Page 16 of The Viper's Wife

We enter the city outskirts, the sun dying at our backs.

“My new fiancée’s daddy tried paying Roman Yezhov and four of his mercenaries to kill Salvatore and sow discord.” I tap the armrest with each syllable. “And now the current pakhan wants to prove to us he didn’t know about that whole business and let’s just put this whole thing behind us.”

Giovanni’s brows furrow. “Yes.” The seconds roll into minutes before he speaks again. “What would you do, as the pakhan?”

I would have every one of those Russian idiots slaughtered, the only punishment fitting for such a fucking failure. The only thing worse than working for the enemy is doing it badly.

I stare out the window, along the cold, dark streets speeding past.Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I would ask them very nicely not to do that again.”

He sighs. “Why do you think Salvatore is sending you to this meeting?”

“Because my dear brother couldn’t care less if we live or die.”

“Do you think he expects you to make a good impression?”

I snort. Not likely. “You think he wants me to fuck this up so he can start a fight with the Russians?”

I’m surprised. I had Salvatore pegged as a conservative type. I didn’t expect him to hold a petty grudge just because a handful of Russians tried one time to kill him, but that must be our father’s blood in his veins, hissing for retribution. That, or Giovanni’s trying to manipulate me into compliance.

“You need allies in Chicago. I can only do so much for you.”

“Touching.”

“The pakhan and your father have been friends for many years. He could be your friend, too.”

“Do you think he’ll invite me to a sleepover? I should’ve brought pajamas.”

Ding. Ding.Father has asked Giovanni to encourage me to network tonight, to shake hands and make backroom deals like a good little mobster.

Giovanni parks us in front of the Golden Apple hotel. He turns toward me, solemn as a judge. “Do you think,” he says slowly and clearly, “the Russians will be happy with your fiancée’s family for getting them into this mess?”

My fiancée. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the breathy moans she made as I sank into her tight heat. Still feel the slender curve of her jaw as I lifted her impassive face toward me a few days later. The simmering hate in her eyes. She’s clearly doing this to protect her family. I wonder how far I could push her before she’d snap.

I shrug. “Her mother and brother are useless, and her father is a shell of a man. I doubt the Russians are worried about the Acetos in the slightest.”

“The Russians already paid them a visit. Valeria’s momran a month ago—she is living in Quebec with her sister now.”

And left Valeria behind?

I hadn’t thought much of her mom missing at the family dinner the other night. No wonder Valeria was looking for a quick fuck that night of the party. She probably wanted to let out some steam if she thinks the Russians are breathing down her neck. The image of her sitting on her friend’s kitchen counter, nursing a single jello shot, flashes in my mind. She seemed so calm.

“One thing your father and the pakhan have in common is a long memory. Maybe he would have been satisfied with Aceto’s punishment before, but you have lifted his daughter to the level of a Matassa. And now all of Chicago will watch to see if you treat the Russians with respect or disdain. You are taking a wife, and that makes you a player, Nico. The pakhan will be willing to set the whole business of Aceto’s betrayal behind him if you play along. He will offer an open hand if you are willing to take it.”

An open hand and a blade behind his back. Anyone who’s willingly friends with my father is no stranger to scheming and backstabbing. Not exactly the type of company you want to surround yourself with.

The moment we step foot into the entrance to the hotel, we’re hit with flashing neon and gold lights and the rush ofpingsfrom slot machines. Giovanni must have been here before, because he seems to know his way as we snake through the hordes of people bent over their slots and the staff offering drinks to all.

I swipe a beer off a passing waitress’s tray and chug it to Giovanni’s quiet disapproval.

A pale man with black eyes kicks off a wall to join us. “Giovanni. Nicolo. Yevgeniy is happy you arrived. Come with me.”

We follow our new companion through the rat’s maze of gamblers and machines and stop before a nondescript elevator which he opens with the touch of a blank, white keycard.

“They call me Omari,” he says, tapping a button once we’re inside. The elevator display slowly drops from numbers to letters.

Omari is almost as tall as I am, with the cauliflower ears of a fighter, and deep, white scarring across his throat like the ghost of a garrote. He stands directly in front of the elevator door, heels together and hands clasped in front of him in a showy little display of a soldier’s at-ease position.