Where the Wind Whispers (Seasons of Betrayal Book 3) (9 page)

“Traffic,” Violet lied, sliding out of the car.

Alberto peered down the street devoid of heavy traffic. “Oh?”

“Sure.”

That was her story, and she was sticking to it. There was no need to explain that she hadn’t felt like getting out of bed to play pet to her father and whoever he was entertaining for the day, so she had ignored the driver’s calls to her
new
cell phone.

A cell phone provided by Alberto.

“You look wonderful,” Alberto praised, his sharp gaze taking in the modest, navy blue dress Violet had grabbed out of the closet to throw on. It was the closest thing to the door when she realized just how late she actually was—the tag on the inside of the collar said it was one of her mother’s dresses in her collection. Even her clothes were being picked for her, technically. “Except your face. You’re a little green.”

Coldness washed through Violet’s bloodstream fast and harsh. She was positive that if there had been any odd color to her cheeks from fighting off another bout of morning sickness, it was now replaced by a sheet of white.

“Fine, Daddy. I’m perfectly fine.”

Violet had turned back to the car as she’d said the words, hoping that her father wasn’t watching what was left of her color drain from her face. She reached inside and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she turned back to her father with a smile she knew would distract him.

If only for a moment …

Alberto’s eyes were still nailed on Violet, unfortunately. “If you’re not feeling well—”

Violet laughed, smiling a little wider even though it hurt her cheeks to do so. Whatever it took, right? Whatever she needed to do to be safe and then get back to Kaz.

She could do this.

Leaning up, Violet pressed a quick kiss to her father’s cheek. Alberto smiled at the action, but he was still watching her.

Maybe a bit too much.

Violet doubted for even a second that her father would call her on the lies. He liked her compliance too much to ruin it.

He thought she was stupid.

Alberto forgot the most important thing about the two of them.

She was
his
child.

He’d taught her well.

“I’m fine,” Violet promised. “And we’re late.”

“We are. It’s an important day, Violet. Try not to mess that up for me, yes.”

He didn’t pose it as a question.

She didn’t really need the reminder, either.

Violet let her father lead her down the street toward a restaurant she recognized as belonging to a family friend. And by “family friend,” she meant one of her father’s men. The closer they came, the quieter Violet was as her father tucked her hand into his arm at his elbow as if to keep her in place at his side.

It wasn’t as if he’d let her do much else from the moment she showed back up on his doorstep. She’d even noticed that Alberto chose to do
more
business at the mansion than he usually would since she returned. It was almost as if he believed the less time she was out of his sight, and the more time she spent away from Kaz, whatever spell she’d found herself under would simply disappear.

Who knew?

The times when her father
did
manage to speak to her, it was usually to order Violet to do something Alberto wanted her to do. What he never did, however, was acknowledge what she had done.

Kaz. Chicago. Lying. Running.

All of it.

For whatever reason, Alberto was sweeping it under the rug.

Or so it seemed.

Violet didn’t trust her father, and she didn’t think it would all be forgotten in the way Alberto was making it all seem as if it would.

“Who are we having lunch with again?” Violet asked.

“Friends.”

“Anyone I know?”

“People you know will
be
there,” Alberto replied, glancing down at his watch as they rounded the restaurant steps. “Carmine is here, obviously. To learn.”

Violet’s brow knitted together at that omission. She knew better than to ask questions, though. Alberto wouldn’t answer one if she did ask him.

“Where’s Andrea?”

Alberto waved a hand high, waving off the question as his attention focused on the door opening for them. “Your mother is somewhere.”

Violet took note of the fact Alberto hadn’t called her out on using her mother’s given name. While she could pretend with Alberto, Andrea Gallucci was a whole other story. Where Alberto would stay quiet and punish Violet from afar with his silence and demands—not that Violet minded the distance—Andrea had no qualms with being vocal.

That was … when others weren’t around to hear her spewing her hatred.

No surprise.

The first time her mother had muttered
puttana
under her breath had been a bit of a shock. Violet simply smiled and shrugged in response.

What the hell else could she do?

“This way, Mr. Gallucci,” the man said. He was dressed in a simple black uniform with a tablet in his hands, much like the other servers milling between the fancily decorated tables they passed. He led them straight through the main dining room to a semi-private section at the back, blocked off by a partial wall and sheer curtains draped in such a way that the layers made it difficult to see through. “We’re only waiting on one person.”

“Which one?” Alberto asked.

“One from the other side, of course.”

Alberto smiled thinly. “Of course.”

Violet wasn’t quite sure what to make of the strange interaction, but all seemed to be forgotten as the server waved them in to where Violet found her brother waiting at the table with another gentleman. A man that was, guessing by the deep lines in his face and graying hair, closer to her father’s age.

