Torrid (Sordid 2)

Vasilije’s expression didn’t change. He looked calm and indifferent, but I knew he was not. His fingers had been brushing over the bare skin of my arm as his hand dangled over my shoulder, and they ceased moving. I felt the temperature of his blood rise.

His tone was dark and skeptical. “If that’s fucking true, why tell him? They take us down and that solves all your problems.”

Because my father didn’t want the Serbians arrested. He wanted to rule them. He needed the Markovics under his control.

My father sneered. “You think if your family disappears, no one else will rise to fill that hole? The need for a steady supply of women is too great. This way is fast and clean. We make this deal today, and that’s the end of it.” He reached for his glass of red wine and took a sip. “Do what you want with the information, Goran. I’m a man of my word, as I know you are. If you strike me again after I’ve saved your legacy, I’ll bury you, and your friends will help me do it.”

Goran considered his options for a long moment, even though he had none. My father was a horrible excuse for a man, but he didn’t tell lies. There was no upside. No other option but to take this deal. If the Markovics struck a shipment again after my father offered an olive branch, the Italians might turn on the Serbs.

It was better when everyone played nicely. There was plenty of crime to go around in Cook County.

“How do you know about the undercover agent?” Goran said, his discerning gaze focused on my father.

“I have a person on the inside.”

Goran Markovic’s face twisted with disappointment, unhappy to give up whatever the club was.

My father drummed his fingers on the table, starting with his index and rolling through to the pinkie finger, then repeated the action over and over. Each series of thumps seemed to make Vasilije tenser.

Impatience got the best of my father. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Goran snapped. “My people won’t go near your girls from now on.” He took in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back, assuming a more confident posture. “Other aspects of our businesses overlap, as you push further into areas you shouldn’t. I worry you’re stretching yourself too much, my friend.”

Was he talking about drugs, or guns? My father’s greed and ambition was insatiable. He’d been undercutting the Serbians every chance he got, and pushed further in on their territory each year. The brief truce had lulled my father into a false sense of security, and it’d come back to bite him by way of a bullet to the shoulder.

“I understand your concern, Goran.”

That was all my father would say on the matter.

If the evening wasn’t surreal enough, the men proceeded to order dinner, and then chat as if they were . . . coworkers. Savage men pretending to be civilized. I was introduced to everyone at the table even though I already knew their names.

I could barely tolerate it when Vasilije struck up a conversation with Konstantine. It looked like my brother felt the same way, but he politely participated while stealing glances at me. He wanted to know if I was all right.

“Is there some reason you’re eye-fucking my girl?” Vasilije said abruptly, and the table went silent mid-conversation.

“No,” my brother answered, looking embarrassed. “I wasn’t.”

Vasilije’s deep eyes were acute. “Yeah, you were. I get that she’s gorgeous, but she’s fucking mine.”

I dry swallowed so hard, it was shocking it wasn’t audible. Wasn’t it obvious to Vasilije that Konstantine wasn’t looking at me with anything other than concern? Or was he too possessive to notice the difference? And . . . he’d just announced to the table he thought I was gorgeous.

“Relax, Vasilije,” my father said. “He’s not interested in your whore. He’s a Petrov. I bet this girl,” his icy gray eyes locked with mine, “is only worth what’s between her legs.”

Bile rose in the back of my throat and I had a vision of spitting in his face. I’d watch the glob of it drip down his cheekbone as rich satisfaction overwhelmed me, but I didn’t get the chance. Vasilije straightened in his seat and his expression turned to steel.

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sergey Petrov pressed his lips into a thin line, visibly irritated. People didn’t speak to him like that. “I don’t?” he charged back, patronizing.

“First off, she can’t be a whore since she was a virgin until yesterday.”

My face flushed with heat. I wanted to melt down my chair and disappear beneath the tablecloth.

Only, Vasilije wasn’t done. “And second, you should hear her play the piano. The songs she writes? They’re amazing, and that’s coming from me, who could give a fuck when it comes to music.”