Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(75)

“No, it’s definitely not. Apparently, there was a big meeting of the heads of all the families in Boston recently, and it didn’t end well. The Irish were pissed about what happened to their guys at La Cantina—”

“Back up. The Irish were there? This meeting wasn’t only with different families in the Russian mafia?”

“Apparently, all the families were there. The Armenians, the Italians, the Mexicans, the Chinese, the Irish.” She shrugs. “Everybody.”

I can see it in my head, like a scene from a movie. A long table surrounded by dangerous-looking men wearing black overcoats and smoking cigars, everyone staring with suspicion at each other with narrowed eyes, weapons cocked under the table.

“Anyway, things got hairy, and the Irish pulled out their guns. From what I could overhear, it sounded pretty bloody.”

I slump into my chair, feeling sick. “Was this meeting Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Because Kage showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night with a bullet wound.”

Sloane’s eyes widen. “Oh shit. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. I stitched him up.”

She blinks. “You did what, now?”

I wave a hand in the air dismissively. “It’s easier than it sounds. Back to the meeting. What else happened?”

“So apparently, the Russians have been top dogs on the East Coast for decades now. Even with their leader Maxim in prison for the past few years, they’ve got the most powerful operation. All the other families have made agreements with them to get their goods through the ports—”

“Goods?”

“Contraband. Drugs.” She pauses for a moment. “Cargo.”

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I understand what she means. “The Russians are trafficking people?”

She shakes her head. “That’s the Armenians and the Chinese. The Russians are mostly into weapons and drugs distribution.”

My voice comes out weak. “Oh. Great.”

“Anyway, the Irish blamed the Russians for the massacre at La Cantina. I guess no one has shot each other for years. It violated some kind of truce agreement. Plus, one of the Irish guys who was killed was a nephew of somebody important. So they wanted some kind of compensation. And their demands didn’t go over well. By the time that meeting ended, bodies littered the place.”

She takes another sip of her wine. “So now it’s war.”

“And this upcoming meeting in New York? Who organized that?”

“Your man.” Her smile is soft. “It was supposed to be sooner, but he said it had to wait.”

I close my eyes and press a hand over my throbbing heart.

Kage held off a war-planning meeting so he could spend the holidays with me.

Sloane huffs out a disgusted breath. “I know. It’s sickeningly romantic. Anyway, that’s all I know. Let’s get drunk.”

I jolt from my chair and start to pace in front of the table.

Pouring herself another glass of wine, Sloane eyes me. “You look exactly like Stavros right now.”

“How can you be so calm? They’re going to war!”

“I feel for you, babe, because of Kage and all, but it’s over between me and Stavros.”

I pull up short and stare at her. “What happened?”

She peers at me over the rim of her wineglass. “Did you miss the part where I said he bored me to tears? I broke it off. Being with a man twenty-four hours a day is exhausting.”

She shrugs again, takes another sip. “Tell me more about what happened when the police showed up here. Get me all caught up to date.”

I take a moment to admire her poise.

In less than two weeks, she’s been involved in a public shooting, seen four men die, flown to Rome, sailed the Mediterranean, eavesdropped on a bunch of murderous gangsters to get information, and broken up with her billionaire boyfriend, all without a chip in her manicure or the smallest scratch in her aplomb.

She’s so cool, James Dean would be jealous.

I sit back down and start at the beginning, since we last saw each other. When I’m done, she shakes her head.

“So Chris is still holding a torch for you. That’s a problem.”

“I don’t think he’s holding a torch.”

“Pfft. His torch is so big, he could light the whole town on fire with it.”

“Whatever the case, Kage said he’d take care of it, so…”

“So we should expect to see Chris’s obituary in the newspaper soon.”

“No! I told Kage not to hurt him!”

She shakes her head as if she’s deeply disappointed in me. “If I had my own personal assassin, I’d give him a list of people to kill as long as my arm.”

Assassin.

I’m taken aback by that word. The memory of Chris yelling at me that Kage’s nickname is Reaper surfaces, as does the image of that red-eyed, hooded skeleton with a scythe.

Hands trembling, I down my glass of wine. It’s impossible for me to reconcile the Kage I know—passionate, tender, full of heat and heart—to the man who runs the Russian mafia.

Runs it in his boss’s absence, anyway.

Sloane notices the look on my face. “Babe, you just went white.”