Page 37 of City Of Thieves
Neither of us moves or speaks.
On the fifth ring, Killian’s voice comes on the line.
“Car’s on its way.”
“Good. I also need intel on every Bratva cell in London, as well as any connection they may have with Vasily or Oleg Belov.” Remembering the black ink on her pale skin, I add, “Or with Tatiana Sanders.”
I don’t know if the three are connected, but at this point, everyone is guilty until proven otherwise.
There's a hesitation, and then, “Bratva, Renzo? That’s a line evenyoudon’t want to cross.”
Killian Davies seems to have some grave misconceptions of the men he’s chosen to align himself with. My family has a history of crossing all kinds of lines. If he thinks I’m the first Marchesi to flip a middle finger and walk into the line of fire to prove a point, he hasn’t done his due diligence.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” I lower my voice because my business isn’t for public consumption. “You’ll be well compensated for your troubles.”
“It’s not a matter of money, mate. It’s…” There’s a heavy sigh of resignation. “Does this have anything to do with Rainero?”
My tongue sweeps over my dry lips, his question hammering into me.
Everything has to do with Rainero.
Every move.
Every kill.
Every blackmail.
In that weighted pause, I think ofYama—of Vasily, and his bait and switch cage match offer. How he’d dangled Oleg like a fucking carrot, knowing I’d kill every man in that place just to get my hands on that traitor.
I think of his smug expression as he’d revealed his brother’s fate.
Maybe Miss Sanders isn’t the only one with a few sins to atone for.
“I’m not sure yet,” I answer truthfully. “But I’m not leaving London until I find out.” I reach for my whiskey, only to find the same empty glass sitting in front of me. As Killian rambles on about risks and consequences and hidden agendas, I return my gaze to the stone-faced bartender. “Message me when you have something.” Ending the call, I shove my phone back into my pocket without breaking eye contact.
There’s nothing intimidating about the man glaring at me from across the bar. He’s an average sized British asshole with a hero complex. A confident son a bitch, I’ll give him that. But confidence only takes a man so far before ignorance leads him down a dangerous path.
His white knight act was unnecessary. My intention was to rattle Tatiana, not to hurt her. I may be a killer, but when it comes to women, the only danger I pose comes from a bullet, never my fist.
“We seem to have a communication problem,” I say calmly.
“No problem here.” Holding my stare, he wipes down the bar while dumping my empty glass in the sink. “But we reserve the right to not serve those we deem to be a threat.”
“A threat?”
“The way you manhandled that young woman,sir,” he retorts, the pleasantry as natural as a mouthful of thumbtacks. “We don’t tolerate that at The Annabel Park Hotel. I have a good mind to alert the manager.”
My mouth spreads into a vicious smile. “That won’t be necessary.” Tilting my head, I scan the name printed on his hotel badge. “Because here’s the thing,Grant…” Grabbing the striped tie under his shitty blue blazer, I give the knot a hard shove right into his trachea. “I don’t makethreats. I’m more of the ‘take action’ type.” Releasing his tie, I step back.
There’s no need for further explanation. He’ll find out soon enough.
He nods, his face paling. “Very well, sir.” Lowering his gaze, his shaking hand reaches for the cloth, and he drags it across the counter again.
Rising from my seat, I toss a twenty pound note down on the counter and walk an unhurried stride away from the bar.
I didn’t choose this hotel on a whim. As I told Tatiana earlier, I know everyone who’s worth knowing as well as every aspect of their business. My family operates out of New Jersey, but every Italian underground is like a cracked windshield: dozens of small fractures splinter in every direction across the glass, but they all originate from one break. The Marchesi Empire isn’t bound by American soil. We have contacts all over the globe.
Luckily for him, I’ve become more selective of the blood that stains my hands these days, and he isn’t worth my time.
