Page 8 of Bloody Savage God
“Sure I do, but it’s nothing like what Mellie makes.”
That part is hard to argue with. The woman knows how to make a mean meal.
Before we can joke around anymore, my father looks at me and asks, “Did everything go according to plan this afternoon?”
I glance at the capos, but decide this is something they can hear. Sometimes information is slow to trickle up the ranks, and if there is any word about Bratva activity on the streets that might explain Mikhail Tsepov’s presence at the country club today, I want to know about it.
“Benny got the message loud and clear, but when we drove off, I saw Mikhail Tsepov.” I let that piece of information hang in the air for a moment, the name having temporarily stunned everyone, including my father.
“As we drove off, he got out of a BMW with tinted windows. He definitely saw us drive off.”
“Cazzo!” My father’s curse comes out with the special kind of disgust he has reserved for the Bratva. “Why was he there?”
My eyes flit over to Uncle Mario, but he seems to be just as clueless as the rest of us.
“It could have been a coincidence. Ronaldo could have tried the same at one of the Russian clubs that he did at our game? Maybe Tsepov was there for the same reason we were,” Eric suggests, though I can see the doubt in his eyes. Benny left the club alone and Mikhail didn’t make an effort to approach him before he could drive off.
Of course, that could also mean he spotted us before and didn’t want to risk getting involved when it would have been two against one.
“The last thing I want to waste time on is dealing with the Russians right now.” My father sounds as frustrated as he always does when he’s reminded of their existence. “Did he see your face?” he asks me.
I shrug. “I can’t be sure.”
He contemplates me for a moment, before his features grow stern. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go out tonight.”
I have absolutely no intention of missing out on a night at Club Steel yet again, but I keep my thoughts to myself. Leonardo Bruno isn’t a man who allows anyone to question him in front of others. Or even in private. Being his daughter affords me some leeway, but even I know better than to push him when he gets that expression.
Plus, my visits to Club Steel aren’t something I like to draw attention to. Arguing now would do just that. It’s not like I would insist on heading out to any old bar with no good reason. If one thing is certain, it’s that Club Steel is anything but a normal bar.
On the other end of the table, my uncle clears his throat. “Gianna, dear, you know your father and I always have your best interest at heart. You do a fine job heading the real estate firm, but you need to know we wish to see you safe from some of the, shall we say, less pleasant aspects our family business requires.”
Uncle Mario never leaves out an opportunity to try and keep me away from anything old-school illegal the family does, which is ironic since my fancy white collar deals bring in more than the gambling dens he’s in charge of. Times are changing, but he is very much old generation mafia. My success and the amount of responsibility I’ve taken over in recent years has him in a snit, though he would never admit it.
Instead of coming straight from Italy, Uncle Mario spent his twenties in the States working his way up the ranks of the Cosa Nostra, before taking his place in our family’s organization in Toronto. As a result, his attitude is one of keeping women out of the business. It’s frustrating, and only made worse by the fact that he knows very well that I’m not only raking in more cash but could also easily take his fat ass in a physical confrontation.
Not that I would ever risk displeasing my father in that way. After Uncle Mario married my aunt Maria, my father and Mario developed a bond like real brothers. He’s been family since before I was born. He might not be blood related to us, but a marriage bond is the second strongest link, which means I have to be careful when challenging him.
I meet Eric’s eyes across the table. He knows just how much Uncle Mario’s comments get on my nerves, and he raises an eyebrow. Just slightly, but enough that I know what he is asking.
I shake my head. Not his battle.
Instead of listening, though, the idiot grins at me, before turning to some of the capos. “You should have seen the guy go down when Gianna stabbed him. It was a bloodbath.” He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s seen in a long time. Which, in Eric’s case, might actually be true. He’s kind of fucked up when it comes to this kind of stuff. Just one of his endearing qualities. And maybe it’s a family trait.
Turning to me, Eric asks, “You went for his liver, didn’t you?”
Despite being pissed he ignored my head-shake, I can’t help the little smile that plays on my lips, remembering the way my switchblade sank into the asshole’s guts. “Sure did.”
I can see Uncle Mario’s face turn grim, but the soldiers are eating it up. I get some admiring looks, which quickly stop when my father coughs. God forbid his adult daughter might attract a male.
Thank god he doesn’t know the half of it.
“My Gianna certainly knows how to deliver a message,” he agrees, his voice proud. It’s not quite enough to make up for the fact that it is Eric who stood up for me, showing how a man’s voice can get heard so much easier than that of a woman, even among the people supposedly closest to me.
Fucking hell.As if a dick is somehow a prerequisite for being useful.
“Risking any conflict with the Russians before we know what’s going on may bring more trouble to our doorstep than we are prepared for.” Uncle Mario’s voice cuts through the murmur of the soldiers.
Unfortunately, he’s probably right about that. Though I fail to see the connection to my evening plans.
