22. Mikhail

"Anatoly will hate us for coming here without him."

A blonde waitress bends over to bus the table next to ours. She's busy clearing away a few hundred dollars' worth of half-finished cocktails, but her barely-there skirt would have the entirety of my brother's attention if he were here. Which, admittedly, is part of the reason he's not.

Raoul nods, fingers drumming on the glass in his hands. He looks around the lounge but doesn't say anything. I know he isn't paying any mind to the waitress. He's looking for Fabio.

We've been all over the city today. Every so often, we have to make the rounds, pop in to visit the businesses we employ and the ones we protect. It hasn't been long since our last visit, but with Trofim's unsolved murder hanging over my head, I figure it's worth making sure no one has seen or heard anything strange. I don't want to take any chances.

Not least of all because I have Dante and Viviana to think about now.

Being on assignment means Raoul is focused, but I figured he'd relax once we got to the lounge. It's been under Novikov ownership for decades. Everyone knows not to fuck with us when we're here and the waitresses know how to be discreet.

Still, Raoul is tense.

It's strange enough that I'm close to checking in to make sure he's okay. Then the blacked-out door to the lounge opens and Fabio strolls in.

"He has got to be kidding," Raoul mutters.

No. Fabio is definitely not kidding.

He's in a blindingly white suit with a popped black collar underneath. He whips his sunglasses off to wink at the redhead working the bar and then strolls to the back corner where Raoul and I are waiting for him.

The man is barely five feet tall, but I'm not sure he knows that. He struts in like he owns the place.

Odd choice, since I own it.

Fabio pulls out his chair and drops into it, already waving down our waitress. "Where's Anatoly?"

"Busy."

"Shame. I like him. He's a good time."

"You two have a lot in common," Raoul drawls.

Anatoly would slug Raoul for that, but Fabio takes it as a compliment. I'm not positive it isn't one, but Raoul likes to play his cards close to the vest.

Once Fabio has thoroughly complimented the waitress on every inch of her exposed skin and has a drink in his hand, he shifts into the commercial real estate mogul I agreed to go into business with.

"To think I was trying to get these warehouses off my hands this time last year." Fabio snorts. "Now, they're about to make me more money than any of my other properties. One of which is the new Brooklyn development I invested in. You heard of that?"

"Unless it's a warehouse I can use, I don't care."

"It's going to be big," he says, plowing on ahead. "Sixteen buildings and over six thousand apartment units. My first foray into residential. But it still won't make me as much money as this deal is going to."

"Then let"s focus on where the money is and stop wasting our time chatting about bullshit."

Fabio smiles, but it's dimmed compared to the previous wattage. "We're just here to sign on the dotted line, aren't we? The details have been figured out."

"We were talking in hypotheticals before," Raoul reminds him. "Now, Mikhail owns Cerberus Industries and we can set things in stone."

Fabio circles a hand in the air like he's bored. "The guns come in, I store them, you sell them, we all get filthy rich. Tell me where to sign."

Fabio is annoying; there's no getting around that. Unfortunately, he's also in possession of a shit ton of warehouses in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx and—this is key—eager to climb the already overflowing ladder that is real estate in New York City. Fabio is the perfect blend of rich and desperate. I knew he'd dip into crime without a second thought if it meant he'd make a name for himself.

I grit my teeth and lay out the plan. "To keep our names from popping up too many places together, the money I owe you will all come directly from Cerberus and go to your trust."

He pulls the toothpick out of his olive and runs it through his front two teeth. "You think that's less suspicious?"

"Less suspicious than paying you hundreds of thousands of dollars per month from his personal account?" Raoul asks dryly. "Yeah, making it a business expense is less suspicious."

"Great. Sure. Whatever. We'll set it up." Fabio rocks his chair back onto two legs. "I've worked with Cerberus in the past. They rented out some space for a few months last year. I still have the assistant's number. I'll call her and arrange the payments to be?—"

"No," I snap. Raoul and Fabio both freeze. I clear my throat. "You'll make those arrangements with me. Leave my assistant out of it."

Fabio looks surprised, but he doesn't argue. I'm sure he doesn't come across many pakhans who want to handle their own bookkeeping.

Then again, he's probably never come across the wife of a pakhan who wanted to continue working as a personal assistant. Where Viviana is concerned, he never will.

The last thing I want is people like Fabio having a direct line to Viviana. Both for plausible deniability on her part and for safety. The less the public knows about her and Dante, the better.

We shake hands, promising to be in touch soon. Fabio leaves his business card for the blonde waitress, slides his obnoxiously large sunglasses into place, and then makes his way out of the lounge.

"It's her job," Raoul says the moment we're alone.

"Now, you have something to say? You've been quieter than usual, which is really saying something."

"It's her job," he repeats. "Viviana's. As your personal assistant, she's supposed to?—"

"Assist me. Personally."

"And yet you don't want her working with Fabio?"

I shake my head. "Leave it, Raoul. Fabio is someone I'd rather keep an eye on. This has nothing to do with?—"

"Your feelings for her."

"I said to fucking leave it."

"And I will." Raoul pushes his empty glass to the center of the table and crosses his arms. "Once I do my job."

"Since when is your job to poke around in my personal life?"

"Since your personal life might interfere with what we've been working towards for the last six years."

"Viviana isn't going to interfere with anything."

"I know. Because you won't even let her take a phone call with Fabio to set up accounts. Why not?" he presses. "Is it that you don't trust her? Do you think she's a spy? Because if so, I'm not sure marrying her was the right call."

"Which is why I make the decisions and you do whatever the fuck I ask you to do," I snarl.

Raoul's eyes flare for a second, but he sits back.

I've always viewed Raoul as a friend. As a partner. But it's an uncomfortable truth that he was gifted to me by his family. That they intended for him to be a slave.

Occasionally, in moments like this one, it's impossible to forget.

"I wouldn't do anything to put our plans at risk," I add, a touch more softly. "We've all worked too hard at this to throw it away now. Viviana won't be a problem."

He doesn't look convinced. "She hates you. If she could get you sent to prison, she would."

"We're… planning on being civil now. For Dante's sake."

Civil. It feels like the wrong word for what happened last night. The way she and I sat with Dante… like a family.

I crumple the word and toss it away. I don't know what we are, but it isn't that. Not in any way that matters.

"According to Anatoly, you're taking her out tonight," he muses. "Sounds like a lot more than being ‘civil' to me."

"Then that means it's working."

He frowns. "What's working?"

"My plan. We found out Trofim was murdered and Viviana showed up in my life on the same day. That doesn't strike you as strange?"

"We have no reason to think they're connected."

We don't. And they probably aren't. And yet…

"Just like we poked around for information today, I figured it would be smart to get Viviana alone and do a little digging. I'll soften her up and make sure she isn't hiding anything."

"That's why you asked her out?" He dips his chin, skeptical.

That was the last thing on my mind when I told Viviana we had plans last night. I wasn't even sure where I was taking her; I just wanted to be with her.

But this makes sense. This is a good plan.

"We should look into every possibility. Trofim was Viviana's ex-fiancé. If someone was out for him, they could be out for her, too. Or Dante."

"Viviana was in Chicago at the time. We found a woman's hair clip tangled in his sheets. It was probably an escort he hired and refused to pay."

"Probably," I agree. "But I'll find out more tonight. Whatever I find out, it won't change any of my plans."

That bears repeating: Viviana won't change any of my plans.

I'm going to make sure of it.