Page 85 of His Kidnapped Queen
Time goes by a little quicker than usual since I have Diego and the television to distract me. We watch a bunch of period films and when Diego gets teary eyed during one of them, I don’t even tease him.
But as the hours start to pass, my dream seems more and more real to me.
“Should you call? Check on him?”
Diego rolls his eyes. “You want me to call and check on mycaputo?”
“Just to make sure he’s okay,” I plead, and Diego just stares at me.
“He’ll be fine. This is what he does.”
“But not usually himself!” I argue. It’s dangerous, moving differently like that. If he usually sends lackeys to do the work, showing up himself…
It says something to the mob at large. It says he can’t trust his men.
From the look on Diego’s face, I know that he knows that, too. He’s just as worried as I am.
“Tell me more about when you two were young.”
“He had these big dreams,” Diego mutters. “Wanted to travel. Get out of this life. Meet someone. Settle down. He always wanted kids.”
“Kids?”
My heart aches. He used to want a different life. He didn’t want to be stuck under his father’s thumb forever.
“Yeah, always said he wanted a houseful. We always laughed it off, but he was serious. Dated a couple girls in high school, but nothing ever stuck.” Diego sighs. “His father was always on his back, you know, and it just got worse after his mother died. Luca had to take over everything, including caring for Nico.”
“How old was Nico when their mother died?”
“Five, six?” Diego winces. “It wasn’t the best situation.”
So Luca hasn’t just been cleaning up after Nico for the past few years. He’s been doing it for his whole life. No wonder the two have always been at odds.
Learning more about Luca might have been a mistake, because now some part of me aches for that man he wanted to grow into. A family man.
I just pray he gets back safe.
24
LUCA
I don’t usually do the collecting myself. In fact, I never have, so this is all new to me. There’s a Bratva restaurant we provide some protection for, and I go there first, craving pierogies.
Natasha, the woman who owns the restaurant, looks at me with wide dark eyes when I enter the building. She ushers me over to a table near the window, returning with a glass of water and a stack of bills that she presses into my hand.
“Is everything alright?” she asks in heavily accented English.
“Of course, Natasha,” I say easily in Russian, and her shoulders relax. “Just wanted to do the collecting myself this quarter.”
She puts a finger to her nose and winks at me. “Keep your enemies close.”
“Something like that.”
She brings a basket of pierogies to the table and I eat ravenously. It’s been a while since I’ve sat down with a homecooked meal.
“My brother says you have problem,” she says, sliding into the booth across from me. “That you are not able to trust your men.”
I frown. “Sergei told you this?”