Carmine didn’t stand when they entered the private area, but the older man did, stepping back from his chair and offering a hand to Alberto.

Violet thought she knew what the action was meant to do—she’d seen it play out a dozen times before whenever she attended
dinners
her father had put together. It was a sign of respect for a man in a lower position to take Alberto’s hand and kiss the signet ring he wore on his middle finger.

That didn’t happen this time.

Instead, Alberto took the man’s hand and they both gave a slight nod and nothing more.

Alberto dropped the man’s hand without a word and reached for the chair at the left side of the table, nodding for Violet to sit. She did and pulled in the chair herself as Alberto took the empty seat at the right hand side, directly across from her.

There would be no distractions for her.

Not with Alberto in a prime position to both watch her and the table without even having to turn his head to do it.

“It’s been a while, old friend,” Alberto said, gaze turning on the older man to his left.

“Carmine was barely eighteen,” the man agreed. “I think I liked him better then.”

Carmine barely looked up from the glass of amber colored liquid in his hand, but he did manage a smirk of sorts. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that, Accardo.”

“Carmine.” Alberto’s tone dipped a single cadence as he said his son’s name, a ring of warning chasing fast behind. “We’re among friends.”

“Because you need those now,” Carmine replied, deadpan.

Violet was … lost.

“Car—”

“Now, now,” the man interrupted, a chuckle forcing its way past his false smile. “It’s fine, Alberto. He’s right to be …
hesitant
.”

Still, Alberto gave Carmine a quick look and said, “Friends,
figlio
.”

Violet was never more thankful for an interruption than when the server returned with wine and water balanced on a tray. She opted for the water, knowing damn well she couldn’t drink, even if it would make the dinner pass by faster.

Once the server was gone again, Alberto’s attention was back on his guest. “It’s been a while, Angelo. What have I missed since the last time I visited Philly?”

For some reason, Violet felt like there was a secret passing around the people at the table, but it had skipped her completely. Her brother was watching her from the corner of his eye, his glass tipped high for him to sip from. The conversation between her father and this … Angelo Accardo … continued in the background, as if they were old friends catching up.

“And you, Carmine,” Angelo said loudly, breaking Violet’s train of thought, “you were married and didn’t even bother to send us an invitation, my boy. Imagine my surprise.”

Carmine’s sardonic smile melted away. “It came about kind of fast.”

Alberto coughed at the head of the table. “Yes, and we certainly needed the distraction.”

The way his gaze cut to Violet again, she knew without a doubt he was talking about her little episode with Kaz and running off to Chicago. Apparently, that was when Nicole and Carmine’s wedding had taken place, though no one talked very much about it.

It made Violet wonder if someone had something to hide.

The wedding couldn’t have been
just
a distraction for the public to keep the attention off the fact Violet had taken off with Kaz.

No one got married to
distract
others.

Right?

“Well, congratulations are still in order,” Angelo said, holding his glass of wine high. “Congrats, Carmine.”

Carmine held his own glass up in response, but hesitated on his words as his gaze focused on something—or rather, someone—behind Angelo. Violet followed her brother’s gaze to find yet another stranger dressed impeccably with golden rings adorning fingers. The disinterest on the man’s face was clear as the server moved just beyond his form in the entry to introduce him.

He looked no older than Carmine was, and if he was, it couldn't be by very much. He was good-looking and filled his suit out well. His posture spoke of confidence and arrogance, while his scowl spoke of attitude and a lack of patience.

In a blink at the sight of the newcomer, Carmine’s disgust and irritation was suddenly back. It was almost as if he’d smelled something bad and got a taste of it all at the same time.

“Get on with it,” the man snapped at the server.

Violet blinked at the rudeness in the man’s tone.

Carmine didn’t seem surprised.

Angelo, however, sighed. “Son …”

“Caesar Accardo,” the server muttered.

The man was quick to disappear again.

Caesar
.

The name felt … familiar. Somehow.

It was surely appropriate for the man if his temper and behavior was any indication. He certainly acted like a fucking tyrant or so it seemed.

“Get a chair, son. Say hello, and sit down,” Angelo said without even turning to greet his son.

Caesar took the chair next to his father, the one closest to Violet, and directly across from Carmine’s position. He offered Carmine a cocky grin. “Long time, no see, Carmine. It’s been what—three years?”

Carmine’s features barely changed from the stone mask he now wore. “Has it been that long? How’s Tiffany? I haven’t talked to her since I kicked her ass out of my place. Is she still jerking you off under the table at family dinners?”

“Carmine!” Alberto barked. “That is enough.”

