Page 6

He told me he'd watched me for months. Not the fights. The rest of it. The jobs I took for Kirov and the jobs I turned down. The man on Archer Avenue I put in hospital for hitting his wife, which nobody paid me to do. The fact that I'd come home for a sister I hadn't seen in twelve years, and stayed for her.

He then told me that his middle daughter was the softest of all five, couldn’t harm a thing even in self defense. That she spent her time volunteering at schools and shelters, that she needed someone terrifying standing beside her when the inevitable happened. Because there was always someone lurking in the shadows.

I asked to see a photograph. He wouldn't give me one.

“You'll meet her like a man,” he said. “Not like a buyer.”

"He said she needed someone who wouldn't flinch," I tell my sister. It's the shortest version. It's true enough.

Kira looks at me for a long time. Pasha stirs against her shoulder and she rubs his back without looking down.

"Does our father know?" she asks quietly.

There it is.

"Viktor Sokolov will have told him by now. It's a Nevolin name in a Maximov will. He'll want to know why."

"And what will you tell him?" she asks.

"Nothing. I'm not going to see him."

"Theo..."

"I'm not going to see him, Kira."

She lets it go. She's learned when to let things go with me. I'm not proud of how she learned it.

Anton has been silent through all of this. Now he leans forward in his chair and folds his arms.

"You've met her?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Today. Five o'clock."

"Where?"

"The gym."

Kira puts her glass down so hard orange juice slops over the rim. "You're meeting your future wife at the gym? Why on earth would you do that?"

Because Yaroslav Maximov was dying and he chose me anyway. Because a woman who throws bread rolls at council men deserves to see exactly what she's being handed before she decides if she wants it. Because I've spent twelve years in back rooms watching men lie about what they are, and I'm not starting a marriage with one.

"Because I want her to see the worst of it first," I say. "Then nothing after that will be a surprise."

Kira stares at me.

Anton gives a short nod. Just one. Like it's the first sensible thing I've said all afternoon.

"Men," Kira mutters, and dabs at the juice with a napkin.

Katya reaches the table and drops into the chair beside Anton with her toddler, red-cheeked and breathless.

"Did I hear the word Maximov?" she asks.

Of course she did. Katya Orlova hears everything. She was born a Lazovski. That family raised its daughters to listen at doors and smile at the table, much like ours did.

"Theo's getting married," Kira says darkly.

Katya's eyes go wide. Then she laughs. "You too?"