Page 16 of Isle of Pain

“I didn’t even know you talked,” Ventura comments dismissively and I shrug, telling him the truth. “Only for people who matter.”

“Aw, Nico. Don’t go soft on me,” he teases. At least I think that’s a tease. I’ve only met him once in my life for a contract he hired me for a few years ago. A nasty piece of shit stole his grandma’s diamond bracelet and I think it was a sentimental piece for Dante, so I tracked down the target, got the bobble back and buried the thief in my backyard. Alive. As per Ventura’s request. The asshole watched in glee. He’s a weird one.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I deadpan.

“That’s the spirit!”

He’s about to clap his hand on my shoulder when Giulia steps in and slaps his hand away like he’s a naughty boy who needs to behave. “Enough pleasantries. We got work to do, boys.”

I could kiss her right now. I don’t want to kill our new found ally in a daze-y rage.

“Misha hasn’t been seen since Lana’s abduction.” Lisandru’s deep baritone fills the room and brings everyone to attention.

“And Igor was sighted last in Amsterdam a few weeks ago,” Andrea finishes and Julian perks up. The cloud of alcohol in his blue eyes clears until all that remains is murderous focus and quiet rage. His dishevelled blond locks fall over his forehead as he leans forward.

“Where is he now?” he asks.

“We don’t know,” my brother answers. “I’ve lost track of him. It’s like he knew we were on his tail, letting us know of his whereabouts enough to throw a bone but not enough to raise suspicion within his own clan.”

“You think that’s what he’s doing?” Giulia asks.

“I don’t know. You all know him better than I do.”

Giulia looks up to Lana and then to Julian, a deep frown on her freckled face. I wait in the shadows for all the information I will need. I’m not a recovery person. I’m the one you send after a target. I’m here because I’ll take care of Misha Petrov or his subordinates.

“He’s not giving us indications of his whereabouts. Igor doesn’t give a shit about himself. He knows we’re looking and he’s showing us where to find the goods,” Julian grimaces at the last word. He means the people Petrov deals in.

“So, when are we flying to Amsterdam?” Dante asks like he’s a kid at a birthday party and I sneer. His enthusiasm for danger isn’t something I relate to. And nor do Irina or Aleksei Dobrev if their annoyed faces are anything to go by.

The next hour is spent forming a plan to help the people held at the Petrov facility that must exist in the Venice of the North. Julian insists on going, which leads to an argument with his brother and Lana. Everyone already knows Igor is long gone butthe hope Julian clings to permeates the air. In the end, he wins. Bickering continues as Dobrev promises to send the local Bratva on the ground but Dante demands to be Julian’s wingman.

My presence isn’t required anymore. I don’t have a role in this specific operation.

I don’t say goodbye when I leave the lavish office and walk in search of the only person I want to see right now.

My steps guide me to the Moretti library. Marie has discarded her high heels and sits with her legs underneath her on the big chesterfield lounge seat. She’s drinking whiskey, her chin propped on her fist. I don’t make any attempt to conceal my presence as I step inside.

“You always know where to find me, don’t you?”

She doesn’t look up. Her eyes are riveted to the outside world. She’s always looking out, locked in her pretty cage, locked out of important conversations, with no control over her family’s legacy.

It’s not a question but I answer anyway.

“Yes.” No need for me to lie. I want her to know how much I think about her, look for her in crowds even when I know she isn’t there. She’s been kept in the dark by her own family all her life. I want to bring her light.

“Are you going to tell me to stop drinking?”

I frown. “Do you want me to tell you to stop drinking?”

She scoffs and it’s self-deprecating. Her bloodshot eyes turn my way and I swallow. Even in this state, her attention hits me. Like that next sip of alcohol she takes, I drink it up.

“If anyone knew, that’s what they’d tell me.” Her chin wobbles before she clenches her teeth and gives me a closed-lipped smile, then downs her drink. Her hand trembles as she pours herself another. The decanter is empty when she puts it on the window sill behind her. “Why aren’t you telling me to stop?”

“You’re old enough to make your own choices, Marie.” She gasps softly, but I don’t understand why. “Do you want to stop drinking?”

“I will,” she says, resolute, shoulders back. “But not yet.”

We remain silent as I sit in front of her, elbows on my knees. My eyes catalogue all the things that make herher. And all the things I didn’t think I’d ever take pleasure in noticing. Like how the dress has ridden up her thighs and I get a peek of beautiful stretch marks and white underwear.

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