Page 128 of Vicious Games

“You hear that, Lucky? I’m the muscle.” Stella grins ear to ear, then ruffles my hair as if I were five. “Don’t worry, little brother. I won’t let those mean Bratva bastards lay a hand on your pretty little head.” I swat her hand away while she laughs at my expense.

“You should’ve asked Marcello to come instead,” I grumble. “At least he knows how to stay quiet.”

“Marcello would be the last person I’d ask,” Enzo says, dipping his voice a little. “You want answers about your girl, not to start a war with the Russians.”

“He’s right,” Stella agrees. “Mar would lose his shit if he thought you were in danger. With me, at least, you’ll get your answers without anyone ending up in a body bag.”

“I fucking hope so,” I mutter, my gaze focused on the road ahead while my brain splits into a million different scenarios on how this could all go terribly wrong.

“You really think the Bratva might know who Frankie’s birth parents are?” Stella asks, one brow raised in quiet curiosity.

“I do,” I say. “Remus fucking flipped when he saw her bracelet. So much so that he caught a jet with Rolo and bailed to the UK that same morning.”

“I thought your BFF wasn’t scared of anything,” she says, more intrigued than mocking.

“He isn’t. But we all know the Firm and the Bratva have a history. Bad history. Half of London’s been carved up because of them. They’ve been at each other’s throats for years. It makes sense it spooked him.” It also made sense why he warned me to leave Frankie alone, but I don’t say that part out loud.

Ever since Enzo and I found the inscription on Frankie’s locket, we knew her family had roots in either the Russian motherland or the sovereign nation of Ukraine. But Remus going nuclear that morning? That told me it was the first option. Not just that. His rage told me Frankie’s parents didn’t just have Russian ties. They must have had ties with Bratva, too. Maybe her dad was a foot soldier. Or worse. Who the hell knows?

Well… the Bratva might. Hence why we’re driving through West Town, fondly—or not so fondly—known as Little Russia by the people who call it home. The flash of neon lights around this part of Chicago cuts through the dusk like a warning flare. We’re getting close. Closer to answers.

“Ugh. Gross,” Stella mutters, pretending to gag. “Please don’t tell me this is where the Bratva conduct their oh-so-serious business meetings?”

“You’ll have to ask Enzo,” I say, pulling into the cracked asphalt lot in front of the strip club. “He’s the one who got me the intel.”

“They’re here, alright,” Enzo confirms. “I overheard Dad say the new underboss likes to run operations out of this place. Keeps things quiet and off the radar.”

“New underboss?” Stella perks up. “What happened to the last one?”

“Rumor is, thePakhansent his brother to take over a few months back,” Enzo says, casually as if reciting the weather. “Word has it that Petrov has become paranoid with his underbosses lately and only trusts his own blood to conduct business on foreign ground now.”

In other words, the previous Chicago Underboss for the Bratva got his walking papers by a slit of the throat from thePakhan’s own kin.

I have to hand it to my twin, though. He keeps his ear to the ground, juggling Outfit politics and expansion as if he were born for it.

Me? Not so much. I’d rather stick to my code, my keyboard, and stay the hell out of the power plays and mafia politics. I’ll leave that crap to the adults who care.

“I hate that I’m always the last to know everything,” Stella snaps, stabbing her nail file straight into the leather console.

“Jesus, Stella!” I yank it from her hand before she decides to gouge anything else. “Cool the hell down. I can’t have you going full banshee right now.”

“Easy for you to say,” she fires back. “You and Enzo are getting inducted next year. Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for our father to decide whether I’m even worth the ink. I swear, I can’t wait until Marcello becomesCapo dei Capi.At least then, I won’t have to keep proving myself every damn day that I was born for the life. That I’m not just some defenselessprincipessawho is only good for making babies and playing house. I deserve more than that.”

Enzo meets my eyes in the rearview, then reaches forward to gently place a hand on her shoulder and says softly, “Hey, sooner or later, Dad will do the right thing. I know he will.”

“He better,” she mutters, turning to stare out the window so we won’t see the sadness swimming in her green eyes.

We let her have the moment.

Enzo was right. We do need the muscle. Sure, if it came to it, Enzo and I could probably take down a few Bratva goons on our own. But Stella? With her blades and her barely suppressed rage? She could take down a fucking army if she wanted to. But not if she’s stuck drowning in her own self-doubt and pity.

Thankfully, our sister’s never one to sulk for long. Within moments, she’s squaring her shoulders, turning back toward us with fire in her eyes and a smirk that shows she’s ready to raise hell.

“So, are we doing this or what?” Stella says, already swinging her door open as if she’d been waiting to throw hands all night.

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just make sure we don’t get ourselves killed,” Enzo mutters as he slides out behind her. “I’ve got a hot date with you-know-who in a couple of hours.” He winks at me, my chest tightening at the glint in his eyes.

Shit. He and his priest are still going strong. That has disaster and heartbreak written all over it. But then again, I fell for a girl still set on becoming a nun, so who am I to judge?

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