Savage Sinner: An Enemies To Lovers Russian - Italian Dark Mafia Romance (Sinfully Savage Mafia)

They stand toe to toe, glaring at each other when Aunt Maura wheels Aisling’s stroller into the foyer. “I’m just going to take her out for a little walk around the hotel and give you some space, okay?” She makes a dash for the door and I’m right on her heels.

“Guys, I’m getting the hell out of here because I’m honestly a little afraid for my life right now and there is lots of window fucking in my future. Aunt Maura has the right idea.” I smirk. “Don’t kill each other and leave the kid orphaned.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Anya

I thank my Uber driver, Frank, and push open the door of his Toyota Prius, stepping onto the sidewalk. I narrow my eyes at the sign hanging to the right of the restaurant, take a deep breath, and pull open the door.

Artiste.

It’s new, exclusive, and right smack in the center of all the action on the Strip. There’s a rooftop bar with a separate entrance around the side of the building, and the line is around the corner.

This isn’t Uncle Boris’s type of place. He’d never plan a meeting at a hot spot like this. Too many curious eyes and ears all over the place. We’ve always kept a low profile. Being caught in the middle of the party means you have no ability to make a quick getaway.

And in our line of work, you need an escape route.

But if he picked this place, there must be a reason why. I nod at the tall, beefy bouncer standing right inside the doorway. His eyes barely acknowledge me in return and I shake my head. Places like this always seem to employ such condescending assholes, and I laugh at that because, hello! You’re a fucking bouncer!

I sigh as I walk toward the hostesses huddled over an iPad screen.

That was mean.

I bet outside of this place he’s a nice guy.

The hostesses look up at me with evident disgust when I approach, and I have to stop myself from digging into my handbag for a pen to gouge out their overly made-up raccoon eyes.

I force a fake smile. “Boris Antonov,” I say in a sickeningly sweet voice.

And as quickly as the judgment assaults me, it recedes along with the witch-bitch attitudes of these girls.

In fact, they can’t move fast enough to get me to a table tucked into a back corner of the restaurant.

At least he’s being somewhat discreet.

But I do have to wonder why I got such a reception from the hostesses.

Uncle Boris doesn’t exactly have sway or swagger. I mean, yes, he looks like a badass.

Tattooed, menacing, scarred.

But that doesn’t equate to power. Especially not in this town.

And it’s not like he has any name recognition. Vigo, on the other hand, if he were alive? He’d have people kissing his ass for sure.

But Boris Antonov is a soldier. A peon. A nobody in the organization.

So the hostesses’ reactions begs the question…

Who the fuck is the ‘somebody’ who obviously has them scurrying around like cockroaches?

Because I’d stake my life on the fact that it is not my uncle.

He stands up when he sees me walk toward the table and pulls out the chair next to him for me. I look at the setup.

Three places are set.

I quirk an eyebrow and take a quick look around, but we’re pretty much alone in this somewhat quiet and secluded corner.

The place to see and be seen has a spot to avoid being seen.

What in the hell are we even doing here?

I sit down and Uncle Boris pushes in my chair. A waiter appears almost instantly with a tray stocked with highball glasses of a clear liquid garnished with lime.

I smile.

Thank God because I really need a drink right about now.

Maybe that will help me figure out how to navigate this whole shit show.

“Anya,” he says, returning to his seat. “It is good to see you.”

I purse my lips, the sniggering little voice deep inside the recesses of my brain reminding me that I am a mere tool to him. I disregarded it for far too long, but this? Leaving me out here on my own with no direction, floundering around with no knowledge of what I’m supposed to do? Ignoring me for days on end because ‘business opportunities’ got in the way?

I killed a brigadier of the Volkov Bratva, dammit! For him! No questions asked!

I have done so much for him and I’m tired of being a doormat.

And somehow the flicker of hope inside of me for a clear future, not one stained bright red, force out my next words like the catharsis I so desperately need.

Because I’m just tired of choking them down.

“Uncle,” I say without bothering to respond to his comment. I take a breath, still pissed as hell but struggling to keep my voice even. “How could you just leave me out here like this? You sent me into their home, into their lives, with absolutely no idea of what to do.”

He frowns at me. “You are challenging me again, Anya? You think I didn’t send you out here with a plan? I knew Volkov would be suspicious, so I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I let out a dry laugh. “By leaving me in Vegas alone, thinking you were dead because you never bothered to take a second to text me back?”

“I told you, I was focused on this deal. You made it possible when you took care of Vigo.”