The door pushes open further. Alex catches it with a hand, but Ivan still pushes through on the second try. He smells like expensive cologne and alcohol.
“Brother,” he says too loud.
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.
“Your men are playing army out there,” he says. “For what?” His eyes flick to Clara. “Because you’ve gone soft for a shopgirl?”
He’s provoking, trying to get me to lash out the way he would in my position. But I will not be taken in by his antics.
“Ivan, you’re going to leave right now,” I say quietly, calmly. “Right behind me is a young woman recovering from heart surgery. Your bullshit is the last thing she needs.”
“Mybullshit,” Ivan snarls. “Your men are stepping all over my turf and you?—”
“Ivan. Enough.”
Alex shifts one step. Ivan looks at me, then at his brother.
“Leave,” I say to Ivan.
He laughs. “War’s brewing out there,” he says. “The Antonov boys are testing. Koretsky cousins are getting clever. Every old man eager to fatten his bank account is calling me nonstop, wondering how he can profit off the conflict ahead. And you’re in here visiting a sick girl.” He leans on the plastic rail at the foot of her bed. “You used to make the city sit up straight. What’s happened to you?”
I stand slowly. Some people mistake slow for weak. It’s a useful mistake.
“Leave,” I say again.
“You going to make me?” he says, the edge of his mouth curling into a smirk.
“If I have to.”
He holds my eyes for two beats. The smirk drops and he backs away, hands up in a mock show of innocence. “Listen, I care about the Bratva,” he says. “About the business. About you.”
He’s lying about at least one of those things. Probably two.
“Go home,” I say. “I’ll handle my business.”
“You used to handle these matters quickly, decisively,” he replies, looking to Alex for a shared laugh. “People can sense the weakness that comes with this going straight bullshit. They can sense that you won’t do what needs to be done anymore.”
Alex’s face is expressionless. Good.
Ivan’s trying to test me, trying to get me to blow up. I don’t plan on giving him the satisfaction.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
For a breath, I expect him to get ugly. He doesn’t. He backs through the door, tosses a “Merry Christmas” over his shoulder that means nothing, and disappears down the hall. Two of my men fall in behind him.
I watch him leave, then look at Alex. No bristle. No anger. Professional to the bone. I need him on point if it turns out Ivan is involved.
“If it’s him,” I say coldly, “I want evidence before knives.”
Alex doesn’t blink. “If it’s him, you’ll have to beat me to it.” He means it.
Cassandra’s voice cuts the air. “What is wrong with you?”
She storms in and plants herself between me and Clara. Eyes flashing, spine straight.
“You want to fight, go outside. She’s sleeping.” She points at Clara without taking her eyes off me. “She doesn’t need your testosterone-fueled bullshit right now.”
“Yes,” I say, “you’re right.”