Well, Violet supposed she didn’t need the wine as she watched her brother and Caesar glare at one another from their respective positions.

This dinner just got a whole lot more interesting.

Seven hours and one red-eye flight to Chicago later, Kaz was in the backseat of the car that Vadim had sent to pick him up from the private airfield. While he had been free to come and go as he pleased when he was only using the city as a refuge, that was no longer the case when he was attempting to go up against a politician to get to his father.

For that, Vadim, the head and patriarch of the Boykov family, had requested a meeting first.

Though he knew which way the man would lean once he told him everything he knew, Kaz understood the man’s precaution and knew that he would need more than what little Denis had offered if he was to sway the man.

That was why Kaz had tasked Alfie with the job of finding out who was helping his father. It was one of the skills Alfie had mastered. It was why, though he was still skeptical as to what he would find on the tape, Kaz trusted that whatever was there would definitely be enough.

Before leaving, he hadn’t bothered to pack a bag or bring anything with him, though he
had
found a small electronics shop where he could purchase a camera that fit the tape.

If he were honest, Kaz hadn’t thought the Brit would have been able to find the man, or men, responsible, not in such a short amount of time—less than two weeks actually. But then again, as he pressed play and waited for the footage to play, it hadn’t been less than a couple of weeks.

Longer, in fact, if the timestamp at the bottom of the screen was to be believed. This was more than a month ago, back when Kaz still in the hospital and unable to ask Alfie to do anything.

He didn’t believe for a second that the man would have gone hunting on his own. He was far too selfish.

Then again, he had shown up to the hospital with Vera, as though he had every right …

Maybe Kaz had underestimated their relationship, and even as that thought processed, he didn’t like the idea that there was a relationship at all.

But that was a conversation for another day.

Focusing back on the video, Kaz tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The camera was set at an odd angle—one that made him think whoever was behind the surveillance had worn a hidden camera.

The wearer was at a restaurant, sitting a couple of tables down from Vasily and a man Kaz didn’t immediately recognize. Anger bubbled up inside him as he watched his father smiling, laughing as he enjoyed his drink, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

As though he hadn’t left Kaz for dead in the middle of a New York sidewalk.

As more time passed—over twenty minutes—Vasily lost that careful smile on his face and his annoyance flared as he said something to the man that earned him a shake of his head. When he repeated the question and got the same answer in response, Vasily reached across the table and fisted the front of the man’s suit jacket. Pulling him until they were nose-to-nose, Vasily’s displeasure was clear.

This time, the man didn’t shake his head. Instead, he yanked out a small cell phone and made a call.

The scene cut off there then another one replaced it just as quickly. This time, it was Denis standing outside a convenience store with a cigarette in his hand as he listened to a call. Whoever was behind the camera, this time, was shorter, and obviously didn’t pose a threat since Denis didn’t seem to pay them much attention.

Was that how Alfie did it? He had a bunch of spies who fed him information?

Denis spoke in rapid Russian, probably not thinking that his conversation would get back to Kaz.

“No,” he said to whomever he spoke with, “he’s still under. The Italian girl hasn’t left his side, and his brother has people in his room at all times.”

He paused a beat, listening to the response on the other end. “Ruslan ordered that we all look for you, but I’ll make sure they stay clear, boss.”

There was only one man Denis would call ‘boss.’

More snippets of video followed that confirmed not only what Denis had said, but questions as to others he had been working with.

By the time he was arriving at the downtown location, Kaz had seen more than enough.

Shutting it down, he let himself out the back of the car instead of waiting for the driver, following one of Vadim’s men into the building when he saw him approach. On the surface, it looked like any other office building, complete with building security, a front desk, and even a sign that told visitors where offices were located, but despite its appearance, the building, aside from the three uppermost floors, was empty.

With a quick call upstairs, the guard pressed his key against the sensor inside the elevator then stepped back out, leaving Kaz to journey up alone. A blinking red light caught his attention in the upper corner of the lift. Vadim was not a man who hid his distrust of others, and one could never be too careful.

Once he finally stopped, and the doors slid open with a ding, Kaz stepped off, and Konstantin Boykov, the heir apparent to the Boykov family, immediately greeted him. Unlike his brother, who seemed to be absent, Konstantin could usually be found with their father—whether that was accompanying Vadim to a meeting or simply because his father had requested he stay longer on a particular matter.

A lot was expected of Konstantin, though he never let that burden show.

“Bullshit,” Konstantin said the minute Kaz was within earshot.

He didn’t have to ask what the other man referred to. Giving the camera in his hand a little shake, Kaz shrugged. “Alfie is good at what he does. Besides, politicians are good at hiding things—it’s what they do.”

