“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tristan agrees.
Ian waves.
“What the fuck are you two doing here?” Tristan asks Tyler.
The doctor is wearing jeans, his hands in his pockets, and the scruff on his cheeks is thicker than normal. “He was being suspicious, so I followed him.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” Tristan growls, his fingers digging into Ian’s shirt. A choking noise catches in the back of his throat.
“I’m here to help my old friend Tristan,” Ian explains, hoarsely. “And my friend Isolde.”
“She is not your friend. Don’t even look at her.” Tristan shakes him. “How did you know we’d be here?”
More noise gurgles in Ian’s throat.
Tyler runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “He’s been following you since Fujimori’s.”
“I told you, you’re not to get anywhere near?—”
“Who the fuck is this guy?” Ian waves a hand in the air, pointing. “Why does he get to come to the meeting with the Russians, and I don’t?”
“That’s actually a really good question,” Tyler admits. “Why is Abe here?”
Abe pauses like he’s remembering how he almost pissed his pants during Ren’s shootout. “I’m going to go see what snacks they have.”
He heads into the Zimin family home, Ben beside him.
The house is immaculate. The massive space is airy, natural sunlight streaming through gives it a touch of peace.
Yelena is tired. I see it in the downturned lips and the shadows under her eyes. She does not look happy at my presence, however, she does not appear annoyed. There’s a blankness I’ve always appreciated about Yelena. It’s not that shedoesn’t feel things. She simply never feels the need to show others.
Her granddaughter, Sailor, stands beside her, holding her hand.
“You asked to meet with me.” Her Russian accent is a touch stronger, like the time back home has strengthened it.
Abe holds out his hand, speaking to Sailor. “You want to get some snacks?”
Sailor glances at her grandmother. The woman smiles down at her, squeezing her hand. She speaks her confirmation in Russian, giving her granddaughter the courage to go to Abe.
The youngest Zimin zooms toward the kitchen, her babysitter following.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say. She’s exhausted and grieving and willingly sacrificing time spent with her granddaughter.
Glacial blue eyes study me before flicking to Ian.
The Irishman holds out his hand. “Ian Hayes.”
“Cain Murray’s son.”
Ian cocks his head, surprised she knows.
“Whose son?” Lennie asks.
I turn around to find more people entering the living room.
“Sorry,” Ren mouths, holding her hands up in surrender.
Lev Zimin is flanked by Dimitri and Boris.
