pairs of headlights parted the darkness between us and the entrance to the abandoned compound.
Lucky snorted. “Too late. You can deal with the fallout from Jo later, man. I’m not touching that shit.”
All congrats and speculation about Joanna as a mom was cut short as the newcomers rolled toward us. The time for talking was over.
Three ridiculously flashy Ferraris drove closer, flanking a . . . a fucking limousine?
Did this don think he was in a presidential parade or something? All he needed was the green, white, and red flags on the hood to make it officially stupid.
As the Sicilians pulled up, I stood at the forefront with Grigor and my soldiers.
Then the Irish with their posse of hard-asses slowly fanned out behind me.
Our force was strong and not to be messed with.
Russian and Irish.
Probably not the wildcards the Italians had in mind.
Fingers closed over the butt of my Sig, I scanned the group that emerged from the cars while I tallied the true worth of the artillery loaded in the back of my vans.
I’d never met these specific Italians. Wasn’t sure if I was inclined to do business with them.
Those prickles from earlier coalesced into fingers of foreboding when one sole man stood apart in the background. It was as if he didn’t want to be seen.
I remembered every single word Augustu had spoken to Lucia’s father about the trade with the fresh-off-the-boat Italians. Now I was almost certain I’d been brought here to do business with the Sicilian sukas aligned with Don Marco Leone.
One man in a beige linen suit—as if he were vacationing in the Mediterranean instead of bringing big bucks to a gun deal—marched forward.
He toted a leather briefcase locked around one wrist. “We would like to see the weapons.”
“Fuck that. Money first.”
The older one hanging back said something in Italian, and his Sicilian mouthpiece answered, “He wants to see money first, Don Sabato.”
Blyad. Sabato.
This was exactly the position I didn’t want to be put in.
I stalked forward, fully aware of all the hardware clocking every single one of my steps. I knew without looking my men covered me too although I heard Lucky grumbling behind me.
Four of the Italians formed a barricade around this Sabato.
“Who are you?” I forced the words out through tight lips, addressing the off-limits man.
One beefy fucker intercepted me. “You do not address him directly.”
“Like hell I don’t.” I barged past him, palming my gun.
I drew level with the elderly Italian and held my firearm at my side. Now that I was close enough, I saw this man—the don—was old enough to be Lucia’s father.
An air of decrepitude hung around him like a moldy shroud. His shoulders curved inward with frailty. Large prominent veins pulsed under the thin skin of his hands.
Make that Lucia’s grandfather.
He leaned on a cane, rasping out, “Sabato Rossi, Arkady Krasnov.”
I narrowed my eyes on his spindly frame. The pieces jig-sawed together into a bigger picture, and I didn’t like what I saw at all. Two Sicilian families joining together with Lucia to be traded as the lynchpin.
This was the one then. The man who sought to snap up my prisoner as his bedmate, wife, or slave.
Another of his grunts muscled up to me, but I shouldered him away.
The old man laughed murkily, saying something in Italian.
Then he beckoned me closer with two knuckle-boned fingers.
When I stood directly in front of him, he said stiltedly, “Old country. Russian.” He pointed at me then at himself. “Old country. Italian.”
Old was just about the only thing he got right about himself.
And we had nothing in common except one woman apparently, and she belonged to me.
“What exactly is your business in Boston?”
He spoke in more froggy-voiced Italian, which was translated to me:
“Don Sabato says only in the States for the week to”—the translator brought his two hands together, twining his fingers—“merge families. Wedding.”
Outwardly, I remained cool. Inwardly, I lit up like a Russian firework.
No way was I dealing with these pompous pricks.
This bunch of Sicilian twats wanted my guns so they could fortify themselves against me, the man they didn’t know was in full possession of the mafia heiress?
Not happening. No one else, certainly not the ancient asshole standing right in front of me, was getting his hands on my prized possession.
I played nice, pretending I was in agreement with the terms, then marched toward the vans. I slid one meaningful glance to Grigor—he’d come on by leaps and bounds since his first introduction to the Zolotov Bratva—and he silently