Page 31 of Bloody Savage God
My eyes are hard, though. A contrast to the soft waves of my au naturel mane. Courtesy of growing up in the mob. Courtesy of the grief.
I look away and quickly take a shower before pulling on the clothes I brought for the funeral. A simple black dress, pantyhose, and black stilettos. It’s as depressing to wear as the occasion demands, and I head into the main room, eager to distract myself.
Eric is already up and making some eggs. The toaster makes a noise, so I move over, grab a couple of plates and pull the hot bread out, handing them to Eric, who places the eggs on top.
“Morning,” he greets, giving me a once over. “You look like shit.”
I give him a hard look. “No need to rub it in.”
Today it’s important I don’t show the exhaustion I feel. All eyes will be on me, especially if my uncle has already started to play his hand.
“We’ll head out right after breakfast.” I don’t bother to ask where Eric went last night. He didn’t come back into the cottage until late at night, waking me when he walked into one of the guest bedrooms to go to sleep.
Eric nods. “Sounds good. Perhaps then you’ll tell me why the fuck you have a freaking BDSM dungeon out in the middle of nowhere?” His teasing tone is meant to distract me, but I’m in no mood to play that game right now, so my voice remains flat when I answer.
“It comes in handy for my current purposes.” Although I didn’t get anything useful out of Mikhail yet.
“Did the Russian spill anything?” Eric asks, as if reading my thoughts.
I shake my head. “He insists it wasn’t him or anyone in the Bratva associated with his family.”
Eric raises an eyebrow. “So what? He’s saying someone is setting him up?”
Obviously my cousin has put that together quickly himself. It’s the obvious alternative, and the questions Mikhail threw back at me yesterday continue to nag at the suspicions in my mind. If he’s being set up, then the people pushing me towards going after him might have real stakes in seeing Mikhail dead.
And Eric has been eager to get his hands on him.
“That’s what he says, anyway. That he’s being set up.”
We’re almost in downtown Toronto, driving to my father’s funeral, when Eric makes the offer I knew was about to come soon.
“I can take over Mikhail. Get a new pair of hands on the problem, if you will. Or get rid of him, if he turns out to be useless.”
“Maybe,” I allow, not really inclined to actually hand over Mikhail’s questioning, but not about to offend Eric right now. The closer we get to the church where my father’s last service will be held, the more the pressure of how much depends on the next few hours weighs on me. I’m used to being in charge, but I’ve never had to fight for that leadership. Not truly.
Now, it’s time for politics, and there is nothing I want to do less than that at the moment. I want to grieve, but instead I need to focus, because I can’t be sure I’m even safe here. Someone came after my father, which means I might very well be the next target, and I’m nowhere closer to figuring out who did it. There is only doubt and suspicion.
Mikhail Tsepov and his nagging questions need to stay out of my head, or he’ll distract me during a crucial point in my life.
More than he has already done.
Today may be my father’s funeral, but it’s also the first day I’ll be stepping into a room full oflafamiliaas their new leader. I need to channel that energy.Power, leadership, unwavering demand for loyalty.
Unfortunately, it might very well be a contested leadership. Not that I intend to allow that to last for very long. I was born to rule this family. My uncle merely married into it. At least today will go a long way in showing whether Uncle Mario will actually stand in my way.
Eric opens the door of his BMW, which we switched with the van before coming here. He takes my flank, scanning the area between the parking lot and the church’s side entrance. A few familiar people have gathered outside, smoking, but nothing seems out of order, so we make our way to the side door and step into the church.
“Gianna, please accept my most heartfelt condolences.” The priest greets me, taking my hand in both of his as he delivers his sympathies. My father has been good to this church, donating more than anyone else over the years, but the priest never gave me the impression he cared only because of the money. He seems to be genuinely concerned about his congregation, a character trait very few people I meet possess.
Perhaps that is something I need to keep in mind today. Loyalty can be demanded or earned. The real estate deals are something our soldiers know about, but perhaps there is a way to remind them how much they benefit from what I’m doing at Bruno Properties. Remind them I’m not just demanding their loyalty, but that I have been earning it for years by fueling our operation with cash and logistical opportunities to wash the money that pays for their food and needs.
We head into the church, and I take the first seat in the center aisle. A front-row seat to my father’s last rite.
The stained glass windows cast a colorful glow across the pews, illuminating the ornate carvings and intricate designs on the walls. The air is heavy with the scent of incense, and I can hear the soft rustle of robes as the altar boys move around, making whatever last minute preparations are necessary.
Eric sits down beside me, keeping me from having to sit next to Uncle Mario, who joins us a minute later, his expression as grim as I’ve ever seen it.
“Gianna, it is good to see you up and about.”
