Page 4 of Twisted Fate

I glare at him as Cassio lets out a hoot of laughter. “If she’s a whore, she is the absolute worst at her job,” he says. “She wouldn’t even give Damian her name. Took off like he smelled like skunk and didn’t even give him a backward glance.”

“She is not a whore,” I say, certain of that fact though I can’t say why.

“Agreed,” Dante says. “She was definitely personal.”

“Still, one of Ivanov’s men shouldn’t have been anywhere near our place,” Leo mutters, dark eyes flashing.

“You follow him?” I ask Dante.

“He didn’t go far,” Dante says. “He hung around, played the slots. Was still feeding a machine when I left to come here.”

“You certain he works for the Ivanovs?” Cassio asks.

“Not certain,” I say. “But I have a suspicion.”

“Your suspicions are usually correct” Leo says. “What’s he doing on our turf? What are the Ivanovs playing at?”

“We will meet with Mikhail,” Papa says, his hands in motion as he speaks, emphasizing his words. “We will discuss, negotiate, come to an agreement.” He grins at Leo and gently pats his cheek. “You worry too much, Leonardo.”

Leo grits his teeth, then asks, “What if Mikhail doesn’t want to discuss, negotiate, and come to an agreement? What if he wants what’s ours?”

My father takes another bite, swallows, looks at me. “And you, Damiano? Dante? Cassio? You share your brother’s concerns?”

That’s Papa. Never favoring one child over the other. Always willing to hear opinions, weigh them before he makes a final decision.

“Mikhail’s ruthless, which I can respect,” I say, setting down my wine glass.

“But he’s unpredictable,” Dante says.

“Which makes him dangerous,” Cassio says, pointing his fork at Dante to emphasize his point.

Papa reaches over and slaps Cassio’s hand. “Manners,” he says.

“Mikhail’s dangerous even to his own,” I say. Papa’s gaze lands on me. “There are rumblings that maybe Vlasta’s heart attack was…encouraged by artificial means.”

My father’s expression sharpens. “You have proof?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

My father nods. Then his brows lower. His gaze scans the room.

The soladata by the door tenses.

Leo rises and turns a slow circle.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I glance at the door, then the windows. Something is off. We all feel it.

A shadow shifts outside the window.

I surge from my seat.

At the same time, I hear a sharp pop. The sound of glass breaking. Another pop.

I throw myself onto my father, sending his chair toppling back onto the floor, my body a shield over his.

Too late.

He lies on his back in the overturned chair, staring at the ceiling. There’s a small, neat hole in his forehead. But the hole in the back of his head is neither neat nor small. Blood and brain and bits of bone cover my hands as I reach for the wound.

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