“An attack on your wife has nothing to do with me,” he says.

“No?”

“Of course not. What reason would I have to attack her?”

“To show us you can,” I say. “Six of our men were executed.”

His eyes narrow.

“Twelve of yours are dead.”

“It wasn’t me, nephew,” he says, sitting on the couch casually, too casually.

I sit on the edge of the coffee table.

His eyes narrow, but he also leans away. He’s nervous.

“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “You have many enemies. Where should I begin?”

“Uncle, have you ever considered just telling the truth?” Bastian asks, coming up behind him and setting the muzzle of his gun to the back of Sonny’s head. Sonny doesn’t blink. I hold eye contact with him. When Bastian cocks the gun, Sonny flinches. “Say the word, brother.”

“Why don’t you have more soldiers with you?” I ask him, truly curious. “You don’t normally travel without an entourage.”

“Nadia doesn’t like it.”

“Ah. And you like Nadia.”

He simply stares at me, eyes blank.

“You do realize she’s only here for the money, right?”

“She’s not like that.”

Bastian snorts. “Of course, she’s not.”

“It wasn’t me,” Sonny says, ignoring Bastian. “I didn’t order an attack on your wife.”

I smile. “No?”

“No.”

“All right then.” I stand. “Everyone out.”

Bastian steps backward, putting his gun away. Our soldiers begin to file out, taking the two Sonny brought with him along.

Sonny looks at me, confused. He grins and begins to rise. I guess he thinks this is over. He’s mistaken.

I whip my arm out to grab him by the back of the head, rear back and smash his face into the glass coffee table. He screams, and I’m not sure what’s louder, that scream or the sound of his skull cracking the heavy glass surface, but I do it again. A deep line splits the table and blood pools on the glass, dripping over the edge and seeping into the tacky white and gold area rug.

“Nadia is not going to appreciate that, Uncle,” Bastian says as I hand Sonny off and adjust my cuffs. Bastian shoves a dazed Sonny against the wall and forces him to look at him. “How would you like twelve men to do to you what they would have done to her?” he asks through gritted teeth, all casualness vanished as his rage surfaces. “We can arrange it.”

Sonny reaches into his pocket and produces a switchblade. “You motherfucking half-breeds,” he says, and although not quite steady on his feet, he’s steady enough to swing the blade toward Bastian’s face.