up off her neck, trying to cool herself down, whereas Danika spread her arms wide, but with too much energy, and ended up toppling to the ground.
“At least it’s cool on the grass,” she muttered when I helped her up.
I held back as they went towards the cars.
Elena turned around, eyes sharp. “You’re not coming with us?”
“No. I have to make a phone call.”
Understanding smoothed her expression. “Good luck,” she muttered.
Good luck, indeed.
I stood on the edge of the pier, overlooking the Narrows. In the distance, the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge loomed, loud with honks and yells as New Yorkers tried to navigate the tumultuous traffic.
I felt my men behind me, ready for any threat.
But they couldn’t protect me from a phone call.
After four rings, the smooth Italian-American accented voice greeted me. “Konstantin Tarkhanov,” he greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Giovanni Vigliano was the lord of the Maine coast. If there was an import or export into the Northeast, Vigliano knew about it—and had probably allowed it. His ability to move drugs, firearms and other merchandise was highly coveted, and he was happy to do so, for a price. We’d only had a few dealings so far, but we would have more as my empire expanded.
Or if he decided to take some of New York.
He was one of Lorenzo Vigliano’s bastards, and the only who dared to claim his father’s name, despite having no real birthright. Being illegitimate had meant he was cut out of the family’s fortune when Lorenzo died, but I doubted Vigliano cared. He had more money and power than any of his legitimate half-siblings.
“I’m afraid I bring bad news,” I said, matching his domineering tone with my own.
“Oh?”
“As you know, Edward Ainsworth is currently in our care,” I stated. “My people have been working him day and night. They have pulled the name of his next victim out of him.”
Giovanni was deathly silent on the other end of the phone.
“He named your daughter, Marzia Vigliano, as the next target.”
“Is that so?” he said coldly.
“He mentioned drowning but seems a little hazy on the facts. As most of those who have undergone torture are, you understand.” My tone made it clear what I thought about Edward Ainsworth: soft, weak, unable to bear torture.
“And I am supposed to believe you?”
I smiled faintly. Suspicion and paranoia were the traits of a mafia boss, which I was sure Vigliano would one day be. Those who grew complacent found themselves dead very quickly. But my smile faded as I said, “We have already lost one child because of these killings. Our world is a bloody one, but we do not kill children.”
“No.” Giovanni’s tone was firm. “We do not.” But we kill everyone else, went unspoken.
Silence settled over us both.
Wind whistled over the Narrows, waves growing larger and stronger.
“Rumor has it you have set your sights on New York, Giovanni,” I said.
“Rumors have a habit of being correct,” he replied.
I laughed softly. “Indeed, they do. But I do hope your arrogance doesn’t exceed your power. I find myself lacking patience for such men.”
Giovanni made a noise of agreement. “As do I.”
I knew before confirmation that it would be Vitale Lombardi who Giovanni would target. The Chens, Ó Fiaichs and Ishidas were still powerful, too prominent, but the Lombardis had been growing weaker—especially since their closest allies, the Falcones, had been eradicated.
It would be interesting to see if the Lombardi family accepted bastard-born Giovanni Vigliano.
Judging on how he reigned over Maine, he would be a formidable Don, but a Don wasn’t just one man. Without the support of his men and women, he wouldn’t last very long.
“If Ainsworth says anything else about your daughter, you will be informed.”
We said our goodbyes, more foreboding threats than well-wishes.
When I returned to the estate, Elena was stretched out on the front lawn, book in hand. She wasn’t alone; Anton ran around the grass, kicking a ball, joined by one of the friendlier but smaller puppies. Every now and then, she would lift her head to check on him before going back to her book.
The grass crunching beneath my feet alerted her to my presence.
“So, Giovanni didn’t send a drone to kill you,” she said. “Pity.”
I smiled and crouched down beside her. Anton waved to me. “I couldn’t very well die and miss you babysitting. Aren’t you meant to play with the child?”
“Tatiana is overtired,” Elena said, tone implying I was an idiot. “The baby is exhausting her.”