Page 173 of Villainous Kingpin
Basilio’s face was an unmoving mask. Many men approached us, giving their condolences. He held my hand with his left, needing to keep his right hand free.
“Just in case,” he said.
Emory was slightly pale, but as the guests cleared out and Dante, Priest, and their father left, it was her turn to throw a rose on her father’s grave, she whispered a hiss.
“Rot in hell.” She threw a scrunched, rotten red rose and left without a glance.
A shudder rolled down my spine, not wanting to know what she endured to hate her father so much.
The funeral wasn’t long and I was glad for it. A few men of the Syndicate rounded off to the side, discussing business and that seemed to take longer. All the while, Emory remained with me.
“How come you don’t get to be there with them?” I asked her, tilting my chin toward the group of men.
“I don’t have a small brain,” she muttered under her breath and I had to stifle my laugh.
Her eyes, as dark as Basilio’s, came to me and she grinned. “I’m happy to see you and Basilio come to terms.”
My eyes gravitated back to my husband to see him already watching me. He winked, I smiled and then his attention was back to the group of men. Yet, I knew the entire time he kept me in his sights.
“You know, he caught me falling off my uncle’s balcony,” I told her with a soft smile. Her raised eyebrow told me she didn’t. “He’s my fairy tale.”
“I didn’t take you for a romantic,” she scoffed.
My eyes found my husband again. “Only when it comes to Bas.”
* * *
It was after six in the evening when we headed home.
Bas sped down the road, covered with flurries. The last visit from mother nature I guess. It wasn’t the ideal road condition for his Bugatti.
I glanced toward him, his body tense and expression dark.
“Basilio-” I started but never got to finish the sentence. Something collided with our trunk and my body jerked forward.
My head snapped behind us to find the headlights of a black SUV. A Land Rover. Bas suddenly floored the gas, but so did the driver of the SUV. Another ram into the back of Bas’ car.
“What’s happening?” I whimpered.
“Fucking Russians,” he hissed.
“How do you know they’re Russians?” I asked him, my eyes glancing behind us.
“They always drive damn Land Rovers.”
“D-do you think it’s my-” I couldn’t quite force the word great-grandparents pass my lips. “Do you think it’s the Pakhan?”
“I don’t know.” Except his body language told me he thought it was exactly them.
I shifted around, my hands shaking. Bas must have noticed it, because he tried to comfort me, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Both of us,” I rasped. He cocked his eyebrow and I clarified, “Don’t let anything happen to both of us.”
“Both of us then,” he agreed. He took a sudden twist of the steering wheel, making a sharp right corner. “Head down,” he barked, his voice tight and cold.
Without delay, I obeyed and leaned forward. No sooner than I did, bullets started flying. The passenger window exploded and so did the rear window. Both my hands covered my head while Bas kept driving.
My face was pressed against my legs, my body jerking with each sharp turn Bas took. The bullets kept flying and I turned my head to my husband’s. Fear choked me. I finally got my fairy tale and now this bullshit.
