Page 83 of Heritage of Fire

He nods, eyes nearly popping out of his head from my strangulation. Several other guards come up around me and pull me back. All of them are armed.

Salvatore and I enter the building, guns aimed at our heads, and we’re pushed through several long strips of fabric until we reach a red-lit room. Several undressed women are dancing on a stage while men in fine suits sit back and watch with drinks and cigars. I keep my gaze forward as we’re led across the room, but I don’t miss the cages on the ceiling.

We enter a new room, and I count eight chairs around a table. The Eight must meet here. The walls, unlike in the entertainment area, are covered in black velvet. Two men stand in the center of the space.

Salvatore marches up beside me, calm and collected—I want to ring his neck.

This is your daughter. Feel something,I want to say.

One of the men, tall and beady-eyed, claps his hands together. “Ah, the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra. Enjoying your partnership yet?”

I spy the glint of a gold ring on his pinky. This man is unfamiliar to me—and I know most of the rich businessmen in the city. He, however, is an enigma. Nothing about his accent or demeanor gives anything away.

There’s no need for introductions with the man next to him though. Senator Hope. The idiot who tried to use Antonio to bring down the Bratva. It would almost be laughable if we weren’t standing here right now.

His eyes connect with mine, and he looks away.

Good. Coward.

Salvatore steps forward, several of his guards keeping him in a contained square. I suddenly feel pretty stupid having walked in here alone.

“Where is my daughter?” he asks, hands in his pockets as if he’s out for a casual Sunday stroll. Where’s the Buscetta fire?

“Well, Sal—I can call you Sal, right?” The stranger smirks, and Salvatore’s lips curl with disgust. “You see, it was a pretty little surprise to learn there were any Buscetta offspring, let alone two girls.”

He licks his lips, tongue long and slimy, drawing salvia around his mouth. “Isabella just wandered into my club with her friends, looking all ripe for the picking. She’s a sensual one, that girl.” He laughs, but then snaps his mouth shut. “A club member recognized her from his dealings with the Cosa Nostra and reported it to me. As the exceptional host I am, I wanted her to feel welcome.

“It was all too easy to make her stay, and she called the first person she could think of for help. Why is it she didn’t feel the need to callyou, Sal? She called her sister instead.”

Salvatore’s face falls, but only for a moment.

I can’t stand this charade any longer. The need to know where Luna is throttles me, and I explode. “Where is my wife?!”

I ball my hands into fists at my sides to keep from pulling my weapon and shooting every single one of these men. They have her, and I need her back. She’s mine.

My wife.

“Ah, Mr. Balakin. So good of you to be here. Your wife, however, is not. Although, she was very brave—willing to give up her identity as not only a member of the Buscetta family, but also as Mrs. Balakin. The Cosa Nostra and Bratva, brought together through an arranged marriage … that issoveryinteresting.” He snickers and picks a piece of lint off his suit jacket.

“You’re all dead.” I level him with a look of pure contempt, pouring into it all the wrath, guilt, and shame I feel at this moment.

He clicks his tongue at me, raising a finger in my direction. “Mr. Balakin, idle threats won’t work here. Not if you want to see your wife again.”

“Where is she?” I bite out, air hissing through my teeth.

“While I appreciate your concern, Mr. Balakin, that is a conversation for your pakhan and Salvatore Buscetta, as they are the only ones able to negotiate.”

I flinch at his words. I trust Luka, but to hear that I can’t help Luna stings.

Salvatore stiffens, his gaze cold. Does he excel at indifference, or is all of this a minor inconvenience for him?

“We want proof of life in the next twenty-four hours as well as a list of your demands,” Salvatore says, turning to presumably see himself out.

The man’s bug eyes glisten with victory and he smiles before nodding at the men guarding the exit. They part, allowing us to walk back through the club still teeming with stripers and the flow of alcohol.

A topless girl straddles an old man’s lap. His head is tipped back in ecstasy, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth bunched together. But the girl—she stares at the wall, expression void of emotion, empty. I shudder, thinking back to the young girl Dmitry rushed to save.

When we finally leave, the adrenaline of the night crashes down around me, and exhaustion settles in deep. Twenty-four hours isn’t soon enough for proof of life—I deflate at the word. Luna was a bargaining chip for our organizations, and now she’s forced to act as one again. Taken for her name and association only.

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