Page 448 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

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.”

CHAPTER22

ANYA

Ithank 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 fuckingbouncer!

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 isnotmy uncle.

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