Page 31 of Wicked Embers

“They didn’t have a face to match her name—until last night,” Viktor says grimly. “Daltons kept her one of his best-hidden secrets for years, but the chaos in the VIP room exposed her. Now they know what she looks like. It’s only a matter of time before they come for her—either to get to him or to see if she can lead them to whatever they think he’s hiding.”

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair, tension coiling in my gut. “Cut Fabri and his men loose. The last thing we need is a Mafia war on top of this mess—especially when we don’t know the Greek matriarch’s endgame. There’s a reason her men are shadowing Dalton instead of taking him out. They’re waiting for him to lead them to something, somewhere—or someone.”

A chill runs through me, though I shove it down. I think I know exactly who that someone is. My stomach knots at the thought of what could have happened if my men hadn’t gotten to Leigh first last night.

The footage I reviewed earlier replays in my mind—the four Greek operatives slipping out of the poker room right after Leigh disappeared. No doubt they had their sights set on her.

The door opens, and Gavriil strides in, his expression grim.

“Oleksi’s not coming,” he says without preamble. “The Greek Special Forces hit our warehouses in L.A. last night. The Italians are taking heavy losses too.”

“Los Angeles, New York, Chicago,” Viktor adds, ticking off the list. “They’re targeting our strongest territories.”

“Are we the only ones being hit?” I demand, my tone cutting through the room. “What about the smaller syndicates?”

“So far, it’s just us,” Dolph replies. “But I’ll send out feelers, see if anyone else is in the crossfire.”

Gavriil leans back in his chair, his jaw tight. “This has to tie back to what happened ten years ago. Why else would the Greek matriarch resurface now and come after us?”

“Fabri’s intel and a prisoner’s ramblings are all we have to go on,” I say, teeth clenched as old memories claw their way to the surface. My father and uncle—their deaths still cast a long shadow. It’s too easy to make this about her, but I force myself to push the emotions aside. “We don’t know it’s her. Not yet.”

Mark Dalton’s cryptic warning about the sins of the fathers comes to mind. Regret gnaws at me for letting him walk out of my office last night. I should’ve had him locked in a cell and put Gunther on him. But Dalton’s an enigma, full of more secrets than anyone realizes. Breaking him wouldn’t be simple.

“Who else would it be?” Gavriil shoots back, his voice low and cold. “She resurfaces, and suddenly, we’re under fire. That’s no coincidence.”

“We were being attacked before we even knew she was back in America,” I counter, my words biting. “And we have nothing but rumors tying her to this.”

“You really think that means it wasn’t her?” Gavriil growls, his brow furrowing.

I slam my fist on the desk. “We don’t start wars blind.” My voice is lethal, slicing through Gavriil’s frustration. “No proof, no action. We move when we’re certain. And right now, we know jack shit.”

I turn to Viktor and Dolph. “Find out everything you can about the Greek Special Forces at the poker game last night. Names, movements, alliances. I want it all.”

“What makes you think they’re still in Vegas?” Viktor asks.

“A hunch,” I say, my voice dark. And my hunches are rarely wrong.

Gavriil stays behind after Viktor and Dolph leave to dig deeper into the Greek threat. He’s silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the dark wood of my desk.

“Why would she want them dead?” he asks finally, his voice low. “Our fathers! Why would the Greek bitch have them killed? What business did our fathers have with her?”

“That is what we need to find out.” My head turns toward the bookshelves that line the one wall of my home office. “It never made a lot of sense to me.” Standing, I walk toward them. Move one of the heavy Russian journals and press a small button. The bookshelf clicks open, and I pull it back. “Speaking of the Greek matriarch, I have something interesting to show you.”

Gavriil stands and follows me to the bookshelves. I pull a document from the hidden safe behind the bookshelf and hand it to him. His eyes widen as he reads, his grip tightening on the paper.

“Is this real?” he demands.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “I can confirm that Vivienne Reynolds is Leigh’s mother. The other name on the document, Nikolas Vasilikis, is the son of Alexandra and Dante Vasilikis.”

“Do you think it’s the Greek matriarch?” Gavriil’s eyes widen, and he glances at the document, giving a low whistle. “So Vivienne was connected to the Greek bitch.”

“I believe so.” I nod. “I also found out that Nikolas died nineteen years ago. His body was found in his burnt-out car near an old farmhouse outside London.”

“Murder?” Gavriil asks, and I see he’s drawing the same conclusion I did when I found out about the man earlier this morning.

“Yes. It wasn’t the car fire that killed him. He had a bullet through the skull execution style.”

“Jesus, you don’t think that our fathers or Uncle Dmitri killed the Greek bitch’s son, do you?” Gavriil’s eyes widen. “The burnt-out car and bullet through the head is one of their signature calling cards.”

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