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“It’s open, Mom,” I yell, grabbing a towel to make sure I don’t burn myself with the hot plate, and then I realize it’s far too soon for her to have returned.
Did one of the makeup people forget something?
Setting down the plate of pasta, I step out of the kitchen and freeze in place.
Agent Ryson is in my living room, his gaze raking over my white dress with derision.
62
Peter
“You’ve actually pulled it off,” Anton says admiringly as I adjust my black tie in the mirror. “Civilian life, amnesty, the girl, and all. I fucking can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” I turn around and grin at my former teammates. “How do I look?”
“Not bad.” Yan walks around me, studying me critically. “I would’ve gone with a white tie, though. More formal and goes better with your skin tone.”
Anton rolls his eyes at him. “Stop being such a fucking metrosexual. Seriously, Ilya, what did your mother feed this one?”
“Same crap she fed me,” Ilya says and steps in front of the mirror to adjust his own tie. Unlike his elegant twin, who looks like he was born to wear a suit, Ilya resembles nothing more than a thug playing dress-up. The jacket strains across his steroid-enhanced shoulders, and the tattoos on his shaved skull gleam menacingly in the bright daylight.
Sara’s father might have a heart attack just looking at him—and that’s without knowing about the arsenal hidden inside his jacket.
Inside all of our jackets.
There’s no real reason to worry, of course, but I’m still uneasy. Back in the good old days, events like this, especially in an outdoor venue, often provided an opportunity for us. Weddings, birthdays, funerals—we loved them all, because our targets, caught up in all the excitement, would invariably forget some key aspect of security.
It’s a mistake I have no intention of making, which is why in addition to my usual Sara-watching crew, I’ve hired twenty more bodyguards and commissioned aerial surveillance via a dozen drones.
No one is getting within a kilometer of the venue without my knowledge.
“So, how’s the civilian life so far?” Yan asks, falling into step beside me as I head outside to check if the photographer has arrived. “Is it everything you’ve dreamed of?”
His tone is mocking, as usual, but when I look at him, I don’t see any amusement on his face.
“Yes,” I answer, deciding to take the question at face value. “You should try it sometime.”
He chuckles, but the sound lacks humor. “No, thanks. I’m enjoying this life too much.”
I nod, not the least bit surprised. Instead of taking advantage of the amnesty I got for him, Yan took over the business—files, shell corporations, team accounts, and all—and has been using the team’s contacts to secure new, ever more lucrative gigs. The takeover happened the day after I left for Esguerra’s compound, which means Yan had been planning it for a while.
I was right to be wary.
If I hadn’t stepped down when I did, one of us would likely be dead.
As expected, Ilya joined his brother in the new venture, but Anton is still deciding.
“I’m already fucking rich, you know,” he told me on the phone two weeks ago, when Yan prodded him for an answer again. “I might miss the excitement and all, but I don’t need more money—not the way Yan seems to.” He paused, then asked carefully, “You’re not mad at him, are you?”
“No,” I told Anton, and I meant it. I told the guys they can carry on with the business if they want, so what do I care if Yan had been planning to step in my shoes all along? None of us are angels, and deep down, I always knew that Yan wouldn’t be content following orders for long.
Even back in Russia, there were hints of that—a red flag I ignored when I offered the Ivanov twins a place on my new team.
In the context of my old world—our world—Yan Ivanov had been loyal enough, and since we avoided the ultimate clash, it makes sense to remain on good terms.
You never know when a favor might be needed.
“So what are you going to do here?” Yan asks when I stop to count the chairs in front of the gazebo. “Other than plan weddings?”
“I have a few ideas,” I say, finishing the count. We’re one chair short—something the venue staff needs to remedy right away. “For now, wedding planning suits me.”
“You know you’re deluding yourself, right?” Yan’s tone lacks all hint of mockery, and when I turn to face him, I see a peculiar seriousness in his cold green eyes. “This is not for you—any more than it would be for me.”
Did he and Esguerra read the same script? “Who are you trying to convince of that?” I ask curiously. “Me or yourself?”
He holds my gaze, then nods, as if seeing something I’m missing. “Good luck,” he says softly. “I’ll be rooting for you.”
