Page 15 of Thorns of Blood
“Must be this younger generation,” I muttered.
“They scurry away like rodents when it comes to taking responsibility. But start a fight and they’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
That got our siblings into a heated discussion as the two of us leaned back into a chair, watching it all with amusement.
“So you’re seriously going after Liana Volkov?” Declan questioned while our siblings argued.
I lifted a shoulder. “Got nothing better to do.”
He snorted. “I bet. But a word of caution?”
I titled my head in his direction. “Yeah?”
“No child of Sofia Volkov is to be underestimated.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugged. “We’re Irish. Liana Volkov’s father was Irish. What can I say? We drink Guinness, and we talk.”
I let out a laugh. “I didn’t take you for a Guinness kind of guy.”
“I’m not,” Declan muttered under his breath. “But I do like the talking part. It’s the best way to get the latest on operations and, in a lot of cases, blackmail fodder.”
“And what’ve you got?”
He shot me a grim look. “Liana might be crazier and more cruel than her mother ever was.”
My jaw ticked.
Yeah, he might not be far off.
It wasn’t a mystery—to those of us who liked to keep tabs on members of other criminal organizations, at least—that Liana Volkov had been subjected to intense training under her mother’s thumb. She grew up surrounded by killers and man-made psychos, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice. Maybe the woman had simply done what it took to survive. If she survived.
I could never describe the mix of innocence and darkness in her eyes that’d captivated my attention from the moment I laid eyes on her. Or maybe I was just a blind motherfucker who had an unhealthy fascination with the woman.
My lips curled slightly as I remembered the woman who knocked her groomsman unconscious. I hadn’t seen Liana since, but a part of me was excited by the prospect of seeing her again.
Assuming she was indeed alive.
SIX
GIOVANNI
Aweek later, I was bouncing around the back seat of an SUV in the middle of the Brazilian jungle.
Kian Cortes was one reclusive motherfucker who seemed to thrive in one of the world’s hottest and most dangerous climates. It was the only explanation I could think of for meeting him on the edge of the fucking Amazon, surrounded by wild animals, insects, reptiles, and God knew what else.
Sweat collected on my brow as we spilled out of the black Jeep that had picked me up from the airport and drove me through Manaus to the outskirts of the city. It was where the Cortes compound was rumored to be, but after hours of driving through the dirt roads, I’d just begun to wonder if the driver planned to dispose of me in the jungle when he cranked the hand brake and nodded toward one of the largest compounds I had ever seen.
There was a vast ocean of green on the eastern side and wild jungle brush to the west, each stretching as far as the eye could see.
Kian Cortes had taken over this compound a year back when he assisted Amon Leone in retrieving his wife. After Amon, Kian, and their friends had successfully saved Reina Romero and other women being held here through the Marabella Agreements and other fucked up deals, Kian leveled the compound and rebuilt it.
“Follow me.” The driver, a tall, slim guy, led me up the curved concrete pavement surrounded by climbing trellises full of tropical flowers on both sides.
It was difficult to reconcile the carefully tended landscape and happily chirping birds with a place where misery and pain once ruled.
I had yet to cross paths with Kian Cortes, despite his alliance with the Omertà, and many others in the underworld and legitimate world alike.
