He gives me a look. "Do you have any normal idols?"
"Define normal."
"Not someone who built an empire on graves and watered their family tree with blood." He deadpans.
I grin. "You?"
He snorts. "You’ve got terrible taste, Zhena."
"I’ve heard worse from better men," I shoot back.
For a second, the air softens between us, like the crackle before thunder. He leans forward, and his voice drops, private. "I don't know if this has anything to do with anything, but what was she doing in Russia? What was her life like growing up?" His knee brushes mine again—intentional this time—and the contact is a claim.
"I'm looking into it," I assure him. Then I raise my soda, "Well, here’s to family legacies."
He taps his bottle against mine. "You really are dangerous when you’re bored."
"Good thing you brought lunch," I say. "Otherwise, I might’ve started plotting your assassination."
"Next time," he says dryly, "I’ll bring dessert."
The next day…
I holdthe AMA papers in my hand and try not to think about the last twenty-four hours.
I’m glad she told me about Igor. I’d already seen the name skitter across a message preview on her screen before I walked in yesterday and wondered if she’d hand it to me or make me pry. She handed it. Still, hearing Igor Pavlov out loud hit like a freight train I thought I’d outrun. The dead don’t stay dead in this city; they hang around in ledgers and code and in the quiet parts of the night.
What legacy does a ghost leave? If, as it was starting to appear, he and Donna Margarita spent decades making wars from the shadows, what did they win, besides the right to keep bleeding people they’d never meet?
It’s been three days since Ana was shot. Three days since I discovered my brother was alive. Three days since anyone has told me a real word about Nico. Dre’s scraping, the hymns are still being scrutinized, and my dig into my father has stalled like a bad engine. The ledger in my head won’t stop flashingGUSTAVE.CONTI → AURELIO.VALVERDEand I still don’t know if I saw the truth or a trap.
And then there is the wedding this weekend. In Las Vegas. Marcello’s wedding. I may have to bring mywife. The way my mouth curves at that tells me things I don’t want to name. She’s growing on me. Not like love, more like an itch you can’t stop scratching, even when it bleeds. She’s not like any of the other women I've ever met. I like the way she argues. She thinks fast. She hits clean. She's smart and resourceful. Yes, I want to fuck her; that’s the easy part. What I don’t know is whether she’ll stand at my side or eat my head like a praying mantis when she’s done. What surprises me is how much I want to find out.
I push into her room.
She’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, wrist taped, hair up, wearing the soft T-shirt I bought, like we’ve been married for years, and she stole my side of the closet. Her eyes cut to the folder in my hand.
"Good news?" she asks.
"Depends. You ready to commit a minor crime?"
Her mouth curves. "Always."
"Then sign here,Zhena." I hold out the AMA form. "You’re leaving."
She takes the pen, deliberately slow, fingers brushing mine. "I knew you had a kink for paperwork."
"I have a kink for control," I say. "Paper helps."
She signs, dotting theilike she’s stabbing someone, and I like the way she writes Ana Conti more than I'd like to admit. The nurse knocks, does the whole speech about risks; I nod at the right moments, slide a business card across the tray with a number that makes administrators cooperative, and we’re done.
When the door closes, Ana tips her head. "You look like a man chewing glass."
"I like my food crunchy," I deadpan. "You have something for me?"
Her phone dings like an answer. She doesn’t check it yet; she watches my face, then unlocks and skims. "Maybe. I did get a lead. My contact in Chihuahua is tracking a tail number that refueled near Batopilas at 03:12. If it’s the same bird that moved Nico out of Venezuela, it didn’t go far. He’ll confirm soon."
"Soon as in?—"
