Page 94 of Tainted Blood
Loading my gun, I slide it back into my holster, and make my way down the street to where Grayson is leaning against the passenger’s side of an SUV. It’s a deceptive stance. From an outsider’s point of view, he’s casually observing the scarce activity on a quiet Brighton Beach side street, situated on Brooklyn’s coastline.
I know better these days. Behind that icy façade lies a mind in perpetual motion.
Stopping a couple of feet in front of him, I prop my hip against the front panel. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing. Walking into this sit-down without backup is like fucking a whore without a condom.”
He cocks a dark eyebrow.
“Fuck you,” I grumble, flipping my middle finger. “It’s an expression. I meant by leaving Sanders and RJ in the trenches instead of inside with us.. It’s an open invitation to these idiotas.”
“It’s a concession, not an oversight.” He glances over his shoulder at the restaurant, his murky gaze unreadable. “There were stipulations attached to this meeting. Lisko does his homework, Carrera. He knows who the key players are in every territory. Let him think what he wants.”
It’s an obvious divide and conquer. Grayson and I can hold our own, but with our seconds behind us as backup, we’re an unbeatable force. Denying them access was a strategic move.
“Which means he knows what went down in Italy,” I murmur to myself. And if that’s the case, Sanders and RJ are better off where they are.
“I have a small army with their fingers on the trigger just waiting for my signal,” he says. “Only an ignorant man would meet The Odessa without shields. You’re a lot of things, Carrera, but ignorant isn’t one of them.” He nods to where ten of my best sicarios lie in wait before he strides toward the edge of the road.
Which is exactly why I brought them.
Grayson is methodical, not reckless. I knew he’d have backup. While I don’t anticipate having any of those bullets aimed at me, I don’t leave things to chance.
Pushing away from the SUV, I step forward until we’re standing face to face. “Careful, Grayson… I think you’re starting to like me.”
His narrowed gaze slides to the side. “I tolerate you for the sake of Thalia and this truce.”
“Fair enough.”
Falling into silence, we move as one cohesive unit, crossing the street with intent. Just before we reach the ugly blue awning, he stops abruptly, his arm swinging across my chest.
I glance down. “You better have a damn good reason for doing that.”
“I need you to keep that temper of yours in check,” he warns. “I know how badly you want Zaccaria’s head on a plate, but I guarantee he won’t be in there. We’re here to entice Lisko with a more lucrative import deal. He agreed to meet with us but…” He shakes his head.
“You don’t trust him,” I say flatly.
“I don’t trust anyone, especially a man who does business with any faction of Villefort. Lisko isn’t gullible, Carrera. His favorite color may be green, but it’s closely followed by red. Do you get what I’m saying?”
And he calls me an arrogant bastard...
I’m starting to resent his tone. He may have facilitated this meeting, but I’m not part of his armed fan brigade. I have access to just as much intel as he does.
“Yes, I get you. Money opens doors, bullets close them. We’re either walking into negotiations or a trap.”
Either way, no one is keeping me from walking through those glass doors. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights and bottles of tequila chasing this phantom. It’s grown into an obsession I have to see through, or run the risk of Thalia and I spinning in circles for decades.
Neither of us say a word as the chime above the door announces our presence to the empty restaurant. We walk toward the back, and just as we approach the twin steel doors leading to the kitchen, a pungent aroma seeps through the cracks.
I arch an eyebrow. “Borscht?”
“Lisko has a thing about cooking during meetings.” When I arch the other eyebrow, he shakes his head. “Don’t ask.”
With each of us taking a door, we swing them open to find Artem Lisko sitting behind a folding table, elbows propped and fingers steepled like he’s the fucking Godfather.
“I was wondering how long you girls were going to dance outside my restaurant.”
His joke obviously amuses him, his chins jiggling in unison as that Slavic accent rolls off his tongue like curdled milk. However, it’s his smirk that catches my attention the most—a wide Cheshire Cat-like grin that spans the length of his fleshy face and bald head.
“You like to watch, Lisko?” I taunt, earning myself a sharp look from my left.