Page 60 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
He’s too driven by his pride, and it will be his downfall.
19
Sasha
Nero has a plan. I’m both relieved and concerned. If he has a plan, it will be mapped out to perfection. I know that, but it will also be insane. He is the mad Italian after all.
I step onto the runway at La Guardia and get into the waiting SUV. Jackson slides onto the seat beside me, his shovel-like hands resting on his thighs casually.
He looks tense, ready for a fight. Nero can be a loose cannon, but his two right-hand men could not be any more different. Giovanni is tempered, calm, logical. He’s a man who upholds traditions and morals, who lives by a code. Jackson is pure brawn. He shoots first and asks questions later, and much like Nero, has little time for morals or codes. As Nero has climbed to power, I’ve noticed he is more and more influenced by Gio. Power is about politics as well as brute strength and fear.
Una should be here, but she stayed behind with Tommy and the rest of the men she took with her to Sicily. Apparently, this plan requires her to stay and keep pressing Enrique. Tonight, I believe she’s going to blow up one of his bars. It should just be a job, but she likes this rampage a little too much.
We don’t go to the villa in the Hamptons, instead winding through the city until we reach the Manhattan penthouse that Nero. The building stretches into the sky like a mirrored blade, reflecting the New York skyline around it. We take the private elevator up to the top floor, where I find Margot in the kitchen, feeding Dante. She pauses when she sees me.
“He’s waiting for you in the office.”
“Thanks, Margot.” Jackson winks and smiles at the older woman, making her cheeks tinge pink.
I ignore them both, striding along the corridor to the office. Nero leans against the front of his desk, glass of liquor in hand. Gio sits on one of the couches, his expression stern and unwavering. He looks a little ruffled, his hair not quite as neat as usual, and his tie appears as though he’s been tugging at the knot.
“Ah, Sasha, Jackson.” He greets us briefly. “Sit,” Nero instructs, pointing at the sofa. He pours out a glass of whiskey for Jackson, before hovering over another glass and raising a questioning brow at me.
I shake my head.
“So, what’s this plan of yours?” Jackson asks.
A wry smile plays over Nero’s lips. “Simple. Bianchi employed the Elite. Well, now he’s about to bite the hand that feeds him.”
I frown. “He’s not stupid. He’s never going to start a fight with the Elite.”
“Not the Elite.” He takes a sip of his drink and places it down on the desk. “Ronan Cole.”
Jackson chokes on his whiskey, and I sigh. “Careful, Nero. You don’t want to get on that man’s radar.”
“I’m not going to. I’m going to set Bianchi up. He’s going to steal from Mr. Cole.”
I don’t like this. Ronan Cole is insane, literally, completely unhinged. He’s also powerful in ways that make Nero’s operation look like child’s play. He isn’t just in the Bratva. He is the Bratva. He owns the Elite; he owns everything. From funding the Russian government to creating and selling weapons of mass destruction, he is quite literally a world player. In Russia, they call him D’Yavol—the devil.
“This is unwise, Nero,” I warn. “Whatever issues you have with the Elite, that will be nothing compared to what Cole will bring down on you. He’ll shut down your entire business with a phone call.”
“I’ve had dealings with Cole. He’s a madman, yes, but he respects strength. And he doesn’t like to be stolen from. He’ll make an example of Bianchi.”
Something uncomfortable settles in my gut, but I swallow it down.
“You’re pitting one enemy against another,” Gio ponders.
“No, he’s using a sledgehammer to swat a fly,” I mumble.
“How?” Jackson asks. “How are you going to get Bianchi to go after that shipment?”
“Simple. He’ll think it’s mine. Follow me.” Nero straightens and walks out of the room.
We all follow him up to one of the spare rooms. He takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door before stepping inside. A man scrambles up from a chair in the corner, his eyes darting wildly between Nero and me. He’s young, maybe not even in his twenties. His face is covered in an array of bruises, and there’s blood down the front of his shirt, possibly from a broken nose.
“Ah, David, you’re awake. Good.” Nero claps his hands, and the boy jumps, eliciting a smile from Nero. He puts a hand on the boys trembling shoulder.
“Bianchi is forever trying to get moles inside my operation. Ever since Gabriella first brought her sister here,” Nero says, turning to face us. “This is David Russo, a second cousin to Enrique Bianchi. And he’s a rat, aren’t you, David?”
