Page 4 of Vow Of Fire

“She has some very wealthy clients,” Alberto continued, eager to help now that he had my attention. “Investors. Wealthy individuals. Russians.”

“Russians?”

“Yeah. Mikhail Orlov is a personal friend. He’s often at exhibitions and auctions.”

Fuck. Then it was the Bratva.

Orlov was the money man for Sergei Malakov, the head of the New York branch of the Russian crime syndicate. They were a growing threat to Marcelli business and had been a thorn in our side for the last few years.

“There’s an exhibition tomorrow night,” he continued, blabbering now. “You should ask her.”

“Maybe I will,” I murmured, straightening up.

Alberto might be full of shit, but there was one way to find out. I had to speak to this Evelyn Cruz.

This was our first tangible lead since my men were ambushed. If the gallery owner had told her Russian client about our shipment details, their blood was on her hands.

“What are you going to do with me?” Alberto whimpered.

I straightened up and pulled out my phone. “You’re going to stay put, Alberto. Until we can verify whether what you’re saying is true.”

I fired off a text, and a second later, the door opened and Rocco stepped inside.

Alberto whimpered. “Tell him to lay off me. I’m not lying, I swear⁠—”

Rocco smiled. A thin, sinister grin.

I glanced at the man Izzy had rescued from the pit. His loyalty was unquestionable. He’d do whatever I said, when I said it. I knew that much.

“Rocco, behave yourself until we can verify his story.” I paused, my eyes glinting dangerously back at the prisoner. “And if it turns out he’s lying, he’s all yours.”

The smile deepened.

Alberto trembled.

Ten minutes later, I stepped out into the cool October night. The warehouse door slammed and I breathed in, leaving the smell of blood and sweat behind me. The fresh air bit at my skin, but I relished it.

Evelyn Cruz.

I didn’t know who she was. Not yet.

But I would.

If she was in any way responsible for my men’s deaths, then she was already dead.

She just didn’t know it yet.

2

DANTE’S INFERNO

Evelyn

“It’s a great turnout,” Chloe, my assistant and best friend, said, looking around the gallery. It was five o’clock on a rainy Friday afternoon and most of the guests we’d invited to the private exhibition had come.

I smiled. “It is, isn’t it?” But then, Colombian artist Mateo Reyes always pulled in a high-caliber crowd.

Surveying the guests, two words sprang to mind. Money and taste. Collectors in tailored suits with earnest frowns. Patrons in designer couture drinking my expensive French champagne. Only the best for this clientele.