Page 8 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
I’ll find it. Outside.
With that in mind, I duck into the smoking room, the thick scent of cigar smoke in the air, soaked into the leather.
The smell’s so familiar in that long-lost way that it slams me hard, my stomach roiling.
Dad used to smoke cigars with his colleagues. He used to joke that the only reason he got away with marrying an Italian nobody instead of a Russian princess was he provided a service no one else did and he never stepped on toes in the process.
I can still hear his laughter, and the black mark of near future death it contained for anyone who laughed a little too long and with too much sincerity.
Because I saw how he looked at Mama. His eyes softened. Shone, actually. And the one time she took me to that church when I was nine wasn’t out of fear for her life or to get away from Dad, but for my safety. She was scared for me.
Someone wanted Dad to open up his smuggling routes to them and threatened me.
One week later, they were found in the Hudson River with pieces missing.
I never set foot in that church again until one year ago.
Shit, I can’t go digging up past memories that make things too soft inside. I don’t need that. I don’t need anything but my promised legacy. But this room reminds me of Dad. And even of Mama when she’d sit on his lap and they’d kiss.
I clench my fists at my sides and take a deep breath. “Right. Back to business.” I look around at the familiar surroundings. I’ve been in this room before.
Dad and Elena would have drinks with Romanov inside these very walls. Iosif was comfortable enough to open the safe in front of them, which said a lot.
And I want that safe.
The room’s set up for later tonight, and with a thumping heart, I bypass the decanters of booze on display and the glassesof heavy plain crystal. I slide behind the big leather sofa and move the painting on the wall behind it. A safe sits in a cutout of the wall. It’s an old-fashioned one with a dial. But I approach with confidence, the combination no match to any safecracking skills I possess.
Mainly because I know the numbers. Romanov’s birthday, backward. I heard him joke about it. I even watched him turn that dial to each number. And when I do it, the door pops open.
I ignore the stacks of cash because it’s too crisp and I don’t like dealing in new money. Instead, I take some of the diamond necklaces, rings, and bracelets, stuffing them into my pocket. I need to pay a low-life motherfucker named Ruslan for some information later tonight, so my plan is to sell these to a fencer in exchange for the cash I need.
A Russian voice outside the room makes me freeze. No, two voices. One laughs.
There’s something about… fireworks?
My Russian’s as good as is my Italian, but the thick walls and door make it hard to hear clearly.
With a stilted breath, I twirl the dial, locking the safe. I slip the painting back into place and hurry to the booze, pouring a glass from the nearest decanter just as the door opens.
A man with graying hair and a condescending expression stares at me.
“Ava. Maybe we’ll make a real Russian out of you yet,” Iosif Romanov says with a heavy sigh. He waves a ringed hand at me. “Clean up, you have dirt on your face, you’re bleeding, and your lipstick is smeared.”
I’m not fooled by his amenable tone. Or his lack of curiosity. The man’s brutal, and one word could end my life. Not by death, but not all ends mean death. Marriage arranged by him would be an end. Never seeing Tatiana again would be an even worse end.
My head pounds as I march to the bathroom attached to the room and take a gulp of the liquor. I almost spit it out.
Vodka.
I despise vodka.
I put down the glass and wet a hand towel, cleaning up the bit of blood caked on my neck. There’s not much, as it was more of a nick than a cut, but a wave of anger rocks me as I wipe off my lipstick, smeared by that kiss. Then I clean the dirt off. Fury breathes with each beat inside my head, pushing at my skull, making it ache and scream.
I’m going to need to check outside for the crest, if I can do it without being noticed. That’s if Romanov and Assisi aren’t ripping apart the grounds because of the bombs.
For a moment, I grip the edge of the sink.
I risked everything for that crest. And now Romanov wants me in the fold, in his clutches.
