“I can do whatever I want to,” Alberto snapped right back. He stood straight, brushing Vito off when the man tried to calm the situation down. “And you—what did you do in all of this to cause a scene like that?”
Carmine opened his mouth to speak, but Alberto held a hand high, stopping him.
“Do not lie to me, son,” her father warned. “I will know you did. Do you think your men—those enforcers—are so loyal to you that they forget which hand has fed them for years? Don’t. Lie.”
“I might have knocked him a little as I passed him by in the hallway,” Carmine said, “but that doesn’t justify Kazimir’s response, boss.”
Alberto’s gaze narrowed. “Men of honor hold themselves to a far higher standard than games of that sort, Carmine. And you, as a Capo, are well aware of that. Since when have I ever accepted childish taunting and antics between my men to encourage tensions, huh? When? Answer me.”
“You don’t.”
“I don’t,” Alberto repeated, spitting the words out.
Violet was still trying to catch up to what she was hearing. But she understood enough. Clearly, Carmine and Kaz had a run in at some point over the day, and it did not end well.
“And now,” Alberto continued, “I have men in an uproar because this is the second issue in the span of a month with the Russians.”
“We could … finish them off,” Vito suggested quietly.
“What for?” Alberto asked. “And to whose gain?”
Violet figured she should probably make herself known or scarce, but she found her feet were like cement stuck to the floor.
When Vito didn’t respond, Alberto turned back on Carmine.
“I know you’re … sensitive … over the events from a couple of weeks ago,” Alberto said, “but that was a choice made by me, not the Russians. And if you want someone to take your anger out on, you are more than welcome to meet me behind a closed door where we will discuss my choices as a boss and his capo and nothing more. Stay away from the Russians, Carmine. And stay the fuck away from that restaurant, regardless of the business you have with Alfred Shelby.”
Carmine straightened a bit more, glared at his father and tipping his chin up. Alberto almost mimicked the pose perfectly, and it struck Violet in that moment how similar her brother and father really were.
“Are you scared of the Russians?” Carmine asked, deadly calm. “Is that it, boss?”
Alberto didn’t even blink. “I have no need to be, and you will not make a reason for me. Is that understood?”
Just as quickly as her brother’s defiance had shown itself, it left. Carmine gave one nod, and then moved toward the door, but stopped in his step as he saw her standing there.
Alberto noticed her then, too.
“Violet,” her father said, his tone turning much softer than it had been.
Almost … relieved.
“I didn’t know we were having a party … or whatever,” Violet said, pointedly looking around at the men in Alberto’s office.
Alberto waved it off. “Nonsense. No party. I just wanted to have you come over, see your face. I worry.”
Oh.
Violet understood, then.
Something had happened, and her father panicked, calling her to the mansion. He wanted to make sure she was safe from any possible action—no matter how slight it was—they might face.
“Of course,” Carmine said, scoffing as he tried passing Violet in the doorway.
She didn’t move, confused by the bitterness in her brother’s tone. Looking up at him, she found his cold, brown eyes boring down into hers.
“Always worry about poor, little Violet, right?” Carmine asked, shooting his father a look over his shoulder.
Alberto’s gaze passed between his son and daughter. “Now is not the time for that, Carmine.”
What had she missed?
“It’s never the time, but your favorites are showing, Dad.”
Alberto’s back stiffened like someone had shoved a stake there. “Carmine.”
Carmine sneered as he pushed past his sister. “I bet had Kazimir Markovic put his hands on your daughter’s throat like he had mine, he’d already be in a grave.”
Violet swallowed the lump in her throat, looking back at her father.
Alberto was watching her, too. And she could plainly see his unspoken confirmation written in his posture and shining in his gaze. Yes, if her father thought for even one second that Kaz had touched her, the man would be dead.
He didn’t know it, but those hands had already been on her throat.
And everywhere else.
More than once.
“Where’ve you been?” Ruslan asked as he oversaw the men bringing in his new shipment of vodka—they had a tendency to go through it rather quickly.
Kaz shook his head at his brother. “Most of you gossip more than women.”
Leveling his eyes on him, Ruslan said, “Any change to your routine, no matter how minute, will be noticed by somebody. Careful there, little brother, you don’t want someone digging into your secrets—you won’t like the result.”
Kaz didn’t dismiss his words as easily as he had Abram’s, not when he knew how true that statement was. They had both suffered the consequences of someone being a little too curious.