Page 95 of City Of Thieves
My journey for Nero originated in a hotel room in Atlantic City, and my bullet will be the conclusion when it exits Sal’s skull later. Right now, I’m returning to the place where I first saw the cracks in Tatiana’s icy demeanor—where I felt that first undeniable heat between us—but ours will have a very different type of closure, one that opens me up to the possibility of a life I never thought possible.
Kids were in Nero’s future, not mine. My late nights would be courtesy of fucking and fighting, not three a.m. wake-up cries and bottle feeds.
But I see the peace in having roots now.
There’s an amity to standing still.
By accident or design, everything comes back to family. It’s at the heart of all the shit that matters, and tonight I’m determined to make it the heart of me.
I can see Tatiana’s art gallery up ahead. There are no bright lights spilling out onto the street this time around and no moving shadows from a disengaged night guard. In front of the building, parked cars are splintered in every direction, reminding me of the limousines lined up outside Nero’s funeral. But, unlike that day, the sidewalks are dark and empty.
I’m only thirty feet out when my phone vibrates again.
Don’t look.
They’re futile words. I’m already shifting the painting I’m carrying to my left arm and reaching for my phone. As expected, there are three consecutive texts from Tatiana.
Where are you?
I know something’s wrong. I can feel it.
Please, Renzo. Just call me.
I can sense her panic in each message. It’s darkening the letters and dimming the backlight, but the only response I can give her is silence.
Muting ‘text alert’, I shove my phone back in my pocket as I reach the front door.
You wanted me, you Bratva bastard… Be careful what you wish for.
I don’t bother with the intercom. The night guard is dead, and the security is disabled. That would have been my first move, too.
My suspicions are confirmed when I find a man in uniform lying just behind his station with two bloody holes in his chest.
I check his pulse, but it’s game over.
As I rise to my feet, a car crawls past the gallery outside, its headlights slithering across the far wall. Ten seconds later, there’s another, and I know they’ll be a car positioned near the rear access, too.
Paulie’s men.
Just like we planned.
The lights are cut, but there’s a soft orange glow coming from the far end of the gallery. Pulling my gun out, I make my way toward it, fighting to keep my anger in check as I pass row after row of destruction. Everything Tatiana loves… Everything she proudly called her own is ruined. All the paintings have been slashed with knives. The rest are lying like color-stained carcasses on the floor, their canvases spoiled and worthless.
I sense the shadows moving in my peripheral vision again. I’m being tracked, monitored...studied.There are at least six of them hiding in dark corners, and there are explosive charges running along the lower parts of the wall.
Konstantin Belov has this whole place rigged to blow.
As I approach the entrance to the atrium, my shadows grow bolder to form a semi-circle of Bratva soldiers around me. I ignore them, but I don’t ignore their significance. It means I’m close to theirpakhan.
I find him standing where Tatiana stood that first night, observing the same painting—the only one in the gallery he hasn’t destroyed. His hands are held loose in his pants pockets, and his head is tilted to the side.
He’s taller than his brothers. More polished. His gray suit isn’t a careless addition, it’s the main event. His dark hair has been brushed back off his face, and his profile is sharp and straight—like the blade I’m planning to slit his throat with later.
“Put your gun away, Marchesi,” he calls out to me, still staring at the painting, his accent so heavy it’s dragging his voice down to a deeper octave. “We are all gentlemen here, are we not?”
“I disagree.” But I holster my weapon anyway. I’m packing three knives plus my fists, and they’re the deadliest weapons I own. “‘Gentle’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe myself.”
He gestures to the gray painting on the wall. “Did you know I bought this for her three years ago?” He turns to face me as I walk toward him, giving me the benefit of his vulturine features. “It is worth nothing, but it is interesting that it holds such a valued place in her gallery.”
