by Shandi Boyes
“If you want my help, you’ll need to come back with over thirty thousand in uncut coke and a less bitchy attitude.”
Theresa attempts to fire something back, but I’m out the door before a syllable leaves her mouth, and even quicker than that, I make my next move. “Call Mikhail. If a Russian so much as schedules a flight out of Vegas, I want to know about it.”
Confident Smith is always listening, I make my way to the room I share with Roxanne, eager to award her earlier submissiveness in a way that will have her eating out of the palm of my hand even quicker than Theresa organizes a raid of Ravenshoe PD’s evidence vault.
Twelve
Roxanne
I curse at the soap as if it’s my whining libido when it slips from my grip for the second time the past two minutes. It’s acting as if Dimitri’s threatened slap hours ago would get me off as well as his teeth tugging on my clit. I should have been scared he was acting so violent. However, all I felt was excitement.
In a weird way, it felt like he was protecting me, like his shift in personality was solely reliant on the unexpected arrival of his father. I even got that vibe from Smith when he guided me through Dimitri’s residence, so I’d avoid walking down the hallway Dimitri dragged his father down only seconds earlier.
I stop seeking snippets of clarity in an insane world when the faintest hum of multiple engines warming up breaks through the madness swamping me. Before his father interrupted us, Dimitri gave me permission to attend the second search of my grandparents’ ranch today. Wailing libido or not, I’m not going to miss it for anything.
After shutting off the faucet, I scrub my skin dry with a towel, twist another around my midsection, then race into the main part of my room. My pace slows to that of a snail when a gleaming device catches my eye. It isn’t the prototype laptop Smith loaned me when I offered to help him keep things afloat while Dimitri recovered from having his drink spiked. Nor is it the ring I tossed at my mother when I realized she was responsible for my unexpected inheritance. It’s my cell phone.
My heart launches into my throat when it suddenly commences ringing. It vibrates across the nightstand to the ringtone I set for Estelle’s number, wordlessly urging me to pick it up.
I almost fall for his trick until I realize what’s happening. I’m proud of how well I sucked Dimitri’s cock, but even if I had sucked the marrow from his bones, I don’t believe he’d award me two offerings in one day. This is a test, I’m certain of it. If I answer Estelle’s call, the SUVs I hear idling at the front of his compound will leave without me. If I leave her call unanswered, I further my proof I’m on Dimitri’s side.
It sucks that he needs to be constantly reassured, but it’s also understandable. I heard the tone Dimitri’s father used on him in the hallway. He doesn’t love his son. I’m not even sure if he likes him.
With that in mind, I send a telepathic message to Estelle that I’ll buzz her as soon as possible before I continue my sprint for the walk-in closet. Since my time is limited, I throw on the first dress I see. It’s more suitable for a nightclub crawl than a daytime hike through overgrown fields, but I act ignorant to the fact.
Once I have on a pair of shoes and have thrown my hair into a messy bun, I hotfoot it to the door.
“Smith?” I query when my attempt to open my door is thwarted by a trusty lock.
“Smith,” I try again after unsuccessfully rattling the lock three times.
It feels like I’m thrust into a mean, demoralizing game I’ll never win when a churlish voice asks, “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”
I peer at the camera in the corner of the room before shaking my head. I can’t testify that Dimitri is watching me, but it feels as if he is.
It dawns on me that I’m on the money when his thick Italian voice asks, “Why not? Estelle hasn’t heard from you in almost two weeks. I’m sure she’s getting worried.”
Air whooshes out of the speakers when I say, “I’m sure she is, but I don’t want to fail your test.”
“Who said I’m testing you?” The way Dimitri speaks freely down the line assures me he’s the only one listening in. He is close with Rocco and Smith, but I doubt even they truly know how many layers he has. “Perhaps I’m trying to stop you from getting hurt.”
“You can protect me better in person than you ever could locking me away.”
