"What?" Raf looks up.
"Oksana is in trouble."
"You had her tailed?" RafHe looks impressed, then doubtful. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the suicidal kind."
"I need Toni. I need his chopper."
The café sitsat the edge of the waterfront, open enough to see threats approach, crowded enough to blend in, quiet enough that a massacre would be inconvenient but not impossible. Warm sunlight glints off the glass tables, tourists chatter in the distance, and a violin street performer plays something mournful near the fountain.
I see Grigori before he sees me. He’s hard to miss. Six feet of violence contained in a tailored coat, hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut marble.
My brother, the Pakhan of the Bratva. My mirror in ruthlessness. His gaze sweeps the perimeter. Cataloging faces.
Threat.
No threat.
Threat.
Same game I play.
I approach, my blonde wig swaying. His eyes narrow.
"I don’t like you as a blonde," he says in Russian, keeping his voice low, deadly, and annoyingly affectionate.
"Well," I reply, "I don’t like your nose. At least I can change the wig."
"Why did we have to change the time?" He asks, but then seems to think better of it. "Wait, don't tell me."
I wink and grin. His lips twitch, the closest Grigori gets to laughter. He steps forward, wraps me in a crushing hug, and kisses both cheeks the Russian way. I feel the strength in him, coiled, simmering, always one insult away from violence.
"You look good," he murmurs. "Marriage becomes you."
Before I can reply to the compliment, he smirks. "Let’s see if widowhood suits you better."
I snort, and he releases me. "Play nice. I happen to like my husband."
"Well, he’s not your husband until he formally asks me for my sister's hand in marriage."
He gestures to the table like he owns the entire street. "Sit."
I drop into the chair, taking in the clean sea air while my eyes scan the area: People strolling along the promenade.A couple arguing over gelato flavors. A mother coaxing her toddler into a stroller.
I mark every face, every hand, every potential threat. One man’s jacket is too heavy for the weather—knife? Gun? Or just fashionably stupid?
I can’t help it. Paranoia is oxygen.
"So," I ask, "how’s Nico?"
Grigori exhales through his nose. "Restless. He wants revenge."
I nod slowly. I know that itch, that hunger that lives under the skin. "Of course he does."
"And Solnyshko misses you."
My chest warms at the mention of my sister-in-law. She's way too soft for him. Too good. Too gentle. Too everything.
"I miss her too," I admit. "I bet she’s fussing over Nico."
