“I didn’t tell her.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t tell her? It’s her brother and her family. You need to tell her, Matty. He’s in Vegas. If you think he’s not gonna make an appearance, you’re crazy. And do you really wanna risk that he won’t bring a guest or two to the church tomorrow?” My eyes widen with alarm. “Fuck,” I mutter. “Yeah, you need to tell Heaven, bro.”
“Tell Heaven what?”
On cue, my sister-in-law bounces into the room, walking behind the desk and putting her arms around Matteo’s neck. “What’s up, babe? And please tell me it’s not about the caterers. I told Tommy I wanted a very specific menu and not to screw around with his little special twists.” She lets out a groan. “Why does it always have to be so difficult working with him? I mean, I get he’s a creative, but still!”
Matteo sighs. “Conor called.”
Heaven stops her rant-mid sentence, her green eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry, did I just hear that right? My asshole brother Conor called you?”
“There’s more. He’s here.”
“Here,” she repeats.
“Yeah, in Vegas.”
“In Vegas?” she shrieks.
Matteo scrubs a hand down the front of his face. “Are we really doing the whole parrot thing again?”
“Sorry,” she snaps. “But I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that my estranged brother called my husband to chat while he just happens to be here in the city where we live, the day before our daughter’s christening! What the fuck?”
“I know the timing is bad.”
“Bad?” she yells at him. “This is fucking horrendous! What does he want? Money? Drugs? Safe fucking harbor?”
I stand up from the chair and back away from them. Heaven is bordering on psycho bitch, for good reason yes, but I still want to get outta the line of fire. Because the flame torch is most definitely coming.
“He wants to see you. To talk.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to him!” she bellows, stalking past me and heading to the kitchen. She slams some cabinets and grabs a bottle of whiskey from one of them. Then she screws off the top and slugs from the bottle before glowering at Matteo again. “He’s not here out of the goodness of his heart because he doesn’t have one! So why do you think he’s here?”
Matteo looks at me. “It might be because he’s gotten tangled up with the Russians that Dante and Roman kicked out of Manhattan a few months ago.”
Heaven furrows her brow. “Kicked out of Manhattan?”
“Yeah, well, they were in our territory looking for trouble. And they didn’t like being asked to leave,” I say.
“For fuck’s sake! He’s with them?” She guzzles more of the whiskey and grimaces at us. “Anything else I need to know, guys? I mean, please, by all means, keep fucking piling on!”
“Dante fucked Anya,” Matteo says, stroking his chin.
Heaven whirls in my direction, clutching the neck of the bottle. I brace myself, ready to take the full impact of the bottle assault that I know is coming.
But instead of hurling it at my head, she smiles. “We’re going to come back to that later when I don’t want to throw my husband through a wall. But well done!”
“Well done,” Matteo scoffs. “Right against that damn window!” he exclaims.
Heaven shrugs. “Kinky but really, TMI.”
“Sex with the nanny is fine, but me trying to protect you from that lunatic is bad?” Matteo snaps.
Heaven stares him down. “You should have told me! We’re supposed to be a team!”
“He’s a psychopath!”
“I know!”
They stand toe to toe, glaring at each other when Aunt Maura wheels Aisling’s stroller into the foyer. “I’m just going to take her out for a little walk around the hotel and give you some space, okay?” She makes a dash for the door and I’m right on her heels.
“Guys, I’m getting the hell out of here because I’m honestly a little afraid for my life right now and there is lots of window fucking in my future. Aunt Maura has the right idea.” I smirk. “Don’t kill each other and leave the kid orphaned.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anya
I thank my Uber driver, Frank, and push open the door of his Toyota Prius, stepping onto the sidewalk. I narrow my eyes at the sign hanging to the right of the restaurant, take a deep breath, and pull open the door.
Artiste.
It’s new, exclusive, and right smack in the center of all the action on the Strip. There’s a rooftop bar with a separate entrance around the side of the building, and the line is around the corner.
This isn’t Uncle Boris’s type of place. He’d never plan a meeting at a hot spot like this. Too many curious eyes and ears all over the place. We’ve always kept a low profile. Being caught in the middle of the party means you have no ability to make a quick getaway.
And in our line of work, you need an escape route.
But if he picked this place, there must be a reason why. I nod at the tall, beefy bouncer standing right inside the doorway. His eyes barely acknowledge me in return and I shake my head. Places like this always seem to employ such condescending assholes, and I laugh at that because, hello! You’re a fucking bouncer!
I sigh as I walk toward the hostesses huddled over an iPad screen.
That was mean.
I bet outside of this place he’s a nice guy.
The hostesses look up at me with evident disgust when I approach, and I have to stop myself from digging into my handbag for a pen to gouge out their overly made-up raccoon eyes.
I force a fake smile. “Boris Antonov,” I say in a sickeningly sweet voice.
And as quickly as the judgment assaults me, it recedes along with the witch-bitch attitudes of these girls.
In fact, they can’t move fast enough to get me to a table tucked into a back corner of the restaurant.
At least he’s being somewhat discreet.
But I do have to wonder why I got such a reception from the hostesses.
Uncle Boris doesn’t exactly have sway or swagger. I mean, yes, he looks like a badass.
Tattooed, menacing, scarred.
But that doesn’t equate to power. Especially not in this town.
And it’s not like he has any name recognition. Vigo, on the other hand, if he were alive? He’d have people kissing his ass for sure.
But Boris Antonov is a soldier. A peon. A nobody in the organization.
So the hostesses’ reactions begs the question…
Who the fuck is the ‘somebody’ who obviously has them scurrying around like cockroaches?
Because I’d stake my life on the fact that it is not my uncle.
He stands up when he sees me walk toward the table and pulls out the chair next to him for me. I look at the setup.
Three places are set.
I quirk an eyebrow and take a quick look around, but we’re pretty much alone in this somewhat quiet and secluded corner.
The place to see and be seen has a spot to avoid being seen.
What in the hell are we even doing here?
I sit down and Uncle Boris pushes in my chair. A waiter appears almost instantly with a tray stocked with highball glasses of a clear liquid garnished with lime.
I smile.
Thank God because I really need a drink right about now.
Maybe that will help me figure out how to navigate this whole shit show.
“Anya,” he says, returning to his seat. “It is good to see you.”
I purse my lips, the sniggering little voice deep inside the recesses of my brain reminding me that I am a mere tool to him. I disregarded it for far too long, but this? Leaving me out here on my own with no direction, floundering around with no knowledge of what I’m supposed to do? Ignoring me for days on end because ‘business opportunities’ got in the way?
I killed a brigadier of the Volkov Bratva, dammit! For him! No questions asked!
I have done so much for him and I’m tired of being a doormat.