visions like that. Jesus, I could still smell the salt water and feel the wet strands of her hair against my neck.
I groped and found my phone. “What?” I snarled.
“Sorry, boss,” said Rico meekly. “Got a call. The Saints want you to come in.”
I cursed under my breath and closed my eyes. My day had started badly and it was about to get worse.
* * *
T he Saints . Six old school Cosa Nostra guys who run New York, Boston, and a good amount of the surrounding area. The streets answer to me but I answer to them.
We’d never gotten on well. They’d never respected me, only grudgingly accepting me when I’d taken over from my dad. It didn’t help that I was one of the youngest bossesaround and none of The Saints were under sixty.
Sometimes, going to see them was okay. When things were going well, they’d break out the good Scotch and cigars and gently praise me. But I knew this wasn’t going to be one of those times: they’d summoned me too abruptly.
The meetings were always in the big, dark mansion owned by “Saint” Nicholas Vici. Old Nicky wasn’t so much the leader as the spokesperson—the six guys seemed to always agree on everything, like they were a fucking hive mind. When I walked into the room, they were all sitting around one side of the big oak table, like always, with a single chair facing them for me. Like I was a kid facing off against the Principal and five teachers.
“This thing with the Russian,” Nicky said before I’d even sat down. “It’s a problem.”
Shit! I froze, my ass hovering above my chair. Then I told myself not to be stupid. If they knew about Irina, I would have been hauled in here at gunpoint. “I can handle Vasiliy,” I told them. “ And Mikhail.”
“Doesn’t seem like it. We hear he’s stolen Heinwell away from you, now? And his people smashed up a restaurant? That’s public, Angelo. That sorta shit brings the press and the cops. Everyone starts thinking you can’t defend your turf.”
My hands tightened into fists. “I’ve been holding that turf for years. The Russians aren’t a problem.”
“Really?” Nicky reached behind him and plucked something off the floor. “Then how the fuck do you explain this?”
He hurled it at me and I only caught it a second before it hit me in the face. When I lowered it, I saw Nicky smirking at me. The bastard had never liked me. He’d never liked my dad, for that matter. The only reason he hadn’t replaced me was that I did too good of a job.
I turned the thing over in my hands. A handbag with shining metal buckles and the designer logo picked out in those little crystals women go nuts for.
“You do know about this?” asked Nicky. “I mean, you’re on top of it?”
I had no fucking idea what the handbag was supposed to mean. Rico was standing by the door and, when I glanced over at him, he gave me a pained look. Shit! There was something he hadn’t told me.
Vincenzo, a guy in his eighties with a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, took pity on me. “Vasiliy and Mikhail are flooding New York with these things,” he told me. “Better quality than what our guys on the street are selling. Almost as good as the real thing. And not just handbags. Jeans. Jackets. Fancy shoes.”
Nicky glared at him—he’d obviously been enjoying having me at a disadvantage. But I could see now why they were pissed. Counterfeit goods brought in millions in New York alone. “I’ll take care of it,” I told them.
Nicky leaned forward. “No fucking mercy, Angelo. Crush these sons of bitches. Every last one of them.”
“Send ‘em back to Siberia in boxes,” grunted Taavetti. He was one of the oldest and needed an oxygen cylinder, these days. “Only good Russian’s a dead Russian.”
“Except for the women,” said Nicky. “So many good-lookin’ blondes. And they all come over here eager to open their legs and earn some US dollars. They breed ‘em to be whores.” He laughed: a long, filthy laugh, his
I groped and found my phone. “What?” I snarled.
“Sorry, boss,” said Rico meekly. “Got a call. The Saints want you to come in.”
I cursed under my breath and closed my eyes. My day had started badly and it was about to get worse.
* * *
T he Saints . Six old school Cosa Nostra guys who run New York, Boston, and a good amount of the surrounding area. The streets answer to me but I answer to them.
We’d never gotten on well. They’d never respected me, only grudgingly accepting me when I’d taken over from my dad. It didn’t help that I was one of the youngest bossesaround and none of The Saints were under sixty.
Sometimes, going to see them was okay. When things were going well, they’d break out the good Scotch and cigars and gently praise me. But I knew this wasn’t going to be one of those times: they’d summoned me too abruptly.
The meetings were always in the big, dark mansion owned by “Saint” Nicholas Vici. Old Nicky wasn’t so much the leader as the spokesperson—the six guys seemed to always agree on everything, like they were a fucking hive mind. When I walked into the room, they were all sitting around one side of the big oak table, like always, with a single chair facing them for me. Like I was a kid facing off against the Principal and five teachers.
“This thing with the Russian,” Nicky said before I’d even sat down. “It’s a problem.”
Shit! I froze, my ass hovering above my chair. Then I told myself not to be stupid. If they knew about Irina, I would have been hauled in here at gunpoint. “I can handle Vasiliy,” I told them. “ And Mikhail.”
“Doesn’t seem like it. We hear he’s stolen Heinwell away from you, now? And his people smashed up a restaurant? That’s public, Angelo. That sorta shit brings the press and the cops. Everyone starts thinking you can’t defend your turf.”
My hands tightened into fists. “I’ve been holding that turf for years. The Russians aren’t a problem.”
“Really?” Nicky reached behind him and plucked something off the floor. “Then how the fuck do you explain this?”
He hurled it at me and I only caught it a second before it hit me in the face. When I lowered it, I saw Nicky smirking at me. The bastard had never liked me. He’d never liked my dad, for that matter. The only reason he hadn’t replaced me was that I did too good of a job.
I turned the thing over in my hands. A handbag with shining metal buckles and the designer logo picked out in those little crystals women go nuts for.
“You do know about this?” asked Nicky. “I mean, you’re on top of it?”
I had no fucking idea what the handbag was supposed to mean. Rico was standing by the door and, when I glanced over at him, he gave me a pained look. Shit! There was something he hadn’t told me.
Vincenzo, a guy in his eighties with a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, took pity on me. “Vasiliy and Mikhail are flooding New York with these things,” he told me. “Better quality than what our guys on the street are selling. Almost as good as the real thing. And not just handbags. Jeans. Jackets. Fancy shoes.”
Nicky glared at him—he’d obviously been enjoying having me at a disadvantage. But I could see now why they were pissed. Counterfeit goods brought in millions in New York alone. “I’ll take care of it,” I told them.
Nicky leaned forward. “No fucking mercy, Angelo. Crush these sons of bitches. Every last one of them.”
“Send ‘em back to Siberia in boxes,” grunted Taavetti. He was one of the oldest and needed an oxygen cylinder, these days. “Only good Russian’s a dead Russian.”
“Except for the women,” said Nicky. “So many good-lookin’ blondes. And they all come over here eager to open their legs and earn some US dollars. They breed ‘em to be whores.” He laughed: a long, filthy laugh, his
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