Page 21 of Relentless Refuge

“I think so too.” I pace, running a hand through my hair and thinking about our options. “We have to strike back. We can’t let them think we’re weak. They have to know that this new alliance with the D’Angelo Family means more strength and power. We are not cowards, and we won’t run away.”

I listen to the whimpers and groans my brother emits and try to decide the best way to hurt our enemy. An eye for an eye isn’t possible if we don’t know where they hide. That means we’ll need surveillance and intel. Our boys in blue might be able to help with that after they cover up this incident.

“They tried to kill me, so I say we take one of them out, or at least scare one of them real good. It can’t be some low-level schmuck, either. It has to be someone high up.” Victor is starting to think more clearly now, and that’s what we need. Level heads and clear minds.

“Yes, you’re right. ThePakhan’sson. I know where he frequents.” Isabella’s suggestion is genius, and even better that she knows where he might be found.

“How do you know that?” I ask, turning to face her. She looks up at me and shrugs a shoulder.

“I’ve seen him around when I snuck out at times. Father had me under lock and key, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know things. We’re roughly the same age, and I know people who know him.” She returns to her work, and a plan begins to come together in my head. We can kill the heir, or at the very least scare him within an inch of his life, and we’ll send a very clear message—Don’t mess with the Romano-D’Angelo alliance.

16

ISABELLA

It’s dark. The car idles, parked at a distance from the little bookstore we know to be owned by our enemies. We watch through binoculars as two of Marco’s men and two of mine approach the building. Our plan—to injure thePakhan’sson but not kill him—is in place. It’s been one week since the car bombing on Victor and it’s time we send our message—We won’t be intimidated by you and we won’t back down.

“We’ll have to get out of here quickly. The cops will be on us fast,” I tell him without taking my eyes off the front of the bookstore. We expect the swarm of police to descend on us in record time since this store is the hub of a lot of criminal activity. They get called here so frequently, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a special response team just for this location.

“Yes, but the boys know what they’re doing.” Marco’s gravelly voice is fraught with tension. He’s been on edge and angry ever since Victor staggered into his home that night. I don’t blame him. I know how it feels, only worse. Lucco was shot dead, and I still haven’t gotten a chance to get vengeance for the murdersof the two men I loved most in this world. Even this strike isn’t enough.

I’m the merciful one, the one who likes rehabilitation and second chances. But even I would gun these sick bastards down in cold blood and never think twice. Marco, on the other hand, wisely noted that if we come in that hot, it will only lead to a war that we don’t want to entangle ourselves in. It’s bad enough as it is. To escalate things by murdering thePakhan’sson would be to incite the entire southeast side of the city to violence.

He fails to see how they made the first strike by killing my father and explains how it was only their first hit against my Family. I say the war is on already and I’m prepared to fight in it for the long haul, even as my stomach rolls with the nausea I hide from everyone.

I put my binos down for a moment and open the glovebox where I’ve stashed a few peppermints. Squinting into the darkness to keep my eyes fixed on the bookstore’s entrance, I tear open the little plastic packet and pop the mint into my mouth and suck on it, then put the wrapper into my pocket and lift my binos back to my eyes. The mint helps but doesn’t alleviate all of the nausea. I just have to make it through a few more minutes, and we’ll be on our way home.

“There they go,” Marco whispers, as if speaking the words aloud would tip off our enemy and give them a chance to prepare for the attack.

I watch as the four men walk in formation, Darnel flanking the younger three men as they open the door and rush the place. I hear the rapidPop-Pop-Popof weapons discharging and hold my breath. The lights in the storefront go off, and more gunfireechoes around the street, then the men swiftly retreat, rushing back up the street from where they’d come.

Marco reaches down and turns the key, and we hear sirens in the distance already. The report of gunfire has gone out, and the police will be here in under ninety seconds. I lean back into the seat, waiting for the call on the radio that the job is done and that no one is injured in the process. It took a lot of coercion to get a few of my cousins to work together with Marco’s uncle and one of his soldiers.

“Why aren’t they calling in?” I ask, buckling my seat belt. The binos on my lap slide off onto the floor as Marco pulls out into the street and accelerates quickly.

“They’ll call, just hold on.” I can tell he has a driver usher him around everywhere he goes because his driving abilities need work. Or maybe he’s just reckless when he’s fidgety and on edge. I grip the handle on the door and brace myself as he takes a sharp turn and punches the gas pedal.

The radio crackles to life, staticky and so low in volume I barely hear it. I reach for it instinctively, cranking the sound up in time to hear Darnel’s voice.

“Job is done. Target is hit but not killed. Message is sent. Over.”

Sighing with relief, I drop the walkie-talkie and put my head back to the head rest. It’s over. At least this portion of it. They will retaliate, but they will think long and hard about coming after the Romano-D’Angelo alliance again.

“God, I’ve never been more anxious in my life.” Finally on a stretch of road where Marco isn’t weaving back and forth and making sharp turns, I let go of the handle and wring my hands in my lap.

“Is that why you’ve been eating those mints like they’re going out of style?” he asks, but he doesn’t look at me. I’m glad for that. I have no poker face right now.

I’ve known for a week that I’m pregnant, and I intend to keep it a secret from him and everyone else for a while, including Nicky and my mother. I know they will be elated. Mother will be happy for a grandchild and Nicky for an heir to my father’s throne. But Marco will expect my firstborn to be a son who will ascend to his throne in time, and I am beginning to realize this alliance may have been a mistake. There may have been a way to get Marco to back me up and support me as leader of my own Family without the marriage.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I’m stuck with the situation I have.

“They calm my nerves, yes, but I’m feeling a bit off. I think I’m coming down with something.” The lie slips from my lips, and I feel no guilt at all. I am protecting my future until I know what to think about all of this. I’m only twenty-one. So many things could still happen to change the outcome of this arrangement. I need to protect my assets.

“Well, let's get you home to rest, and Victor and I can plan our defense. They’ll be coming for revenge, and we should be ready. Now that your Family is connected with mine, I can teach them how I defend myself. You’ve never been safer.”

I listen to him go on, detailing how he’s kept his upper circle safe from harm since his father passed and how his father followed the same protocols and his father before him. Outside of the mistake with Victor last week, they haven’t had a hit that took out a major player in the history of the Family. It’s valuableinformation, but most of it goes in one ear and out the other as I fight to keep my dinner down.

At home, Victor waits in the living room for us. I stand in the doorway and acknowledge his presence, but my stomach flip-flops and I know if I don’t get to the toilet soon, there will be a mess to clean up. So, I excuse myself and head to the bedroom alone. I shed my jacket and shoes and kneel by the toilet as yet another wave of nausea crashes into me. All of my dinner comes up, and maybe some of my lunch too, but I feel much better when it’s over.

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