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“Absolutely.” I swallowed hard. “I need to banish the hate from Constantine’s eyes once and for all.”
“You’ll want the Pico then. It’s barely over five inches and will give you seven shots if you chamber a round.” So saying, Viktor stepped into the room and pulled a pistol from the case. He dropped the clip and jacked the shell out. With the chamber clicked up, he handed me the weapon.
I popped the slide back into place and turned to aim at the wall. This could work.I’m coming for you, brother.
“This is good,” I breathed.
Viktor nodded, a smirk on his lips. “I’ll get you some car keys.”
Sophia took the bullets from her brother as he left the room. With a delighted squeal, she skipped over to me with her offering. I accepted them. If she noticed my fingers shaking as I loaded a shell into the chamber before putting the spare back in the clip, she didn’t comment.
~*~
Imade it to Frankie’shouse without difficulty. The pinch in my gut told me this was the right path. The pistol was well hidden between the apex of my thighs, the knife along the length of my bra. One wrong move and it would cut me.
Numerous skeptical glances were thrown at the stylish coup I drove down the street. Going by how fancy this ride was, they’d know I wasn’t law enforcement, but that didn’t mean I belonged here. However, although many watched me, no group of street fighters jumped out or hemmed me in.
I parked, and my fingers paused on the key, aware that if I cut the engine, I would have to go through with this. Multiple pairs of eyes stared back at me. They were considering my appearance and judging my insanity for being here. It was a poignant reminder that Claude might not be here. Yes, I was insane.
But I must end this.Only blood would sate the agony consuming Constantine. I savagely punched the button that cut the engine and popped the door handle. Stepping from the car, I flashed a cold smile to the men, not recognizing any of them.
“Is Frankie Ghost home?” I asked them, hiding my wince at the thug’s name.
“Who’s askin’?” a pale soldier, with tears tattooed on his peach fuzz face, asked. He was young, but clearly this life held more appeal than school or more respectable work.
“Talia Drakos, formerly TaliaBeaumont. I’m looking for my brother, Claude.” I stood firm, not letting them see the effect they had when they collectively fanned out in front of me.
The frail punk had the grace to nod his head in approval. Clearly, the names I’d dropped held significant recognition to not warrant reaching for their weapons—yet. Their response also confirmed my idiot brother had revealed his real last name to these thugs.Not smart, Claude. Not smart.It was exactly the kind of stupid shit the idiot would’ve done.
“I’m hoping Frankie can help me,” I now said. “My brother is in trouble, and I just need to chat.”
“Yo, Noah! Go tell Frankie that little Miss Beaumont is here.” The punk rubbed his fingers down his cheeks and pinched his chin. “No, hold up; on second thought, let’s go see Frankie for ourselves. He ain’t gonna believe this shit.”
Those words were punctuated by pale face pointing his fingers at me in a gun cocked sideways motion. He clearly loved his gangster life. Except, what he didn’t realize was that he was the pawn of pawns. I couldn’t help comparing these boys playing at this life to the hardcore Bratva I’d just left; even the guards at the Drakos villa were of a more ruthless caliber.
“Come on, lil’ mama, let’s go see the boss.” The punk crooked two fingers at me.
I pushed off the car and tossed the electric key fob to one of the soldiers. “If you nick it, the Russian mob will come down here and flay you alive. So don’t even think about selling it for parts.”
“We don’t fear those vodka loving, soup eating bastards,” the soldier sneered.
I gave him a level stare. “You should. The Bratva doesn’t like outsiders messing in their business. But if you want to take the risk, go for it.”
Those dark brown eyes widened, and he had the grace to run a hand over his head. I sashayed past, satisfied that his face was a touch more drawn, his swagger fast deflating.
“Arms spread, baby doll,” the frail one rasped. “We gotta check that sweet lil’ body for weapons.”
“Smart.” The tight smile I gave him went to his hydrogen peroxide-bleached head. I obliged him by widening my stance, my arms out. The pat down was more sexual than thorough; another small miracle. My heart stopped beating as his fingers skated over the apex of my thighs, but the sanitary pad did its job—the pistol was safe.
The pale punk shrugged. “I woulda thought a Beaumont would have been packing heat.”
“Considering my brother was never supposed to tell you our real last name, that says a lot that you know so much about my family. Of course, my father won’t like to hear that,” I tacked on for good measure.
The frail one turned, too slow to hide his wince. “Come on, then.”
The storm door creaked and a waft of stale air leaked out as the front door opened. Unwashed bodies, spilled booze, and old and new smoke all mingled together to make a ripe bouquet. The thump of bass boosted music welcomed me as I pushed into the front room where three large TVs hung on the wall and a complete system with every imaginable gaming device was shelved. It was the only nice feature in the space. The couches were worn and stained, and scantily clad women sprawled over punks who wore jeans too low or basketball shorts too big.
Glances shifted in our direction. It was mere moments before they noticed me, and then they gaped in disbelief that the pale one had brought me in here. Even in jeans and a tee, I stood out, but I had the feeling it was more due to the regal look of disdain that I could feel etched on my face. I’d tasted the real power of the underworld, and this was nowhere near it. These little shits had nothing on me and the company I kept.
