Throne of Vengeance (Throne Duet #2) - Rina Kent Page 0,49

hard as granite. “It was the worst time in my family’s history. A stain of dishonor.”

“Your grandfather didn’t look for her?” Adrian asks.

“Of course he did. He turned New York upside fucking down and went on a killing spree where he murdered anyone who stood in his path, but the only things he could find were the tapes they sent. And do you know what those fuckers did next?”

“I assume they killed her?” Adrian speaks calmly, almost as if he’s sympathetic. He’s not; he’s just good at emulating the emotions needed for such situations.

“In cold fucking blood. When my grandfather finally succumbed to let them have their territories back, they said they would return her. That moment when she saw Nonno was the first time her expression changed. She sprinted in his direction, but the motherfuckers shot her in the back before she could reach him. They didn’t need the territories anymore. The sadistic fucks only wanted to inflict pain and break Nonno, which eventually happened, you know. After Nonna’s death, Nonno assassinated every last motherfucker he could find. He even went after them when they scattered all over Europe, but that turned him into a crazed dog who didn’t work or sleep. He survived on vengeance, and that eventually destroyed him. He couldn’t forgive himself for he was larger than the world, but he still couldn’t save his wife. A few years later, he shot himself in the head with the same bullet they shot Nonna with.”

“May they rest in peace,” Adrian says.

Nicolo nods, crushing his unfinished cigarette. “Point is, don’t underestimate that bunch of motherfuckers. They may not have much territory to speak of, but they don’t hesitate to fuck you up in ways you can’t survive.”

He’s speaking as if the Italians don’t go around kidnapping women for payment. The Russians would’ve done that too—if Rai let them. It’s the modus operandi of every crime ring since the beginning of time, but they still act victimized when they’re the target.

Pathetic.

Adrian pretends to sympathize with Nicolo, but he’s the biggest hypocrite. From the little information I’ve managed to gather about his closed-off life, he got his wife in a similar way. He’s the last person who should judge the Albanians’ methods when his are even more nefarious.

Adrian retrieves his phone and pauses at Kirill’s name flashing on his screen before he answers. “Volkov.”

I’m close enough to hear the gunshots through the phone.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Shouts in Russian and another very familiar language filter through.

“Motherfucker!” Kirill curses in Russian before he yells, “We’re under attack! Send backup!”

The line goes dead.

Adrian and I exchange a look as I feel the blood draining from my fucking face.

There’s no doubt about it. The other voices, the ones who are attacking them, were Albanians.

18

Rai

“This won’t do.” Damien checks his gun, then curses in Russian. He only has a few bullets left.

I’m not any better.

My gaze trails to Kirill, who’s firing over the car’s hood. The three of us are behind the vehicle, caught in the midst of a gun war that has lasted only a few minutes but feels longer.

I thought it would be the Irish, but it’s worse. Their Albanian allies have joined the war and they have absolutely no fear. They’d readily step into direct gunshots as long as it meant they killed their targets. Dedushka once told me that if a soldier dies, the Albanians’ leader honors him and makes sure his name goes down in the organization’s history in a reverent kind of way.

The ambush was smart. Not only did they get Damien, Kirill, and me together, they also got us without many guards. Since they greatly outnumber us, it’s easier for them to take us out now.

We have been trying to stall as much as possible before backup arrives.

“How much do you have left?” I ask Kirill.

“Five.” He fires a bullet, hitting an Albanian in the chest. “Four.”

“They keep multiplying like fucking cockroaches.” Damien kills two more, but the others continue approaching, using the cars as shields.

They probably know we will be out of ammunition soon so they don’t mind sacrificing a few soldiers to empty all our guns.

At this rate, our death is a matter of when, not if.

“Stop firing,” I tell them. “Try hiding more.”

“When I need your help to tell me how to shoot, I will ask for it,” Kirill says without looking at me.

He’s distracted, gaze straying to Aleksander, who’s a car ahead with Damien’s senior guard. They, and a few other soldiers, work as our