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He sweeps a hand around the room. “Do you really choose to be a dutiful wife to Ivan Romanov? To accept your lot?”
I feel sweat break out on my forehead. “I have to. What choice do I have?”
Brodie slips a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and presses it into my hand. “Your husband will be home soon. I will give you a few minutes to read it over, but I need it back.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him, and I hear the lock click. I open the note—my hand trembles.
It’s from Rowan. Tears well up in my eyes as I read the words from my friend.
Vivi—
When I figured out you were to be wed to Romanov, my heart broke for you. Love, we can help you. You’re not alone. Please don’t let that horrible man break your beautiful spirit. We’ll be there soon. Be strong,
Ro
She doesn’t understand. I touch the signature at the bottom of the page, struggling to hold the tears back. I can’t cry. Not now, not when Ivan might be returning at any moment.
The door opens without preamble, and Brodie reappears carrying a tea tray. He sets it on the side table and wordlessly holds out a hand. I hand the note back to him, unwilling to part with something that carries Rowan’s strength and love.
Our timing is impeccable, as it happens.
Brodie barely has the note cupped in his palm when Ivan appears in the doorway. He’s clean of blood, but I see the lust in his eyes when I meet his gaze.
“Go,” he says, one hand moving to tug at his belt.
Brodie bows his head and leaves me alone with the Butcher.
Chapter 4
Ivan
Condensation collects on theoutside of my lowball glass. I watch the water droplets gather and slide down, forming a small pool on the wooden surface of the table. The mess stirs a need within me to clean it up, to maintain control over this small piece of the world.
But I resist. In places like this, the Bastoni e Pietre, men like me are constantly watched—even if it is supposed to be neutral territory. Wiping up a bit of moisture could be perceived as an act of nervousness—an act of weakness. I can't afford that.
A coaster should have been placed beneath my glass but as I glance around the room, I see none of the other patrons have coasters, either. I wasn’t singled out. My brain flicks quickly as I continue my study of the room.
I spend every waking moment aware of every single person around me, waiting for an opportunity, an opening to take awayeverything I've built. I can feel their eyes on me, even when they pretend to be engaged in their own casual conversations at other tables. Their glances are quick, almost imperceptible, but I don’t miss them. That’s what has kept me alive for so long. Never letting my guard down, never assuming anyone is loyal; knowing that everything and everyone is a threat, and they always will be.
Enzo Scarpetta emergers from the deep shadows at the back of the door—earlier than the agreed-upon time, but I knew this would be his move. Enzo had asked me to come here at a specified time. Naturally paranoid, I arrived earlier, and he would have anticipated that. The game is easy to predict; harder to play.
Neither of us can afford to be careless. Although it’s forbidden to war within the walls of the Bastoni, nothing is preventing Azrael from breaking that rule.
Enzo takes the seat on the other side of the table. "Ivan," he says with a nod, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of emotion.
"Enzo," I reply, keeping my expression neutral. The tension between us is palpable. Around us, the murmur of conversations continues, but I can sense the focus of the room shifting subtly toward our table.
I take a sip from my glass, feeling the cold liquid burn its way down my throat. "So, what is it you want to discuss?" I ask, setting the glass down carefully. My fingers itch to wipe away the condensation ring it leaves behind again.
Enzo leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Just a friendly chat, Ivan. It's been a while since we've had one of those."
I let out a dry laugh. "A friendly chat in neutral territory, surrounded by your men? You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
He smiles, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "It's just business, Ivan. You know how it is."
I do know. It's always about business. The Romanovs joined the Five of NYC a generation ago. We're considered the smallest, the least powerful, the least worrisome. But I've used the Bastoni for many meetings over the years. It was never guaranteed to be safe for a non-Italian group, but we've used it all the same.
A waiter brings Enzo his drink without needing an order. I watch as he places the glass in front of Enzo with a respectful nod, the same treatment I received when I first arrived. Once word gets around about who you are and what you represent, the help tends to make sure you are satisfied with their service. It’s a small perk of being in our line of work, though it comes with its own set of dangers.
