“He’s got the Lombardi loyalists,” I point out. “And the Marianis. That’s a lot of angry Italian mobsters who want Kian dead.”
“And do the Marianis know where you stand?”
I frown. “What?”
“Invitations to your wedding went out days ago. The Marianis are here fighting with the Greeks because they think you’ve aligned yourself with Rokiades.”
My eyes go wide. “You think they’ll stop fighting if I…?”
“I don’t know,” he cuts me off quickly. “I know next to nothing about the Marianis, their intentions, or their ambitions. All I know is that they were the last to swear allegiance to Rokiades. And their word came only after the invitations went out.”
At that, all the puzzle pieces click together. I realize something: I started this shit. Maybe I can help finish it.
Just then, the door flies open. I freeze. Phoenix jumps to his feet with his gun raised. “For fuck’s sake,” he breathes when he takes in the men at the door. “Took you fuckers long enough.”
Both men are tall and well-built. Now, the Russian I’d overheard earlier makes sense. Of course they’d be speaking Russian. They’re Bratva. Like Phoenix.
“She’s badly injured,” he tells them, pointing at Sarah where she’s still lying on the blood-soaked rug. “Gunshot to the lower abdomen. Make sure to be careful when you move her.”
The moment Phoenix finishes with his instructions, another man walks into the room. He’s basically an older version of Phoenix and his presence seems to fill the room.
“Son,” he says.
Fuck me—is this Phoenix’s father? The two of them look like they belong on magazine covers. That’s one hell of a gene pool.
“Where’s Kian?” Phoenix asks immediately.
“With Cillian.”
I step aside so that the Bratva men can move Sarah. As father and son talk to one another, I realize no one is focused on me. At least, not yet. And the thought is running through my head again and again: You started this. You can end it.
I pick up a stray gun lying on the floor and snake across the room as Phoenix and his father help ensure Sarah is in an appropriate position to be moved.
I’m right at the door, when Phoenix notices me.
“Renata!” he booms. “Where are you going?”
Two pairs of identical eyes fall on me. Maybe it’s because he’s close to my age, but I don’t find Phoenix intimidating.
His father, on the other hand, looks like a man you’d rather die than cross.
“I have to help if I can,” I stammer.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Phoenix’s father says firmly.
There’s at least five feet between me and the nearest Bratva soldier. Which means I’ve got to move fast. Thankfully, I’ve always been a runner. So, rather than answer, I bolt out of the room, just as I hear a loud curse and the stomp of boots pursuing me.
Phoenix is hot on my trail. Unfortunately for him, all those hours of forced treadmill running at Rokiades’s behest has really upped my game. I speed through the corridors towards the other end of the house, leaving him behind.
I’m going so fast that I fly into a random soldier who appears out of nowhere. We slam together and I crash-land on my belly on the floor.
He thumps somewhere adjacent to me, but he’s already twisting around, attempting to shoot. Then he sees Phoenix bursting around the corner and changes aim, eliminating the Greek before he can get his shot off.
You started this, I tell myself. Onlyyou can finish it.
As I continue running through the house, I risk a glance over my shoulder. Phoenix is fighting off two new soldiers. But I’m reassured that he’s not hurt. Matter of fact, he looks like he’s in his element. Happy as a pig in shit, as Drago used to say about the Irishmen who’d stolen our heritage from us. The adage applies to the young Russian as he lays waste to the poor, outmatched Greeks.
I leave them behind and tear through the house, moving towards the sound of fighting rather than away from it. My instincts are screaming at me, but I ignore them.