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Maxim stood. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled once over his forearms, the gold-and-ruby ring on his hand catching the light.

“Maxim Morozov,” he said.

“You let your wife introduce you?” Alessia asked.

“No one lets Riley do anything.”

Riley looked pleased with the answer while Maxim extended his hand. Alessia accepted it after the briefest hesitation, and his grip remained formal.

“You are welcome here,” he said gently, catching her eyes.

Riley had already started filling a plate for her.

Amy stood up next. “Amy Whitaker Morozov. Art historian, gallery director, and apparently part of the emergency-clothing committee.”

Alessia shook her hand.

Amy gestured toward Aleksei. “This is my husband.”

“Aleksei,” my youngest brother said, rising with the effortless polish he brought to everything from auctions to threats. His dark suit was perfectly tailored despite the hour, and one hand rested lightly against the back of Amy’s chair. “Welcome to the family interrogation that is not officially an interrogation.”

“Interesting distinction,” Alessia observed.

Nikolai pushed his chair back next, his massive body unfolding until he towered above most of the room. Alessia’s eyes traveled over the tattoos visible beneath his sleeves and then up to his face.

“Nikolai,” he said. “The most charming Morozov brother.”

“Not true,” Sloane replied immediately, but a smirk curved at the corners of her lips.

Nikolai placed one broad hand over his chest as he looked aghast at Sloane. “You wound me, madam.”

“I’m Sloane.” She reached across the table rather than standing, her dark hair falling over one shoulder and mischief already alive in her expression. “Nikolai’s wife. Former mayoral liability. Current family liability, according to Sergei. I also have experience with powerful fathers arranging protection and men confusing security with ownership, so you and I may need to speak privately.”

“I heard that,” Nikolai said.

“You were intended to.”

Alessia shook Sloane’s hand, and the first hint of genuine amusement reached her eyes.

Kit turned her tablet face down before introducing herself. “Kit Calloway,” she said. “Cybersecurity consultant. I’m Ivan’s wife.”

Ivan rose and held out his hand toward Alessia. He was slimmer than the rest of us, his glasses catching the light as he smiled. “Ivan Morozov. Digital intelligence and surveillance.”

Alessia shook his hand. “You’re the one Sergei called from the car.”

“That I am.”

Riley pushed a full plate into Alessia’s hands. “Now you know everyone. Please, sit down.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s fine. You can eat while not being hungry.”

“I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

“Neither did I until Maxim started treating a missed meal like an assassination attempt,” Riley added. “Now I make it everyone else’s problem.”

Maxim reached for his coffee. Without looking, Riley removed it and replaced it with a glass of water.