I’m opening the door when I hear the whine of the window rolling down. Then:
“Eliana.”
I turn and look back. Bastian is leaning over to call my name through the passenger window.
“Yeah?” I ask, ignoring the sudden flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
“Friday night,” he says. “Eight o’clock.”
I blink. “What’s happening Friday night at eight o’clock?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “We’re crossing off the next item on your list.”
“Oh?” My heart does a weird little stutter-step. “Which item?”
“You’ll see.” He grins wolfishly. “Wear something nice. Not marshmallow-level nice, but nice.”
“But what are we?—”
“Eight o’clock, Hunter. Don’t be late.”
32
BASTIAN
TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO
cleav·er: /'klev?r/: noun
1: a heavy, broad-bladed knife designed to cut through bone and tough cuts of meat with a single, decisive blow.
2: a moment that severs. permanently.
I’m twelve years old, sitting on an overturned milk crate in the kitchen at Tolstoy’s, waiting for Aleksei to give me the signal. My hands won’t stop shaking, so I shove them under my thighs and try to breathe the way he taught me.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
“You ready,bratishka?” Aleksei asks as he steps into the kitchen. He crouches down so we’re eye-level. He’s eighteen now, four inches taller practically overnight.
It’s his eyes that have changed the most, though. Ever since he started working for Dmitri, they look black as night.
I nod. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
“Good.” He reaches out and musses my hair. “This is important, Semyon. Thepakhanis watching. If we do this right, we move up. Both of us.”
Dmitri, the Bratvapakhanthat Aleksei is talking about, owns Tolstoy’s, along with half the other businesses on this block. He’s the one who gave Aleksei and me this assignment—our first real job together.
A test,Aleksei called it.Proof that the Izotov brothers are worth investing in.
The target is some bookie who got too greedy and started skimming from the wrong people. He thinks he’s meeting Aleksei here to discuss a business opportunity. He has no idea what’s really waiting for him.
Aleksei checks his watch. “He’ll be here in ten minutes. Remember what I told you?”
“Stay quiet,” I recite. “Stay out of sight. When you give the signal, I come out and we—” I swallow hard. “We finish it together.”
“That’s right.” Aleksei stands and walks over to the stainless steel counter. Whistling, he plucks a meat cleaver from the knife stand. He hefts in one hand, switches it to the other, swishes it through the air. Then he nods, satisfied. “You’re gonna do great, Semyon. I know you are.”
But there’s something in his voice that doesn’t match his words. A strain.
