He looks over at me, “How do you even remember that?”
“Roman, I remember because our daughter was born the next morning.”
“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re right.” He glances at my belly and grins. “Think you can make it through tonight?”
“Funny.”
He opens his mouth to say something else when a man in a black suit approaches us, his smile widening with every step. It’s obvious from his overly friendly demeanor that he knows exactly who Roman is—businessman and reputed Pakhan of the most powerful criminal organization in Russia.
“Mr. Ivanov,” the man says, grinning, ready to rush into whatever favor plan he wants Roman to approve or be a part of because of his connections. “Wonderful evening, isn’t it? Parking was a mess outside, wasn’t it?”
Roman says nothing, but the man continues. Inside my head, I count the seconds until he mentions what he’s really after. “If that new parking garage?—”
“No.” Roman cuts him off.
The man turns red, looking confused. “Ah, did I say something wrong?”
I glance at Roman to see exactly what I expect. No emotion, his gaze, one of pure ice.
The man looks around to see if maybe someone else was the reason for Roman’s disdain.
“I’m not discussing business tonight,” Roman says. He looks over at me. “Maybe my wife is in the mood to do so… if you figure out how to properly acknowledge and greet her.”
The man blinks, swings his gaze at me, his face turning beet red. “Oh Mrs. Ivanov, I didn’t realize…” He lets his voice trail, knowing there’s just no excuse.
“She’s been here the entire time,” Roman bites out.
The man coughs into his fist and the first sprinkling of sweat dots his forehead. “Well, I um. I suppose I was too eager to start talking. Forgive me, Mrs. Ivanov. Mr. Ivanov.”
Roman ignores him, turning to me. “Nala, do you want to discuss business with this man who didn’t see you standing there?”
“No, I’d rather have a drink.”
Roman takes my hand. “Then let’s go.”
We end up on the other side, scanning the room for the real reason we’re even here. A few weeks ago, a special task force agent on Roman’s payroll, tipped him off that two other agents had begun asking questions about the existence of Volchya and digging for information. Roman’s solution was to have both men handled, as he puts it, but I convinced him to attend this party where one of the agents was supposed to be, so I could do a reading.
“One hour,” Roman announces. “I’m losing patience and I don’t care anymore if he’s innocent. He was digging, that’s enough for me.”
“One hour,” I agree.
Another half an hour passes, and my eyes catch sight of the agent mingling in the room. He must’ve been here for some time, because the glass inside his hand is already half empty. I tap Roman on the shoulder. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
He looks across the room. “Yeah. That’s him. Stay here.”
I nod, knowing the drill.
I watch Roman cross the room and minutes later, he returns with the agent’s empty glass and hands it over.
“How’d you get it?”
“The bartender gave it to me.”
I laugh quietly. Leave it to Roman to make it sound so simple. We leave the crowded room and step into a quiet hallway. I hold the glass and the images come, much easier than they did years ago.
“It’s not him,” I let Roman know, opening my eyes again. “He doesn’t want anything to do with you or Volchya. It’s his superior that’s pushing it. He begged him not to. Said goingafter you was suicide. The other agent wants to make a name for himself because a position is opening up with higher pay and higher rank. He thinks if he gets solid evidence that Volchya exists he’ll get recognition.”
“He should thank you,” Roman says. “You just spared his life. As for the other one…”