I’m hoping my confession will have him deliberating for a minute.
He doesn’t even give it a second.
“Although I appreciate your confidence, I disagree, and that’s why I’m going back on my earlier offer. You’re to stay in your room until I permit you to leave. Do you understand?”
“No,” I say with a brutal shake of my head. “I did as you asked. I proved I’m on your side.”
I push down on the door handle for the fifth time. It fails to budge just as much as Dimitri’s domineering personality.
“Dimitri!”
I bang on the door three times, confident the lack of static above my head means he’s no longer listening to me but unwilling to give up. He’s not being fair, and I’m about ready to call him out on it.
“You’re not thinking rationally! I passed your test. I’m on your side!”
I continue screaming until the hum of a fleet of top-of-the-line SUVs stops buzzing in my ears, and the debilitating silence surrounding me stretches to days.
Thirteen
Dimitri
I glare at Rocco as if he’s standing directly in front of me instead of peering at me through the camera propped above Roxanne’s door. “Make her eat.”
He places down Roxanne’s untouched breakfast onto a side table in the hallway before asking, “And exactly how would you like me to do that, D? Ram the bacon down her throat.”
“If that’s the only way you can get her to fucking eat, then yeah, ram it down her throat.” I lower my voice a few decibels when my roar gains me the attention of a handful of staff at Petretti’s restaurant. I’m hiding out like a coward, pretending its business as usual even with it feeling anything but.
Our second search of Roxanne’s grandparents’ estate found bodies. No, you didn’t hear me wrong. I said bodies as in multiple victims. Although preliminary findings lead us to believe the decomposition of the female bodies points to them being buried quite a few years ago, I know for a fact you can alter the decay of a corpse to make aliases more concrete.
It’s a little hard to pin a murder on someone when the victim supposedly died while you were in another country. Add that knowledge to the fact several victims were in their final months of pregnancy, and Fien’s ransom request arriving a week earlier than usual, for triple the amount, and you’ve got me with a ton of attitude I could easily take it out on the wrong person. Since I don’t want that person to be Roxanne, I need to maintain distance between us.
I said her mother’s verdict would be her choice, that I wouldn’t kill her until she gave me permission. I don’t see me keeping my word if I discover her mother buried my wife on her family ranch, then lied about it. I gave Sailor plenty of chances to come clean, so she will lose more than an ability to lie if I find out she has played me for a fool.
As if the above matters aren’t enough to make my mood the sourest it’s ever been, I looked into Theresa’s claim my father got friendly with a Russian enemy’s wife. I want to report that her claims are as bogus as my oath she gives good head, but that would make me as deceitful as her.
Nikolai isn’t Vladimir Popov’s son. That doesn’t automatically make him a Petretti, but his markings most certainly do.
He has icy blue eyes—just like me.
He has the makings of a madman—just like me.
And he hates his father with every fiber of his being—just. Like. Me.
If traits replicated genes, our similarities would automatically make us comrades. Alas, the fact we could be related won’t do Nikolai any favors. If anything, it will make matters worse. I’m not giving up my throne for anyone, muc
h less a Russian. I’d send every member of my family to the grave before I’d ever let our sanction be run by a Russian. The Petretti name isn’t what it once was, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Honor comes in many forms. The past is just one of them.
While scrubbing at the scruffy beard I haven’t trimmed in almost a week, I recall the reason for the extra heat in my veins. It has nothing to do with a hotheaded Russian and everything to do with a mixed-bred American who pushes my buttons like no one else.
Roxanne hasn’t eaten in days. If she doesn’t soon, there won’t be anything left of her. Usually, I don’t give a fuck about anyone but Fien and myself. This, however, is rubbing me the wrong way. Roxanne is tiny. Her body isn’t built to withstand a weeklong hunger strike. She’s already looking sick, and it has me taking drastic measures—measures I usually wouldn’t hesitate to use.
“Threaten her.”
