Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Gennadiy turned to me. “What do you know about Emanuela Cantelli?”
“Only what’s in the FBI files. Runs a lot of the west side of the city. Daughter of Franco Cantelli, inherited his empire when he died. She’s really young, for a boss...thirty?”
“Twenty-nine. Have you met her?”
“No.”
His lips tightened. If it hadn’t been Gennadiy, I almost would have said he looked nervous. “Emanuela is...she can be...difficult.”
“Difficult?”
Gennadiy sighed. “You’ll see.”
Storms were forecast for later in the day, but when we arrived at the restaurant, the sky was still a glorious deep blue. I climbed out of the car and, as the door closed, I caught my first glimpse of the dress in the side mirror. I hadn’t really looked at it before but...wow. It hugged me just right, and the way the front was structured, it almost looked like I had boobs.
Then I stepped back, and my legs came into view. My stomach knotted.
I looked up and found Gennadiy watching me. He didn’t say anything, just gave me a little nod. Some curt, Russian version of you got this. And somehow, it meant more, coming from my arch enemy. I took a deep breath and straightened my back, standing tall.
“Gennadiy, you smooth bastard!” The voice came from behind us: male, Russian-accented, and deeply affectionate. We turned just in time for Gennadiy to be pulled into a hug by Yakov Beletski, his friend who ran the docks. I’d seen him plenty of times, but only ever through a camera lens or a pair of binoculars, never up close. Yakov thumped Gennadiy on the back and then turned towards me. “And who is the new lady you’re—”
His jaw dropped as he recognized me.
“We’re working together,” Gennadiy told him.
Yakov grabbed his arm and steered him away from me, then spoke urgently to him in Russian. I picked out the words for FBI and also, weirdly, spell. He glanced at me and seemed to ask a question. Gennadiy shook his head firmly but his cheeks reddened.
“And speak English,” Gennadiy told Yakov firmly, and towed him back to me.
Yakov stared at Gennadiy as if he’d gone mad. Then he sighed, softened, and gave me a warm, honest smile. “Yakov Beletski,” he told me. “At your service.” And he took my hand and gently kissed it. I felt myself smile. I liked him immediately.
“You old charmer,” Gennadiy told him.
“Thank you for the tip on the cesium,” I told Yakov solemnly.
Yakov waved it away. “Anything for a friend.” He looked sideways at Gennadiy, and a smile touched his lips. “And his favorite enemy.”
“Come on,” said Gennadiy tightly. “You can prop up the bar and be our backup, if Emanuela is…” He and Yakov exchanged knowing looks. Is what? Why were they so wary of this woman?
Gennadiy led the way inside. Two men in maroon waistcoats pulled open the big double doors, and suddenly we were in a world of hushed voices, softly clinking tableware, and gentle piano music from a pianist in the corner. Gennadiy had been right about the clothes: I’m not sure they even would have let me in, in jeans.
A woman jumped to her feet on the other side of the room. About my height, in a spotless white suit with black details. She had long, richly golden hair that fell in a broad fan down her back and a perfect hourglass figure. “Gennadiy!” she called, loud enough to make heads turn.
Yakov split off from us and went to keep watch from the bar. As Gennadiy and I approached Emanuela, he murmured in my ear. “We need to do this carefully.”
I nodded. I was trying to focus, but the combination of icy Russian accent and hot breath in my ear rippled all the way down to my groin. “I get it. She’s got the entire mob behind her. You don’t want to start a war.”
Gennadiy winced. “Yes. But also…” He huffed and scowled. “Look, just let me do the talking. She needs careful handling. She’s...fragile.”
Fragile? She was standing there confidently, beaming at us, ignoring everyone else in the restaurant, with her power suit and perfect, pouting lips. She didn’t look very fragile. But he knew her best. “Fine.”
We arrived in front of Emanuela. She’d stepped away from her table to greet us, and her three bodyguards had stepped back, too, which awkwardly crowded the family at the next table. But she didn’t seem to notice. “Gennadiy!” She gave him a million-dollar smile. “It’s been too long.” Her accent was American with just a hint of sultry Italian. But there was something else about the way she spoke, something I couldn’t put my finger on. “Did you know it’s my birthday?”
Gennadiy looked—I did a double take—he looked worried. First nervous, now worried. What the fuck is going on? “I’m sorry, Emanuela. I thought it was next week. I would have brought a gift.”