Page 42 of Vicious Behaviors
It’s not that I don’t want to pick up Frankie. It’s about avoiding spending another second this close to Izzie.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mar, stop acting like a grouch. It’s just a quick pit stop. Five minutes, tops.”
“Fine,” I grit through my teeth. “Where is she?”
Stella leans back in her seat and stares out the window, unwilling to give me an answer right away. “Little Russia.”
Fuck. In other words, she’s with the Petrovs. Now it all makes sense why Frankie called Stella instead of Lucky.
My brother’s been very clear that he doesn’t want Frankie anywhere near her uncles when they areconducting business.And I get it. Little Russia is bad enough without the added risk of Frankie wandering around Kirill’s strip club and being mistaken for a dancer instead of his niece.
Regardless of that, what I don’t like is the fact that Frankie felt comfortable calling Stella as her backup. Stella shouldn’t be going anywhere near Little Russia. Not if she wants to be inducted into the Outfit in a few months. I told her as much and she swore to my face it wouldn’t be a problem.
Well, this feels like a fucking problem.
Sensing the tension in the air, Izzie is smart enough to remain quiet, while Stella pretends not to see me scowling at her through the rearview mirror.
When we pull up, the club’s obnoxious neon signs glare at us like a warning. Heavy snow still falls outside, but Frankie stands dry beneath the awning, laughing with two men, sporting jet-black hair and more ink than a Picasso painting.
I cut the engine and catch Stella’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Stay here.”
“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” she sulks.
I then turn over to Izzie and level her with a look sharp enough to pin her in place, too.
She raises her hands, smiles, and states, “I get it. Stay in the car. Strip clubs aren’t my thing anyway.”
Once I’m sure the girls will stay put, I get out and rush over to Frankie, snow soaking into my hair within seconds.
“Marcello?” she says, confused when I reach her and her uncles. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m your ride,” I explain, my eyes flicking to the twoBratvascum at her side.
One of them is young, maybe Stella’s age, with the same mischievous glint in his eyes. But the other brother, the older one, is the one who holds my attention most. And from the way his dark eyes size me up and down, he doesn’t need to introduce himself for me to know exactly who he is—Kirill Petrov.
“Marcello Romano,” he says, smirking. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you at my club.”
“Wasn’t my plan either,” I mutter, not hiding my disdain. “A decent uncle would’ve driven his niece home.”
His taunting grin doesn’t falter. “Never claimed to be decent.”
“Uncle,” Frankie interjects. “Be nice.”
“Only for you,plemyannitsa.” He softens immediately. “Besides, we both know I would have driven you to the moon and back if you asked. I just had… something come up.”
“It’s okay. It’s my fault for dropping by without calling you first. Maybe we can have a family dinner this weekend? My place. I’ll cook.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He smiles at her tenderly.
“Are you coming too, Uncle Kostya?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” the younger Petrov says. But I can tell he’s only half-listening. His gaze is fixed on my car.
“Stella’s here,” he murmurs to Kirill. “And she’s not alone.”
“Oh?” Kirill’s attention falls instantly behind me, spotting a flash of red hair through the windshield. His smirk falters when Kostya leans in and whispers something in his ear. In an instant, rage darkens his face. “Change of plans,” Kirill says coldly. “I’m taking my niece home.”
