Page 23 of Chasing Danger

CHAPTER 10

D’Angelo

The kiss didn’t last as longas I would have liked. We were still in public after all, and Oliver’s brother would soon come looking for us. So, after a few minutes, we were forced to pull away and quickly tug our clothes back into place. We still probably looked a bit flushed, and anyone with half a brain could probably tell what we’d been doing, but we returned to Oliver’s brother just in time for the tour to end.

After visiting the last boat, as well as the lighthouse that stood at the end of the harbor, I offered to take both brothers to lunch. Rowan was allowed to choose, and appropriate for a fifteen-year-old boy, he chose a nearby restaurant calledDick’s Last Resort. I was ready to agree, but Oliver quickly steered us away and insisted on going to an Italian place instead.

“Rowan doesn’t know this, but that place is notorious,” Oliver whispered to me during the short walk to the restaurant. “It’s kinda got the vibe of a standup comedy club. Guests are ofteninsulted, and for Rowan and I... that kind of atmosphere is just asking for trouble.”

I agreed, and without further discussion we went to the Italian restaurant instead. It was very Americanized, and not comparable to real Italian food, but good enough to ensure that the rest of the date ended well.

When we finally parted andI met back up with Eva and Gavriil, who had been loitering around nearby the whole time, I was satisfied with how my relationship was progressing with Oliver.

CHAPTER 11

D’Angelo

My good moodfollowing my date with Oliver and his brother lasted all the way until my meeting with the Russian representatives the following day.

Although it was the Russians who had insisted on meeting in Baltimore, they remained tightlipped about why they chose the location, or what the actual issue was. That left me eventually standing outside of the American Visionary Art Museum and not entirely sure what I would face at the meeting. The museum was on the southern side of the Inner Harbor. I could see the masts of the ships I’d visited with Oliver and Rowan from my position on the front steps.

Less than twenty-four hours, and I stood in practically in the same place, yet my mindset couldn’t have been more different. There was nothing soft or intimate about the role of the Bianchi family leader.

“It’s quaint, isn’t it?” someone said when they stepped up beside me.

I vaguely recognized the voice, though it took a moment for me to place the face.

She was known only by her surname, Aslanov. No one knew her first name, and I’d never needed to know, so I never went to the trouble of looking. So blonde her hair nearly looked white, the thick curls were pulled back into a painfully strict ponytail. She was tall for a woman, and in heels she nearly equaled me in height.

We’d met twice before. Once when I was very young, my mother brought me to Russia to meet my relatives on her side. Then once at my indoctrination as the head of the Bianchi family. Both times, she had been standing as the Pahkan’s right-hand-woman.

She was an accomplished middleman in the Russian Mafia.

To see her alone now was... odd, and slightly terrifying. If the leader of the Russian mafia was personally involved, then there was no hope of this incident blowing over easily.

“What’s quaint?” I asked while looking around for Aslanov’s security. Just like my own bodyguards, a pair of armed men loitered around the area. To the casual observer, they probably just looked like museum guests, but I recognized the stance of someone armed and ready for action. It was the same stance my own bodyguards wore like a uniform every day.

They were also entirely superfluous, and probably just for show. Aslanov didn’t actually need bodyguards. There was a rumor that she’d once killed an entire squad of secret service agents, as well as the dignitary they were protecting, with only the heel of her shoe. It was a ludicrously violent story, and I absolutely believed it.

Aslanov pointed out to the other side of the harbor. “Little Italy. The alliteration just rolls off the tongue.”

She didn’t grin, but there was a gleam in her eyes that reminded me of a shark’s smile.

Little Italy?

I hadn’t really thought about it, but just on the other side of the harbor lay a neighborhood that had been established by the Italian immigrants who first came to the area. It was also once a stronghold for the Italian mafia, though we had moved out of the area by the mid twentieth century. Now, it was mostly just a regular neighborhood with an interesting backstory.

Was this meant to be some sort of hint?

A threat?

I’d wondered about the location of the meeting since learning the address. An art museum seemed like an odd choice.

The American Visionary Art Museum wasn’t a particularly big building, certainly nothing compared to the skyscrapers of New York, but it had an odd design. Mostly cylindrical, the outside was almost entirely covered by a swirling silver mosaic.

I couldn’t see a reason to meet at such a place, but perhaps the building wasn’t important. Perhaps the real message was in the location, lurking just across the water from Italian territory.

Aslanov turned away from the harbor and headed inside the museum. “Come. We’ll talk inside.”

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