My second and best friend flanks me as I briskly walk out the room; briefing me.
"We got a situation," he starts.
"I figured," Niccolò snorts.
"Don't be a smart ass."
"Don't give me useless euphemisms."
Niccolò shakes his head in amusement, knowing there's no need to argue with me.
"Russi and Irish teamed up," he starts again, getting to the point.
"Che cosa? Merde, I don't need this right now," I resist the urge to rub my temples, feeling my head pound.
"Gets worse. Apparently, there's a new a Queen of Chicago. And her name is Savannah Helms."
I stop in my tracks.
"Cosa hai detto?"
(What did you say?)
"Dicono che sei figa montata. Che sia una debolezza," he mutters.
I kick start my pace, heading to the garage level of the Estate.
(They say you are p***y whipped. That she is
