Oksana’s eyes narrow. "I will shoot both of you."
We both ignore her. For a beat, Grigori and I stare each other down, two different breeds of mafia, two kings who don’t bow.
Then, at the same moment, we smirk. He steps forward and claps my shoulder like we’re old allies instead of two men circling the same flame.
"We will set a wedding day soon," he says. "Russians and Italians in the same room." A wolfish grin spreads across his lips. "Diplomacyat its finest."
I return the clap. "I’ll try to keep my people from stabbing yours."
"Impossible," he says, amused.
Behind us, Oksana mutters, "You’re both idiots."
She’s not wrong.
But I like him.
I hate that I like him.
Oksana has that effect on people; she makes us tolerate each other. We walk deeper into the palace, down a long corridor lined with portraits of dead men who all have Grigori’s eyes. He leads us to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open.
Nico stands near a carved desk, leaning heavily on a cane. He looks thin. Too pale. But alive. Grigori’s gaze flicks to the cane. He doesn’t comment, but something in his posture shifts, subtle and unmistakable. Not pity. Recognition. The look of a man who understands what it costs to survive and keeps score.
"Fratello," Nico whispers.
I cross the distance in three steps and pull him into a hug. He winces, but he doesn’t let go. My throat tightens. I grip the back of his neck, grounding myself. "I missed you."
His voice breaks. "I missed you, too."
He glances at Grigori. I look at Grigori then. Really look, and something shifts.
"Thank you," I tell him quietly. The words scrape out of me. But they’re true.
He shrugs like the praise irritates him. "It was nothing. The boy is… tolerable."
We both know it was everything. He moves to the bar and pours ice-cold vodka into three glasses with the numb precision of a man who has murdered more people than he can count. He hands me one without ceremony.
"Your family causes trouble in my house," he accuses.
He hands another glass to Nico, who watches Grigori over the rim. Careful. Measuring. When Grigori meets his eyes, Nico doesn’t look away. He inclines his head once, small, respectful. Grigori answers it with the barest nod.
"Funny, from what I discovered, it started in yours." Oksana clears her throat, pouring her own glass of vodka. I grin and amend, "Whatwefound out."
Grigori is not deterred. "You married my sister without asking."
He downs his drink in one swallow, and I copy him. The vodka is cold and burns down my throat, but I'm getting used to the vile brew. "You're barely tolerable."
I hide my smile and nod. "Yet here we are."
He pours himself more vodka.
"I tolerate you," he says, staring into his glass, "because she likes you." He lifts his eyes, icy and cutting, and refills mine. "And because you killed a useful number of Venezuelans."
"I’ll kill more," I promise.
He grins, a small, sharp thing that would terrify anyone who doesn't know him, and the ones who do even more. "Good."
Nico watches the exchange with something like disbelief, and something else underneath it. Relief, maybe. As if a door he didn’t know he was waiting for has finally cracked open. Oksana leans against the desk, crossing her arms, shaking her head in mock disappointment.
