Page 5 of Heritage of Fire

I move to the bar, grabbing my empty glass as I go. After uncapping the vodka, I splash a shot into the tumbler and knock it back in one swig. The alcohol burns with the taste of home,and I contemplate one more. An irritable sigh from across the room keeps me from pouring another, and I follow the sound back toward Luka.

“We don’t know if a marriage would even solidify an alliance—although itwouldbe helpful to know what the Cosa Nostra does about Senator Hope and whoever he and Antonio were working with. There has to be another player …” Luka’s voice trails off.

I don’t envy his position. Especially since he and Kate were kidnapped several months ago. While I know he’s satisfied with Antonio’s death, the fact Senator Hope fueled and orchestrated an attempt to blackmail Luka by using Kate …

“Listen, I don’t want to get married to some woman I’ve never met, and I couldn’t care less about allying with Salvatore. But what legacy do we want to leave? One of endless warring with the second biggest underworld organization in the country, and losing more and more men over territory disputes? Someday you’ll have children, Luka, and I don’t want to leave them with what our fathers left us.”

The mention of children is a low blow, one Luka narrows his eyes at, but I know Kate wants them, and Luka would give her the world.

He sighs. “It’s your decision, Nikolai. I will support whatever you decide, as will the Bratva.” Luka swirls the liquor in the glass on his desk. “I assume you’ll need a new place to live once you’re married, and a couple of guards.” He studies me. “Assigning guards to a mafia princess will be in the contract.”

“I’ll remain at my warehouse apartment; it’s where I’m needed most. As for guards, she isn’t marryingyou, she’s marryingme, and I’ve never had guards. I can handle her myself.”

“We’ll see what’s listed in the contract before making any decisions.” Luka marches over to the door and opens it, exposing the compact secretary corner Natallia works at.

She’s on the phone, but Luka propels a finger in circles, motioning for her to wrap it up. I have information to gather, so I start my walk to the elevator.

Luka’s voice stops me.

“And Nik … this changes nothing. You work for me, not Salvatore. He doesnotdemand your time or request things from you.”

I nod, biting back a sarcastic comment regarding a mothering hen. The thought I’d ever do anything for the Cosa Nostra … unbelievable.

The Bratva is my home, and I’ll burn anyone who dares to take it away.

Chapter 3

Luna

Our house is massive. There’s an overkill of rooms, with even more bathrooms—all tossed in an opulence of gold and dark oak wood. But, for as large as this house is, the ability to eavesdrop is effortless.

The hallway to my father’s office is dark. The rich, warm tones of the oak-paneled walls range from golden caramel to deep, luxurious mahogany, but right now, in the dim light, everything looks murky.

I tiptoe past extra guest rooms until I reach one adjacent to the office. Inside, I move the dresser and press my ear to the wall.

“So, he agreed?” My mother’s voice is boisterous and clear.

“No, not at first—or, at all, really. It was Nikolai who said he would think about it,” my father replies, sounding stern and agitated. He is the son of my grandfather through and through, always right, never wrong, and if you don’t agree with him?—

“Well, what do you think he’ll say?” my mother says, hope in her voice.

I am still trying to rack my brain as to why my father would be meeting with Mr. Morozov at all.

“I don’t know, Maria. Antonio screwed the Cosa Nostra in every way. This alliance is the best course of action to repair it; it would mean hope for our future. I told Luka I would send the contract for him to consider?—”

The slightest shift has me accidentally stepping on a power cord, which sends the TV on the dresser tumbling down over my head.The talking in the office halts, and I scramble to untangle my foot from the cord. Once free, I quickly right the dresser and pick up the television. It’s broken.

Shoot.

I frantically scan the room, wondering if I should run or hide.

The door to the office opens and my father tells one of his men to search the hall—I think. It was in Italian and I didn’t understand all the words.

My mother refuses to speak the language, claiming the best way to avoid identification as Cosa Nostra is to integrate.

The door to the guest room slams open, a photo of Italy’s vineyards falling to the floor when the handle smacks into the wall. I’m frozen, unable to duck under the bed or dive into a closet, and the guard gives me alook. One you’d give a dog for eating your food.

He motions for me to come with him, and I drag my feet with each step around the corner.

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