“Politician or not,” Konstantin said as he nodded his head toward Vadim’s office, leading the way. “We would have heard
something
. Nothing happens in this city that we don’t know about.”

Kaz didn’t disagree. He had found this development rather odd as well. They both had enough reach in their respective homes to have gotten word of
anything
Vasily did, yet he had managed to stay under the radar until
he
had been ready to make an appearance.

“We’ll have answers soon enough,” Kaz said beneath his breath as they entered the office.

And even if they didn’t get answers, he was just ready to put Vasily in the ground—it was long overdue.

“Kazimir,” Vadim greeted with his trademark smile, rising from the chair behind his desk to come around and pull him into a hug, clapping him on the back. “It’s been a while, no?”

While it wasn’t easy to get in the good graces of Vadim Boykov, once you were, he treated you like family. But the second that trust was broken, there was no getting back in. That was why he still welcomed Kaz with open arms but vowed to kill Vasily on sight.

“How’s your wife?” Vadim went on as he reclaimed his seat, gesturing for Kaz to take the one opposite him.

“She’s fine.”

Vadim’s smile grew just a bit, though there was a coolness to his voice as he said, “I’m glad to hear. I’ve been trying to convince Konstantin here that it’s time for him to settle down, find a nice girl to make a home with.”

Something akin to horror crossed Konstantin’s face, but he tempered his reaction when his father looked at him. “Yes,
find
is the operative word. Perhaps, if you stop interfering, I may be able to work on that.”

Vadim tsked but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he focused on Kaz. “What do you have for me? When your brother called, the last thing I expected him to say was that your father was
here,
considering our last meeting didn’t go over so well.”

Right … when threats of death were issued, and Vadim had gone as far as to pull a gun on Vasily, intending to shoot him at that moment before Kaz and Konstantin got between the men.

Sometimes, when he thought about that night, Kaz wondered why he hadn’t just let Vasily die that day.

“He’s desperate,” Kaz supplied, setting the camera on the desk between them and pushing it across. “I originally suspected he might have gone home to Russia—he still has contacts there—but one of the few still loyal to him told me he was here in Chicago, and this footage confirms it.”

He didn’t explain any further, letting the Chicago boss see the evidence for himself without any input, but almost to the second that he pressed play, Vadim was shaking his head as he pointed at the man Vasily was having a meeting with in the restaurant.

“That’s Collins’ political advisor,” he explained.

If there had been any lingering doubt as to the validity of what Kaz thought, it was gone now. “Collins may have a lot of reach,” Kaz said after a moment, “but there’s only so much he’ll do to protect Vasily.”

“Especially if we’re taking care of a problem for him,” Konstantin added. “He’ll be glad to hand him over should we pay him a visit.”

Only once the tape stopped playing did Vadim give Kaz back his attention. “Should you find your father—
if
this was not merely a stop before he leaves again—what do you intend to do with him?” Before Kaz could respond, Vadim held a hand up. “I know your intentions, but we often think we can betray blood, but that proves harder when you’re staring down the barrel of the gun at them.”

Without a word, Kaz drew the edge of his collar down, unveiling the scar he was careful to keep hidden. Though it had healed with time, it was still prominent. “Trust me, there’s nothing left.”

Sitting back, Vadim steepled his fingers. “Konstantin, call your brother. I’m sure he would like to be a part of this. Kazimir, I’ll make a couple of calls. We’ll have the location within the next two hours.”

And within the next three, Vasily was a dead man.

The Gallucci mansion was brought to life by the decorations coloring up the halls and the twinkle lights strung up along the vaulted ceilings. Violet didn’t know what occasion warranted the catered party, but she was always the last to know anything where her family was concerned.

She was not a
priority
now.

Violet walked among familiar faces but offered little more than a nod and a smile when someone tried to engage her in conversation. There was no doubt in her mind that these people—her father and mother’s
people
—had already formed one opinion or another about her. She was not going to play pretty and pretend for the crowd any more than she would have to throughout the night.

Thankfully, her father wasn’t demanding too much of her. Alberto had mostly left her alone.

It didn’t matter.

Violet was beginning to think the party wasn’t about her. Given the way the guests’ attention focused mainly on her parents, her brother, and his wife, she figured it had something to do with them.

Italians always had to make a show of things.

Over the years, Violet had become accustomed to such parties for nothing more than a simple announcement or even just because someone wanted an excuse to get plastered.

Violet milled about a little more, acting interested and taking flutes of champagne only to dump the contents into the closest flowerpot the moment someone turned their back. When the people started to swell into the two main rooms, she pushed her way into the kitchen, needing to breathe.

She was careful to keep her features schooled no matter where she went—someone was always watching and reporting on her.