Page 5 of Scarlet Angel

Is he calling the Italian mafia monsters? I twist in my seat, slightly more interested in the pretentious syndicate member. “Is that how you describe your own?”

“You think I’m a mobster?” He glances down at his chest as if to ask, do I not see his bespoke suit?

I run the pad of my finger over the gathering condensation on the glass while taking a moment to drink him in. He doesn’t look like one of the mafia men. There are no visible tattoos. None of his teeth are gold. There are no rings or thick necklaces.

I know little about Nikolai Ivanov. I never asked and only assumed. The men respect him, and before his death, they respected his employee, Leo Sullivan.

But he can’t be a good man. My uncle saw a union between Willow and Leo to be advantageous to his business and therefore approved of the hasty union between his daughter and Nikolai’s employee, an American known to be an arms broker.

Nikolai showed up out of the blue minutes before the ceremony with wedding bands and sent the newlyweds off in a limousine he provided to a destination he picked. I presumed he did it to ensure their safety.

If Leo was an arms dealer, and he was Nikolai’s employee, then Nikolai is also an arms dealer. My uncle’s specific interest of late is submarines, so perhaps Nikolai deals in more than guns.

Assumptions are the province of fools. My uncle loves that saying, and the life philosophy has served him well. If the commanding prick is going to sit here, I might as well verify my assumptions.

“Were you close to Leo?”

Emotion flickers in his dark eyes. Is he hurting, like me? I suppose even arrogant men can hurt.

The titan’s lips miraculously bend, pursing. “He was my best mate.” He sips his martini. When he sets the glass back down, the perma-frown is back in place. Did I imagine the emotion?

“She was mine,” I say.

There’s no reason to open up to him, but we are at a bar, and tomorrow, we’ll bury our friends beneath six feet of earth. The official cause of death is an auto accident during heavy rains. The brief articles in the local papers refer to unsafe driving during hazardous conditions.

It’s a coverup. Leo was running from someone, of that, I’m certain. People don’t simply drive off bridges. Besides, Leandro DeLuca, our capo’s brother, had been after her. He’d been angry she chose someone else. There’s no telling what he planned. Maybe he wanted to kidnap her. Maybe he wanted to kill her. But Leo killed him. It doesn’t matter that Leandro was a narcissistic egomaniac who couldn’t handle rejection. Rules are rules, so I’m quite certain his brother, Massimo De Luca, the almighty feared head of our ungodly clan, set about getting vengeance for his brother’s death. His men or whoever he hired chased Willow and Leo to a watery grave. I hate them all. Every single member of the Lupi Grigi and their fucked-up traditions.

With that thought, anger swells. I could unleash it at the stranger at my side, but he hurts, too.Maybe. The jury’s still out.

“She’s in a better place.”

His sympathetic phrase pulls me back to the conversation, but it stirs agitation.

“Because she’s not in this fucked-up world, you mean?” I shift away from him, losing the desire to learn more about him. “I thought when she married, your lot would provide her safety.”

He keeps his poker face. The bastard doesn’t even blink. And yes, I’m blaming him because why not? He was higher in rank than Leo, so it should’ve fallen on him to protect them. That’s the world order.

“Is everything all right between us, love?”

“I’m not your love.”

“It’s an expression.”

I roll my eyes as much out of habit as anything. While I know little about the man sitting beside me, Massimo is the one I hate most. Hate for one doesn’t mean I can trust the man to my right, or that I shouldn’t hate him, too.

“What’s with the anger?”

“Was there nothing you could do to keep them safe? Is the Lupi Grigi that powerful?” My insides churn, dreading his answer.

“What have you heard?”

His elbows are on the bar, and he leans closer, so close I inadvertently inhale his cologne. The woodsy scent clears the fog of fury and sorrow, and I remind myself that he might have answers.

The bartender is occupied with other patrons, leaving us to our tense conversation.

With the staff far away, and no one seated nearby, I share my reservations in the hopes he will respond with information. “The rain wasn’t so heavy that he drove straight off a bridge. There were no other accidents on bridges that night.”

“You’ve heard nothing,” he says in a biting tone. “But you’re a clever one. Twisting the angles to sort them.”

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