Know is said with an implicit threat. If he doesn’t do right by her, Michael, and by extension myself, will find ourselves on the wrong side of the Bianchi family.
Normally, I’d be bristling at the fool daring to threaten me, and thinking of all the ways I can make him realize his place in the pecking order, but right now, I let it go.
“Bianchi,” I say.
“Yes, Kon.” God, he’s a dick. I grind my teeth and swallow my pissed off rebuke.
Instead, I simply ask for his help. “I’ve been hit, my home, by the Armenians. I come to you because you need to know. You might not want Michael there. After all, his presence will be a threat for you and yours.”
I go with that angle. I’m hoping for two things with this approach. Firstly, I’ve expressed concern for him and his, over and above Michael’s safety, which is the only polite fucking thing to do in the circumstances, and the Italian mob are all about flowery manners.
Secondly, I’ve put it out there, implicitly, that he might not have the firepower if such a threat is turned against him. I’m betting he won’t want to back down and say so. I’m betting he will act the big man and tell me it’s no bother to a man like him.
“Thank you for coming to me with this information. This is very serious, and for such a legitimate businessman.” He sighs, and I want to pull his fucking teeth out with pliers. “However, Michael will be safe here, and I give him my protection.” He chuckles. “After all, he is the father of my soon-to-be born grandchild. My blood and your blood will be in that child.” Then he coughs, the fucker, as if he’s made a mistake. “Oh, sorry, not your blood, but you get what I mean.”
He’s fucking pushing it now. I swallow down any retorts, telling myself over and over that this is for Michael, and I’ll make this bastard pay for insulting me one day.
“I will make sure Michael is safe; on that you have my word. One thing, Kon. It would have been polite for you to come to me far sooner than this. Your son got my daughter pregnant, and we’ve not even met? This might be the way of the modern world in some cases, but it is not the way with us, with the Bianchi family. We are traditional.”
I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood as I grit out the next words. “I’m sorry, Bianchi, you’re right. It was rude of me. And thank you for so generously taking Michael under your wing.” I use his surname as a way of showing him, we’re not fucking friends.
“Well,” he says on a sigh, the pompous act dropped for a moment. “My daughter does love your son, and I believe the feeling is returned. All I want is for her to be happy, and I’m pleased she’s not marrying someone active in the same business as me; that wouldn’t do at all. You and me, we are one thing. Our children are another, no?”
“Quite,” I say. In total agreement with him.
“Your son tells me he wants to work in marketing, and this is a good career for him, well paid and respectable.”
“I agree. It is best they don’t go into the family business.”
“I’m so glad on this fundamental point we see eye to eye.”
“I’ve got to go. I have a seriously injured man.”
“Take care and keep me updated.”
I hang up without answering the fucking cheeky shit. Does he think he’s the boss of me? My God, the shit I have to put up with these days. Italians on one side. Armenians on the other. Liza and her fucking betrayal on another, and Allyov the last side. Christ, it’s like a rhombus of fuckheads, and I’m in the damn middle.
As I turn to walk inside to check on V and Derek, my phone vibrates. I glance at it impatiently, expecting to see Bianchi calling me back for hanging up on him, but it’s Andrius. Thank fuck.
I press the answer button and move away from the building entrance.
“Jesus fucking Christ, K, are you okay? I get back from my meeting with Allyov to find the house a war zone.”
I feel a lump in my throat at his familiar voice and have to swallow it down. “I’m fine,” I answer in Russian. “Vasily isn’t, though. He got hit, bad. Derek too, and they took Cassie.