It alerts.
I storm back to my office and call Vladimir. “Did Antonio Pollino take up Simonov on his offer of invading me?”
“Da.”
I thank him and hang up.
There’s a nasty, strong smell in the room. It smells like a rat.
Antonio and Demyan have been friends for years. I fucking know Antonio well by association.
My blood blisters white-hot through my veins.
Antonio and I have always gotten along when our paths have crossed, but I do understand business is business.
But there’s a caveat. Two, really.
One is, as far as I know, Antonio’s the type to talk before invading if there’s no beef. He’ll always seek a bond that’s mutually beneficial. So what the fuck was he told?
But the second caveat?
There’s no fucking way Antonio would do something to risk turning Demyan into an enemy, no matter what he was told about the Belov Bratva.
Unless Demyan cleared the path. And Demyan fed into the lies handed to Antonio.
Fuck, maybe Demyan even endorsed this attack.
I punch Demyan’s name into my phone, and the moment he picks up, I lay into him.
“You fuck,” I snap in Russian. “You knew I was going to be ambushed. What the fuck is wrong with you? What if Alina were here, and I’d gone out on a job or to pick up fucking food? Did you even think of that? Did you care your sister might be at risk?”
“What—”
“Vladimir, Mikhail’s brother, told me what’s going on in Simonov’s camp.”
“Why the hell would I know about any of this? And who the actual fuck do you think you are, calling one of my informants?”
“I called his brother.”
“It’s the same fucking thing, Ilya.” Something smashes on the other end of the call. “Why would I know this shit?”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Why would you? But more importantly, would you have stopped it if you did?”
Demyan snorts. “You’re the one who decided to side with the enemy, not me.”
“The enemy? You mean someone you have issues with?”
“I mean Santo. I mean your actual fucking bratva itself.”
I laugh and stalk over to the wet bar, select the vodka, unscrew the top, and take a swig from the bottle. It should be in the freezer. I don’t give a fuck.
“Like I had a fucking choice,” I snarl. “My grandfather left the bratva to me.”
“The grandfather who didn’t want to know you? The one you had no idea you had until he died?” Demyan asks, his voice full of poison. “That’s how little he thought of you. Let you think he was dead until that choice was taken from him by his actual death.”
There’s a flash of silence.
“Low blow, Demyan.” I hang up and take another swig.
