“Ania,” Samuele greeted. “I’m so sorry about Antosha. He was a good man.”
She nodded, because what could she say, her father was a good man. Still, he had his feet in a world of criminals. He had been much more immersed than she’d first thought.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this. I know it isn’t a good time,” Bartolo said. “But your man guards you like a treasure.” He glanced at her bodyguards. “He is a jealous man.” He laughed as if in approval. His sons smiled a little. Smirked maybe.
A small chill went down her spine. Was she being fanciful? This was the family her grandfather had been taking the package to three days before his death. Her grandfather had been very good friends with Bartolo’s father and had watched Bartolo and then his sons grow up. She had considered, of course, that they were the ones to put out a hit on her family, but it hadn’t felt right. Now, sitting with them, she just didn’t know. Her body was reacting as if she were in danger, yet no one had made one threatening move toward her.
“I suppose he can be,” Ania conceded, unsure where the conversation was going.
“We need a driver. You are that driver, Ania. There is no one else as good as your grandfather or father. The package is small and must get through to New Orleans, to some friends of ours there.”
She stared at Bartolo, a little shocked. It was the last thing she expected to hear. “I don’t drive for anyone, not anymore.” That was the truth. She wanted to, she missed the adrenaline rush. “I’m selling my business. Donato Caruso is buying it. You might talk to him.”
Bartolo shook his head. “It has to be you, Ania.”
“You know Mitya would never allow such a thing,” she said softly, admitting it aloud. She wasn’t happy to say it. It made her sound like a “yes” woman, but it was also the best excuse in the world and one a man like Bartolo would understand. She even lowered her lashes and looked as submissive as possible. She should have gone into acting.
“We will double the money.”
The fee had always been a small fortune. To double it was ridiculous, and that only made her all the more suspicious. She shook her head. “You can talk to Mitya. If he agrees, then I’ll drive for you, but, signor Anwar, there are several good drivers. Even if you think someone will try to intercept, there are dozens of decent drivers.”
“Not like you.”
She’d done some street racing. Make that a lot of street racing. That had been one way to hone her driving skills and get the adrenaline rush she craved. But she hadn’t done any driving where others could see her. She’d pinned up her hair and used a street name, mostly so her father and grandfather wouldn’t find out she was sneaking out to race. She’d been doing that since she was sixteen.
There was such conviction in Bartolo’s voice, as if he knew about her driving skills. How? As far as she was concerned, it was impossible for them to know, so why keep pushing for her?
“Perhaps, but I’m getting married to Mitya, and he has very strong ideas on what his wife should or shouldn’t do. I don’t think taking jobs racing across the country comes under the heading of what he’d prefer. Like I said, you can have a word with him about this. I’m not entirely opposed to driving for you.” She flashed her sweetest smile. Her words were sincere enough, not lies, because she loved driving.
Fortunately, even though Mitya didn’t want her involved in any way, she was certain Sevastyan would give in and include her—privately of course—in Mitya’s security team. Sevastyan had questioned her twice about her abilities with weapons, but he’d been most interested in her driving skills.
Bartolo sighed. “Your man is difficult, Ania. He comes from Russia. His father is a great vor there and controls most of the ports. He rules with an iron fist, very bloody, and he wipes out his enemies the moment they show themselves. Mitya is a product of this man. Some say he is even more ruthless. If that is so, I don’t want to get on his bad side by suggesting his wife drive for us.”
Ania leaned toward him and lowered her voice as if they were co-conspirators. “I don’t want to get on his bad side either.” She flashed a small smile, almost teasing him.
Bartolo shook his head. “Girl, you’re wasted on that Russian. He might be the best at business, but he won’t ever know what he’s got in you.”
“I’m really sorry I can’t drive for you.” On one level that was the strict truth, but on another, she worried that the Anwar family might know more than they were saying about her family’s deaths. “Signor Anwar, Joshua Tregre is here. He’s from New Orleans. Is it possible he might be able to help? I’ve never met him, but I know Mitya and Sevastyan both know him. Fyodor’s wife, Evangeline, is his cousin.”