“Why’s that?” I ask coolly.
“You haven’t been back from Sicily long. Can’t imagine what you’d need to talk to me about.”
“I know you’re a man with connections, and I’m looking for information.”
Finally, he gives me his full attention, his formidable stare taking my measure. Our fifteen-year age difference would give him a notable advantage if we were to square off. He’s built of solid mature mass that can’t be duplicated with creatine and trips to the gym. Of course, spending your final teenage years in prison has a way of maturing a person. I had it tough in Sicily, but not that tough. I imagine securing allies was the only thing that kept him alive. Or sane. I can respect his grit, but I’m still not interested in being his friend.
“Your brother know you’re digging?”
I have to take a deep, even breath before I can answer because fuck him for treating me like a child. “Can’t say that he does. He doesn’t know I took a shit this morning either, but that’s because he’s not my babysitter.”
DiAngelo drops his chin a degree, a tiny hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, so what sort of information are you after?” He looks back at the ship, signaling his willingness to hear me out.
“I hear Biba’s crew has been under attack.”
“It would seem that way.”
I think carefully about what I say, not wanting to give away any more than necessary. I have to assume anything DiAngelo hears will go straight to Renzo, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell him about Danika.
“I also hear it’s this Reaper character behind it. They any closer to figuring out who he is?”
He eyes me, probably surprised I know as much as I do. “Don’t believe so, but I haven’t asked either. You know something?”
“Not about The Reaper. I’ve heard someone stole something from Biba, though. Heard he’s pretty pissed—that’s what I’d like to know more about.”
“What’s it to you?”
“If Biba’s facing threats on multiple fronts, the pressure could make him erratic. As someone who’s had run-ins with his men before, I’d like to stay informed as best as I can.”
DiAngelo considers what I’ve said, then gives a nod that seems to signal his approval. “I’ve got a friend not far from here. Let’s see what he has to say.” He takes out his phone, says a handful of murmured words, then disconnects. “Come with me.”
I’m notsure what I expected, but a grizzled old fisherman wasn’t it. An arthritic hand gnarled with bulging knuckles holds a burning cigarette while he stares out over the water. Long white hair and whiskers fly every which direction, and he wears a stained white apron over loose-fitting clothes that appear nearly as old as the man himself.
“Grisha, you’re still not dead yet?” DiAngelo’s greeting surprises me. He knows the man well, and the respect is mutual, judging by the grin that now lights the old man’s eyes.
“Not for lack of trying.” He raises a glass containing two fingers of clear liquid and downs it in one seamless swallow. “What’s this? You bring me a gift?”
I’m not sure what the fuck that means, but it sure as hell puts me on guard.
DiAngelo chuckles. “Not today. This is Renzo’s kid brother. He’s looking for some information.”
Grisha takes a long drag from his cigarette. “And what? You thought you’d bring him here, and I’d spill my guts, as they say?”
Without using his hands, he emits an ear-piercing whistle through his lips. Two men appear at our backs. No, notourbacks—myback. DiAngelo steps aside like a bystander watching a street performance.
I’ve been set up.
He’s not even trying to de-escalate the situation, which tells me he fucking knew this would happen. I don’t understand and don’t have time to riddle through it. The second a hand clamps down on my shoulder, I shift into survival mode.
I grab the man’s wrist and spin around, twisting his arm and eliciting a cry of pain while simultaneously kicking the other man in the gut. My quick reaction gives me the advantage I need to stay on the offensive. I punch the first guy, dodge a jab from the second, then give him a wicked right cross. When I look back at the first, he’s slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his fist.
Russians and their goddamn brass knuckles.
So uncouth, but they seem to love the brutality. Fortunately, I’m never unarmed. I slip a switchblade from my boot and stand guard.
The old man squeals with delight.
“That’s enough, Grisha. Call it before someone loses an eye,” DiAngelo says in a bored tone.
