He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded and looked away. That was the other thing about Kirill—he knew when to push and when to back off. He'd file this away, add it to whatever mental catalogue he kept, and wait until I was ready to talk.
I might never be ready. He'd wait anyway.
"Demyan called," he said, changing the subject with his usual abruptness. "He's concerned about the Irish situation."
"Demyan's concerned about everything since he got married. Clarissa's turned him into a worrier."
"Clarissa's turned him into a human being. It's disconcerting."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of me. Kirill's humor was so dry it was easy to miss, but it was there, buried beneath the permafrost. "Disconcerting. That's one word for it."
"I have others."
"I'm sure you do."
We pulled up to my restaurant—an Italian place in Tribeca that I'd bought three years ago and turned into one of the most exclusive reservations in the city. The maître d' greeted us at the door, and within minutes we were settled in my private booth in the back, a bottle of wine on the table and menus we both ignored.
"Tell me about the Irish," I said. "What does Demyan know that I don't?"
Kirill swirled his wine, watching the legs run down the glass. "Cormac O'Shea is consolidating power. He's reached out to the Petrovics."
"We knew that."
"What we didn't know is that the Petrovics are interested. They want to rebuild the alliance Demyan destroyed."
I frowned. Ronan O'Shea had been useful to the Petrovics—a foothold in Chicago, a connection to Irish operations across the Midwest. Demyan had put a bullet in him and collapsed the whole arrangement. The Petrovics had been licking their wounds ever since.
"Cormac's an idiot," I said. "He doesn't have Ronan's connections. What could he possibly offer them?"
"Legitimacy. A name. The O'Shea family still has weight in certain circles." Kirill set down his glass. "And there's a rumor."
"What kind of rumor?"
"That the Petrovics want to seal the alliance permanently. Through marriage."
I raised an eyebrow. "Marriage? To whom?"
"That's unclear. But they're looking for leverage. Someone with ties to both families, or someone valuable enough to make it worth their while."
"The Petrovics don't do anything without a plan. If they're pushing for marriage, they have a target in mind."
"Agreed." Kirill's pale eyes met mine. "I'm looking into it. I'll know more soon."
I filed the information away, turning it over in my mind. The Petrovics were dangerous—more dangerous than the Irish, more patient, more ruthless. If they were rebuilding their alliance, it meant they were planning something. And anything the Petrovics planned tended to end in blood.
"Keep me informed," I said. "And Demyan."
"Of course."
We ate dinner, talked business, drank excellent wine. Kirill was better company than most people realized—quiet, but not empty. He listened when I talked, offered insights that cut straight to the heart of whatever problem I was describing, and never once made me feel like I had to perform.
That was rare. Even with my brothers, I was usually playing a role. The charming one. The easy one. The one who smoothed things over and kept everyone laughing.
With Kirill, I could just be tired.
"You should see someone," he said over dessert, apropos of nothing.
"See someone?"
