"No beans," I say.
"No beans," Afon agrees. "That's good. I was getting kinda tired of them."
I laugh like a hyena, and then we eat like hyenas. I don't even slow down long enough to be embarrassed. Afon goes through three entire chickens and half the bread, and while I don't quite match his output—input?—I still consume more calories than I've ever consumed in one sitting before.
After, he showers too. He comes out with a towel around his waist and the wound at his hip cleaned and freshly taped, courtesy of the first aid kit that was resting on the counter when we arrived. There's a stack of clothes on the dresser that fit him, which means somebody knew his size.
"He's been keeping tabs on you," I say.
"He keeps tabs on everybody." Afon pulls a black sweater over his head. Black jeans. Of course. "Get some sleep. He'll send for us when he's ready."
I crawl into the giant bed. The sheets are cold at first, deliciously so, and then quickly warm to the perfect temperature. Afon lies down next to me, on top of the covers, hands crossed over his chest, like he did in the hut that first cold night.
"You can get under the blanket," I tell him. "We're past the Berlin Wall."
He grins, almost shyly. It's so fucking endearing that I can't help but steal a quick kiss from him. Then he gets under the blanket. I squirm around until I can press my back to his front and his arm comes around me, bolting me to him like a seatbelt.
That's all it takes. With that, even here, in this strange, soft palace, with armed men patrolling the halls, I sleep.
In the morning, we get a report after the veterinarian's visit. Wolf is doing fine. He's eating, which the vet says is the best sign there is. A dog's hunger is a reliable barometer for the state of his internal affairs.
Afon and I spend nearly an hour on the mudroom floor with the dog's head in his lap before the woman in gray comes and tells us Mr. Lazarev is ready for our audience.
She leads us through the house. My God, it goes on forever. Hallways a mile long, each lined with art that, though I know nothing about the subject, must surely be priceless. Fireplaces big enough to park a Mini Cooper in are studded in the walls here and there. And then we're at a set of double doors, and she opens them, and there he is.
Lukas Lazarev.
I knew he'd be big. Afon said as much. But the man is enormous, even sitting down. He's in a chair by the window with a view of the whole snow-covered grounds. Silver hair, silver beard, dark gray eyes. His hands are folded in his lap, and like Afon's, they're covered in scars and tattoos, most faded with age. He's wearing a tight black sweater that shows impressive muscle, especially for a man his age.
"Afon," he says, inclining his head with royal aura. "You look like hell."
"Says the oldest bastard I've ever laid eyes on," Afon retorts.
Lukas's mouth twitches. "We both got old, didn't we, my friend?" Then his eyes come to me, and I shiver under their chill. "Miss Oglethorpe."
"Mr. Lazarev. Pleasure to meet you." My lawyer voice. I didn't mean to use it, but it comes out of me. It just feels like a situation where I need to put my best foot forward.
"Sit, both of you. Please." He gestures at the couch across from him. We sit. A tray of coffee waits on the table, alongside a plateof those little cookies that come in tins. "I'd offer you something stronger, but it's a bit early for that, and my wife would kill me if I started drinking without her."
Afon doesn't even acknowledge the coffee. I pour myself a cup, mostly to have something to do with my hands, because I'm starting to feed off of Afon's feeling that we're walking out onto some very thin ice here.
Lukas studies me. It's not rude exactly, but it's thorough. "You have your mother's eyes," he remarks. "And your father's chin."
"People keep telling me that. The chin part especially. I'm not so sure any daughter wants to be told that she has a man's facial features, but I'll take the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended."
Lukas chuckles politely. "Bill had a stubborn chin. It served him well, for the most part." He smiles, just a little. "He was a good lawyer and a good man. A better man than this life usually allows."
I want to ask him a hundred questions.How did you know my father? What did my father do, like, actually? What's the price of this little conversation we're having and all the nice things you're doing for us?But Afon rests a hand on my knee, sensing my anxiety, and I understand somehow that this isn't my conversation yet, that there's an order to these things, that some customs must be respected.
"You sent the whole damn Bratva," Afon says. "Before I even said yes."
"You called me," Lukas says. "No, actually, that's not true. I had to hear from Alexei Ivanov, of all people, that you were alive and being hunted by a man I thought was twenty years dead. Youdon't call me for nothing, Afon. You never have." He spreads those scarred hands as if to ask,What else ought I have done?"So I started moving. I'd be a poor friend if I waited for the formalities."
"We're not friends, though."
"No." Lukas's smile doesn't budge. "We're something much older than that."
The room goes awkwardly quiet. I sip my coffee. It's shockingly good, though I figure now is probably not the right time to send my compliments to the chef. Er, barista, or whatever.
