Page 112 of Vows of Blood

I don’t need to explain the rest. Sienna watches as Mikhail moves through the crowd, unhurried but purposeful, taking up a position close to Ignacio where he can observe him carefully. He doesn't look at us, doesn't acknowledge anyone, just stares at his beloved Kate’s attacker with pure hatred.

I can’t say I’ll be disappointed to see Ignacio go.

“Mikhail won’t do anything here to ruin our day,” I whisper. “He’s been warned. He’ll make sure he doesn’t get up to anything and tail him home.”

She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she nods, a small, decisive movement. "Okay."

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, one problem sorted, but there's still work to be done.

As the family heads gather near the bar, my father among them, Mikhail drifts closer, still keeping Ignacio in his sights, and inserts himself into the conversation, earning a few curious looks.

My father's lip curls. "Mikhail Volkov. I wasn't aware you were on the guest list."

Time to go. Reluctantly, I hand my stunning bride off to Corso with a kiss, while I join the men drinking whiskey and smoking their cigars.

"A recent addition," I state, crossing to the high top where the men have gathered.

Mikhail signals the bartender for a drink as the heads exchange loaded glances. They recognize the name, they know Mikhail is a hitman for hire, but they’re still used to being treated with a certain level of deference, which the Russian hitman clearly has no intention of observing.

"Speaking of recent events, I was hoping to discuss a small matter with you, Alfonso. Regarding your nephew." He takes a long drink. “Orlando.”

The atmosphere shifts immediately. The other family heads watch Mikhail with interest, suddenly alert. This is no upstart with too many drinks on board. He’s here for a reason.

"Orlando?" My father asks, trying to disguise his concern. "What about him?"

Mikhail leans against the bar, in no rush to put my father out of his misery, knowing he has everyone’s rapt attention.

"He's been expanding into Russian-controlled business operations. Quite aggressively, actually." Mikhail shrugs. “Some would say stupidly.” He accepts his drink with a nod of thanks. "Prostitution, which we were assured you would not get involved in. Yet two of his girls were arrested last week, drawing considerable attention from the authorities, right outside one of Conti’s clubs, bringing the kind of interest from the police we all wish to ignore."

Conti shifts uncomfortably. "We've had inspectors at three of our establishments since then. Routine, they claimed, but the timing seemed suspicious." He narrows his gaze at Alfonso, his temper rising. “Now it makes sense.”

Mikhail nods gravely, pretending to be sympathetic to their woes.

"None of us were consulted about this expansion." Marchetti's more than a little displeased. "Orlando doesn't have the authority to make those kinds of moves. Where is he? Maybe we should ask him who gave him permission."

Because everyone knows he didn’t do this unsanctioned.

All attention turns to my father. He's cornered, and he knows it, his glare poisonous as his fingers tighten around his glass.

"I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding," he says smoothly, almost disguising the venom behind his words. "Orlando is ambitious, yes, but he would never act without approval. I'll speak with him, get this sorted out."

Mikhail’s not the least bit intimidated by the feared Alfonso Calvano. "See that you do."

Mikhail's smile is disturbing rather than reassuring.

"We value our relationship with the Italian families. It would be unfortunate if one arrogant man's recklessness jeopardized decades of carefully cultivated trust and undermined our ongoing business alliances."

The implied threat hangs in the air. Everyone knows what the Russians will do if Orlando’s operation isn’t shut down, and that it won’t be pretty.

My father nods stiffly, accepting the rebuke, but I see the fury simmering beneath his polished exterior. He's been publicly humiliated, his authority questioned, and his grip on power is visibly slipping.

Exactly as I’d hoped.

“We’ll talk,” I promise Mikhail, and he nods, drifting off to resume his position near Ignacio, who watches our conversation with interest.

I’d love to take care of him right here, right now, if it wouldn’t cause chaos. Instead, I nod at him as I pass, knowing his time is nearly over.

The party continues, the other guests oblivious to the power play that just unfolded, but the family heads will remember this moment, this display of weakness, when the time comes to choose sides if my father still refuses to go willingly.