me. He knew what I’d go to war for.
“I appreciate that.”
“We seem to be obsessed with the same blood.”
“That we are.”
He nodded. “I hear things. Your—wife, but not on paper. I hear she is working at The Cigar Bar. This is why you are here?”
“The main reason,” I said, keeping my anger in check. Negotiations, or even conversations like this one, had to be handled in a certain way. Language was an art form in this life. Like big dogs who went sniffing around each other—sometimes certain behavior was accepted, and sometimes it wasn’t. A man had to know when to snarl and when to attack.
Depending on Balabanov’s next move, I’d know which way to go.
Earlier, when I’d picked up Ava, she was mouthing off to one of his soldiers for keeping her from getting to the door. He said something to her that made me stop. He brought up knowing about her sister and where to find them both. Ava was all bravado when it came to herself, but she would go ballistic on anyone with the wrong intentions toward Lucila. It seemed personal with this guard, though, and the threat he made toward Lucila and her sister was a threat made against me.
I could see the thoughts behind Balabanov’s eyes floating like globs of what was supposed to resemble lava in one of those cheap lamps. He was wondering why the fuck my wife—just not on paper—was working at that sort of place.
It was none of his business, and I’d be dealing with that later.
He must have read my thoughts, because he shut off his personal ones and said, “It has already been dealt with.”
That was good enough for me. Because if it hadn’t been dealt with, I’d know. Then he’d lose four men for the one who decided to make threats against me.
I nodded. “What do you have on Gallo? The situation with the woman?”
This was where Balabanov got his in return. Even though he was giving me information, he was giving it to me as warfare intel against Paul Gallo. Because he didn’t hate Paul Gallo, or as he called him, PG. He loathed him. And Balabanov didn’t have to go to war unnecessarily, since he knew the silent war between me and Gallo was going to come down to a final battle one day.
We—the Italians—kept our business our business, and when we had an issue, we handled it amongst ourselves. So Balabanov had no clue why me and Gallo were at odds. Neither did he care. He was more concerned with his beef with Gallo, and the rest was all unnecessary details.
This situation involved a Russian woman Gallo had claimed as his own, so Balabanov knew the side of it that my side was keeping hush-hush.
He set his head back against the seat rest and closed his eyes. He sighed. “PG fell for the wrong woman. She was the wife of a connected man in Russia. Valery Ivanov was his name. PG felt, like always, that he was entitled. He met her through her husband. Ivanov and PG were doing business together—drugs. PG wanted Ivanov’s wife from the moment he saw her. When the woman broke it off, saying her husband suspected something, he killed him.”
He paused there for dramatic effect, or because he was enjoying the fish eating his dead flesh too much. I took the break as a chance to consider what he’d said. That Gallo had killed the man because of his wife. I wasn’t surprised. It had happened before, and not only with Gallo.
