Ruthless Vow (Vegas Vicious #2)

8. Leo

8

Leo

At midnight, I head west into the desert on a ribbon of road that’s weathered and cracked from years of punishing sun and scalding heat. In my rear-view mirror, the lights of Las Vegas create a hazy orange smudge on the horizon. I’ve passed one car in the past half hour. Traffic is sparse this far outside Vegas city limits. Endless sand stretches in either direction, grayish-silver under the light of the moon, the expanse interrupted by jagged rocks, dunes, scrub brush and the occasional Joshua tree. The feeling of isolation is utter and complete.

I’ve left the windows of the Porsche open. The air is cool and smells like sage and mesquite. I try to focus on the wind in my hair, the smell of the air, the feel of the car responding as I push it faster. But instead, I keep thinking of Nicole and that kiss. That fucking kiss. The sounds she made as I ravaged her mouth, taking what I wanted.

I want to take every part of her.

Fuck.

I turn off State Route 160 onto a two-lane road and a few moments later, take an unmarked dirt turnout. There, I stop and turn off the engine, then get out of the car and wait.

I don’t wait long. A black Audi e-tron pulls in behind me.

A man unfolds his tall frame from the car and saunters toward me. His dark hair is tousled, worn long enough to touch his collar. In the moonlight, his eyes appear more silver than blue as he watches me warily.

“Leonardo,” he says.

“Nikolai,” I say.

We are not friends. He is Nikolai Ivanov, the son of Mikhail Ivanov, the man who hired Enzo Bianchi to kill my father. Despite that, I do not quite consider Nikolai my enemy. My father thought he had potential, that he would one day lead the Ivanov syndicate with honor and intelligence, and my father was never wrong about such things.

On the other hand, Nikolai’s father is a man with many enemies and no friends. A man whose cruelty and lack of care for his underlings is legendary. Where my father ruled using loyalty, the bonds of love, and a strong hand when needed, Mikhail rules with terror.

The thing is, the man who ruled the Ivanovs before him, his brother Vlasta, was a good man. My father respected him and they were able to maintain peace for decades. Hell, Vlasta would have been invited to Sabina’s engagement party.

Nikolai loved Vlasta as a father. Loved him as much as he hates his actual father.

And that is why we are here.

“I have some information I think will interest you,” I say.

“In exchange for what?” Nikolai asks.

“Information in return.”

“Go on,” he says.

I tip my head back and enjoy the view of the stars. “You mentioned when last we spoke that your uncle had had a full physical the week before he died. That there was nothing wrong with his heart. Yet, a week later he was dead. From a heart attack.”

“He met with your father that morning and was dead that afternoon,” Nikolai says, and I hear the pain in his voice. He mourns his uncle still.

“You said that the last time I saw you,” I say. “And do you recall my reply?”

Nikolai snorts. “Yeah. You told me not look for a snake in your yard when I have a viper in my own. That was a strong accusation to make.”

“It is,” I agree. “And at the time, all I had was an accusation.”

“And now?” Nikolai says.

“Now I have a little more than just suspicion. But I don’t yet have definitive proof.” I pause and finally turn my face away from the sky and toward him. “Mikhail knows my father didn’t kill Vlasta. Because Mikhail is the one who did.”

Nikolai hisses out a breath but doesn’t argue the point.

“Does your father want others to believe the Russos iced your uncle Vlasta? Is that why he ordered the hit on my father?” I ask.

Nikolai jerks as if I slapped him. “What?”

“Your father hired Enzo Bianchi to kill my father. I have Bianchi’s confession on tape.”

“Fuck,” Nikolai snarls.

“So you didn’t know.” I had suspected as much. Mikhail is a secretive, suspicious fucker who trusts no one, not even his own son.

“I didn’t know,” he says and falls silent.

I know the thoughts spinning through his mind. He is calculating the fury I will rain down on the Ivanovs, wondering how bad the fallout will be. Wondering why I have not yet begun my campaign of vengeance.

“Do you know about the attack on my yacht?” I ask.

“I heard rumors,” he says. “Didn’t know for certain until right now. It wasn’t us.”

“I know.” I pause. “Your relationship with the Russian syndicate in Chicago is one of tense cooperation, yeah?”

He huffs a dark laugh. “You could say that. We’ve had some disagreements with the Vasilievs. Why?”

“Because it was Chicago people on my yacht. In your city.”

“In my father’s city.”

Neither of us need to say more. Mikhail would never agree to have men from another syndicate stir up shit in his town. If he’d wanted me dead, he would have sent his own people to try to kill me. He would never have agreed to a rival group doing the hit on his turf.

“Two of them are staying just up the road at the Mojave Desert Inn,” I say, and allow myself to smile.

Nikolai smiles back. “Lead on,” he says.

We leave the cars and walk the mile to the motel, a low building with cracked and faded paint and a neon sign that flickers and gasps. The parking lot is dusty and unpaved, with only two cars parked at opposite ends. One of them is a rental car that’s parked in front of a room with partially open curtains, the light from the TV leaking through.

A glance inside reveals two men, one who appears to be sleeping, the other sitting up, watching TV.

I pull on gloves and slide my knife from its sheath at the small of my back, tipping my head to let Nikolai know I’ll take the man on the left. He nods and tips his head toward the guy on the right, the one who’s sleeping.

The sagging, sun-bleached door gives way under my boot.

As my target surges from the bed with a cry, I’m already beside him, catching his wrist, twisting it, forcing his gun to point away from me as I sink my blade into his upper right abdomen, hitting his liver. I spin him and plunge the blade into his right lower back, three times in quick succession, getting his right kidney. He grunts, struggling, not realizing he’s already dead. I slash deep on the inner edge of his upper thigh, his femoral artery spurting blood in sharp bursts to stain the faded bedspread and drip down on the cracked tile.

I push against his breastbone, sending him toppling back on the bed, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow. In less than a minute, he’s unconscious from the blood loss. In three more minutes, he breathes his last. I wipe my blade clean on his shirt and slide it back into its sheath. I haven’t even broken a sweat.

Then I look over at Nikolai. His target lies on the bed, his face blue, veins bulging at his temples, a deep, discolored indentation circling his neck. Nikolai slides the wire garrotte into his pocket and slowly removes his gloves.

“Disposal?” he asks softly.

“I think not,” I say. “We’ll leave them. It’ll send a message to Chicago that Vegas isn’t a friendly place. Not for them.”