Rocco’s eyes snap to the camera before he shakes his head. He wouldn’t be standing outside Roxanne’s room unattended if I weren’t desperate, so I don’t know why he’s acting surprised by my request.
“Do you want her to eat?”
He makes a ‘duh’ face before rolling his eyes like he isn’t tatted to the hilt.
“Then threaten her.”
“I’m not fucking threatening her, D. That shit is above my paygrade.” I’m about to remind him exactly how well-off he is because of me. Sadly, I don’t just recall he doesn’t give a fuck about money, he reminds me that he isn’t here solely for his hip pocket. “If you want to hold a woman captive like your daughter, you gonna need to do that shit yourself.”
Stealing my chance to reply, he tosses Roxanne’s breakfast into the camera before hot-footing it down the corridor. I could let his temper tantrum slide, but as I said earlier, I’ve got too much anger bubbling in my veins. If I don’t release some of it soon, I’m going to explode.
“Smith…”
His instant reply reveals he witnessed the exchange between Rocco and me. “You know he wouldn’t be so hard on you if you told him the truth.”
I scoff like I don’t have a dick between my legs. “If you believe that, you don’t know Rocco.”
Air whizzes out of his nose, but he fails to cite an objection, proving I’m right. Rocco might back down for a second or two, but the instant his head is screwed back on straight, he’d be right back up in my face causing trouble like he always does.
With that in mind, I say to Smith, “I need you to send Clover on an errand for me…”
My words trail off when a disturbance in the main part of the restaurant captures my attention. Considering we’re still a few hours from the lunch rush, I’m shocked when it sounds like someone getting into a scuffle. The clientele get feisty when someone takes the last dish of risotto, but it’s never had this edge of excitement attached to it before.
“I’ll send you the deets. Make it quick. This is a matter of utmost importance.” Smith gasps like he’s insulted I insinuated he’d ever slack off, but before he can voice his annoyance, I add, “Buzz me when Clover is ready. I want to be in charge of comms.”
He hums out an agreeing noise before disconnecting our feed. Just as quickly, I punch out the details on the errand I want Clover to run.
I’ve only just hit send on my email app when the raised voice of one of my father’s goons booms into my ears, “I’m his exterminator.”
I make it to the entrance of the kitchen in just enough time to see a fool make a costly mistake. Brandon James, one of Tobias’s highest-ranked foot soldiers, mutters out a string of unintelligible words before he jabs the edge of his palm into Don’s throat.
His maneuverer is effective, but it would have been more impressive if he disarmed Don’s sidekick first. He’s up in Brandon’s business in an instant, aiming his gun at the crease between his blond brows as if Brandon doesn’t have a direct kill lined up.
With my mitts needing to remain off Roxanne, and my every move monitored by my father, my wish to kill is the strongest it’s been. I should step back and watch the carnage unfold with a smile. Regrettably, I owe Tobias a heap of favors he can never cash in, so it sees me offering leniency—just.
“Standdown.” Disappointment echoes in my low tone. I don’t know Brandon, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate him. He and his gun-toting law enforcement friends are what’s wrong with society these days. Rules make everything worse—starting at my inability to kill my father because that pathetic, insolent man is the rule-maker of my realm.
When my direct order is ignored, I get inventive. “Should I remind you what happened to the last man who ignored me? Or would you like me to show you, instead?”
Since my threat was delivered in Italian, Brandon does nothing but smile when my father’s goons immediately lower their guns. After assisting a third passed-out man off the floor, they race for the safety of the parking lot.
While watching their dash for freedom, Brandon unclips the magazine from the gun he yanked out of the back of Don’s pants, unloads the bullets onto the floor, places the disarmed weapon onto the hostess’s podium, then wipes it clean. Although I’m impressed he’s distrusting enough to remove his fingerprints from a gun the Feds would love to get their hands on, the brainless blonde manning the hostess section of the restaurant reveals why blondes are given so much shit.
