Page 86 of The Fighter

An assassin. I liked Gemma.

She takes a breath before she continues. “She’s also Joao Carvalho’s wife.”

Tomas’s friend Joao? The one who also works for the Venice Mafia? I’m about to open my mouth and ask when Cici’s phone rings, loud and shrill. I glance down at my own device and realize that it’s been an hour since Tomas left.

There’s news.

56

TOMAS

The address Gabriel gives us is in Eixample, a few streets away from the Mercat de Colón. The four of us drive there in Andrei Sidorov’s Land Rover—two of Sidorov’s grim-faced men in the front, and in the back, the pakhan himself and me.

We ride in silence. Andrei Sidorov has a distant expression on his face. He’s not here—he’s in the place you go to before battle. I close my eyes, and unsurprisingly, Alina pops into my head. She’s in the ring, and her eyes are spitting fire. “Come, show me what you’ve got.”

My fiery dolcezza. She almost died today. I almost lost her forever. I meant every word of my promise. She loves me, and I love her, and we’re going to live happily ever after. I want a future with her, one filled with banter and good-natured insults and love, and I won’t let anyone—her father, the mysterious Gemma, Damir Malinov—get in the way of that.

“I know you want to kill Malinov.” My voice is harsh. Almost a snarl. “But you can’t. He’s mine.”

The men in the front stiffen, but Andrei Sidorov is too much of a professional to react. “According to Gabriel’s idiotic rules, you’re the only one with a claim. I’m tempted to tell him to stuff it, but my wife will never forgive me if I start a feud with d’Este. Kill the bastard.”

“It’s just as well,” he continues. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be quick, and I wouldn’t be merciful. I would do to him what he did to Vassili.” His face stays expressionless, but his voice turns vicious. “I would cut off his tongue so he couldn’t scream, and then I’d chop his balls off and feed them to him.”

I swallow back the bile in my mouth. “He did that?”

“He’s unhinged. It’s common knowledge in Russia.”

I’m used to violence. I have no stomach for torture, but I recognize that sometimes, there’s no other way to get information. But if Sidorov’s emissary went under a peace flag, and if Andrei Sidorov is telling the truth, Damir Malinov killed him as painfully and viciously as possible.

This is the work of a disturbed, deranged mind.

And Vidone Laurenti was going to marry Ali off to him.

Fury builds in my chest. Laurenti would have known exactly who Malinov was. If the abduction attempt in Venice had worked, Ali would have woken up in St. Petersburg, the captive plaything of a crazed killer.

And her father didn’t give a damn. He was prepared to do this for what? Money? Power? I will make sure he has neither. When I’m done with Malinov, I’m going to make it my mission to ruin Vidone Laurenti.

We arrive at the house, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. Gabriel told us there were six Kutuzovo foot soldiers in the house with Malinov, but no one is patrolling outside, which is odd.

Even odder? The front door is ajar.

“Kolya, stay in the car,” Sidorov instructs the driver. “We might need to make a quick getaway.”

He starts to get out, but the other man in the front seat turns around and shakes his head. “I will check it out, pakhan,” he says respectfully but firmly. “Please wait in the car until I give the all-clear.”

Andrei sits back in his seat. “I pay the bills, but my wife has Tima wrapped around her little finger,” he grumbles. He doesn’t sound too put out by it. “And Mira gets cranky when she thinks I’m taking unnecessary risks.”

A brief smile flashes on the soldier’s face. He gets out, weapon in hand, and moves toward the open front door. He steps inside. He’s wearing a mic, so we can hear him as he moves through the house. A long moment passes, and then he says, “It’s clear. Malinov is the only one here.”

Sidorov exchanges a glance with me. He has questions, and he’s not the only one. Why is Malinov alone? Where are his foot soldiers?

But none of that matters. All that matters is killing Malinov.

I shrug, tighten my grip on my gun, and get out of the car.

We find Damir Malinov inside his study in the back of the house. “Welcome,” he slurs. There’s a glass of whiskey in his hand and a half-empty bottle on the desk in front of him. He looks up and sees the man next to me, and recognition sparks in his eyes. “Ah, the Sidorov king makes a personal appearance. I quake in fear.”

I keep my gun on him. So does Tima.

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