“You wanna talk, Drago?” I ask. “Then let’s talk. But if you’re going to hit me like that, fair warning—I’m going to hit back.”
He takes an aggressive step forward. I very pointedly refuse to budge.
“A couple of weeks with the enemy and you think you’re fucking tough?” he snarls in condescension.
I’m a hell of a lot tougher than you are, I think. I don’t allow myself to say the words out loud, though.
I’m willing to defend myself against Drago if I have to. But antagonizing an unstable man is just plain stupid. Especially since I don’t have a weapon and I’m betting he does.
“How did you find me?” I ask, choosing not to escalate the situation.
“I know more than you think I do,” he tells me. I can hear the desperate need to assert his dominance over me. “I know more than he thinks I do.”
“Believe me, we’re all very impressed,” I drawl.
“I’ve been tracking the Clan’s movements for twenty fucking years,” he hisses. “Ever since I was fifteen fucking years old. I know about his penthouse in New York. I know about his ranch in Montana. I know about this fucking ridiculous mansion. I knew he had you and there were only so many places he could have taken you.”
“Bravo,” I snap, giving him a sarcastic clap. “You’ve been watching the mansion? All by yourself?”
“I had men on every single known Clan property,” he tells me. “And then I saw him arrive over a week ago.”
“How did you know I was with him?” I ask.
“Who else? Rokiades.”
My body tenses at the mention of that bastard. “You’re still in contact with him?”
“Of course. We’re allies.”
I stare at my brother, shocked at how blind he can be when it’s convenient. “He’s not your ally, Drago,” I tell him bluntly. “The man is just greedy for your men, for the support you have because of your last name.”
It’s a poor choice of words on my part. And of course, Drago’s ego rears its ugly head. “My men don’t support me because of my fucking last name,” he hisses, moving forward and getting right in my face. “They support me because of my first fucking name. Do you hear me?”
“Drago—”
“Don’t you presume to tell me about my own men, you little fucking whore.”
His hand twitches towards me, but he doesn’t make an attempt to grab my arm like he would usually do. Maybe the punch I’d given him earlier actually made an impression. Or maybe it’s that, the last time we got into an altercation, he ended up with a butcher’s knife in his stomach.
“I’m just saying—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re saying,” he says, cutting me off. “Your opinion doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me or to anyone. The only reason you’re useful is because of the slit between your legs.”
I cringe away from him. Has he always been this terrible? Did years of physical and verbal abuse desensitize me to his brutality? His cruelty?
Has he changed… or have I?
“I’m not just your brother,” Drago hisses. “I am your don, too. And you will do what I expect of you.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“The alliance with the Greeks can still be cemented.”
I stare at him in horror. “You still want me to marry Rokiades?”
“Is that a problem?” he asks, threateningly.
“Just one: he’s a fucking monster and a rapist.”