“Sounds like you’ve said that before.”
I exhale.
She smiles. “I’m right.”
“Aleksandr is very like my father. Very rigid. So, my father relies on me more.”
“And that bothers Aleksandr?” Carina surmises.
“I think so. Probably.”
“What about Maksim?”
I’m surprised she remembers his name, but I shouldn’t be. I’ve underestimated Carina before, same as her family continues to.
“Maksim …” I smile wryly. “Maksim drinks too much. Parties too much. I—maybe I protected him too much. Anything my father planned to ask of him, I’d offer to handle instead. He’s capable, but he’s lazy.”
“Does he know you did that for him?”
“No.” I shift in my seat. “It was to my benefit too. I accumulated a lot of trust from my father, from our men. More than is usual for a son who isn’t the oldest.”
Chicago is a prime example. I turned a small endeavor overseas into a thriving enterprise. I was supposed to hand control over to Maksim when he turned eighteen. By the time that happened, it was too large for him to take over, so I remained in place. Made myself invaluable as our network there continued to grow.
“You should tell Maksim,” Carina advises. “He might think that no one has faith in him, so he’s acting accordingly.”
I’m not sure she’s right. Maksim has always seemed content—happier—in the background of business decisions. It’s never occurred to me that persona might be forced. It’s not like I can’t see the benefits of that perspective. Expectations can be exhausting.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Here ye go.” Two steaming plates are set down. “Lemme know if you need anything else. Band should be starting up soon. They’re scrambling to find a fiddle player.”
I nod toward Carina as I pick up my fork to cut apart the pie. “She plays.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part as she glances at me. “That’s not—I’m not a—” she stammers.
“Can ye read music?” the barkeep asks.
“Well, yes, but?—”
“Declan! I’ve got a fiddler for ye!”
SEEING RED
“You were good.”
I scowl at Lev’s proud profile, keeping my arms tightly crossed across my chest. He is absolutely not forgiven for offering me up to play two hours of folk music. I was part of a group, but a much, much smaller group than I’m accustomed to performing with. I could see every strange face in the audience and one familiar crooked grin.
His compliment cracks my annoyed veneer a little, although I don’t allow it to show.
I’m accustomed to being cautious. I was trained to stand in the background. Someone shoving me into a spotlight is a strange sensation. The only other person who’s encouraged me to step outside of my comfort zone was Lola, and that was more along the lines of giving one of Nancy’s waiters my number or pushing me to audition for first violin. I’m proud of myself for stepping onto the makeshift stage, but that satisfaction is steadily shrinking, the closer we get to the meeting that is the whole purpose of this trip.
Tomorrow, I’ll begin my new life.
I’ll never see Lev Sokolov again.
“You can stay in the car,” Lev suggests for what must be the dozenth time since we left the pub where we ate dinner. Correctly reading some of my silence as nerves.
We’ve driven about twenty minutes from the hotel. This neighborhood is very different from the boisterous area where we ate dinner. It’s a street I’d feel nervous walking along alone. I’m armed—Lev gave me a gun when we got in the car—but having it makes me more anxious, not less. Lev’s presence is far more reassuring than a firearm.