She stares at the gun Brandon placed down, too feared to touch it, yet somehow turned on by the thought. Her mixed emotions have my thoughts immediately shifting to Roxanne. I want to say it’s a good shift, but like anything the past few days, I couldn’t be so lucky.
“Go!” My shouted word scarcely reaches the other side of the restaurant when the blonde sprints for the exit even quicker than her big, burly counterparts.
Once she’s out of eyesight, I drift my eyes to Brandon. He looks smug. Shows how fucking stupid he is. “You’re an idiot showing up like this unannounced. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“By whom?” He follows me into the kitchen, his strut way too haughty for my liking. I discover the reason behind his peacock walk when he jabs me with a below-the-belt hit. “By you? Or the man you’re sheltering after sending every one of your siblings to their deaths?”
Fighting the urge not to slit his throat with the ladle in my hand, I spoon a helping of Malloreddus into the bowl on my left before gesturing with my head for him to sit in the chair across from me. Although my father has returned from New York, I’m not worried about him walking in on our conversation. He uses the Feds to his advantage—just like me.
With the knowledge I’m more like my father than hoped, I drag the ladle across the bottom of the saucepan as if I’m scraping out my father’s insides while saying, “I don’t protect my father. You’re well aware of that.”
Brandon dips his chin, mindful I’d kill him for anything less than an agreeing gesture. “Have you been back long?”
My lips itch to lift into a smile, but I hold back the urge. I had wondered how closely I was being monitored by the Bureau after Tobias’s death. Now I know it’s more than an occasional glance. The months I spent in Italy weren’t widely broadcasted. The family didn’t want to risk an attack if our enemies became aware one of the main players were abroad, so we kept it on the down-low.
After setting down a bowl of Malloreddus in front of Brandon, I give him a stern look. “I flew in early last month. The Bureau is unaware of my return. I’d like to keep it that way.” My tone reveals I’m not suggesting for this to happen, I am warning him it better occur.
Even being close to a second bender in under a month, my glare has the effect I’m aiming for. “Your secret is safe with me, although I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”
I’m not a fan of being interrogated, especially when the questions are being asked by a federal agent, but I jerk up my chin, mindful of how these things work. The more I scratch Brandon’s back, the less itchy mine will be.
Unless I get hives, which is what hits me when Bran
don asks, “Were you aware CJ was participating in your father’s underground fighting circuit?”
After stabbing my fork into my meal with enough aggression for his throat to work hard to swallow, I answer, “I had a feeling a few months before I discovered it the hard way.” Brandon isn’t the only one shocked by the honesty in my tone. I’m blown away by it as well. “CJ was a good fighter. He was also willing to do anything to get into our father’s good graces, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
Once again, I’m being straight-up honest. CJ had world-class skills. He just wasn’t in charge of his battles. That day, Isaac walked away with the champion’s belt. If CJ hadn’t given up on life, he could have claimed victory on their next bout.
Brandon gives me a sympathetic look. It makes me hate him even more. I loathe people who feel sorry for me without having the faintest clue my biggest battle is also my most unknown. It’s kind of like depression. Just because you can’t see the illness eating you away doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It’s there, gnawing at you for every second of every day. You’ve just got to be stronger than it.
My thoughts shift from the present to the past when Brandon asks, “Were you aware Isaac Holt fought under your father?”
It’s the fight of his life not to scowl when I say, “Who?” I could add more authenticity to my lie, but I can’t be fucked. I’ve hardly slept the past four days, and I don’t have the energy for theatrics.
“Isaac Holt.” Brandon shovels a forkful of food into his mouth like he’s been on a hunger strike as long as Roxanne before he pulls a photograph out of the pocket of his swanky trousers. The shoddy pixilation from being zoomed in reveals it’s an image from an FBI file, much less its markings. It has ‘confidential’ stamped all over it. “This was obtained at an event your father organized.”
