Page 38 of Lord of Justice

I don't know if he feels me slump a little, but Andrey easily puts his arm around me. "It was the most… impulsive thing I've ever done, certainly." He glances at me wryly as I laugh. I can't help it.

Maybe it's because he offered me support when he could sense my sadness, but I jump in. "I, however, have made many impulsive decisions, but I've never regretted this one." I tilt my head, giving him a private smile. "I think I influenced Andrey in this case. It was just…" I try to think of how to say this. "It was the right time."

"We'll have another celebration for our families,"Andrey smoothly moves in and controls the narrative again.

Two excruciating hours later, after everypossiblecamera angle has been shot two or three times and questions re-asked in a slightly different order, we're finally free from the fond intentions of Mike McConnell. I think he's got a huge man crush on Andrey because he's invited us out to dinner with him and his wife three times before we can successfully get him back into the elevator.

As the doors close on the last of the crew and our bodyguards, I shriek as Andrey abruptly lifts me up, face to face and kisses me.

Sucha kiss.

A kiss that starts a fire racing through everything south of my waist and so good that it's an end unto itself. His warm mouth, the slight stubble on his jaw rasping against my cheek, his slick tongue sliding through my parted lips and exploring my mouth.

A weak puff of air escapes my lips as my eyes open. Andrey kisses me one more time, slowly, savoring it. "Are you all right?"

"Uh…" I'm dangling several inches off the floor and at some point, my heels slipped off my limp feet, and my arms are wrapped around his neck. When didthathappen? "I'm fine," I say, goingfor haughty and sounding more like I just huffed something. "I was just a little startled."

"You were magnificent," he says, and I'm not imagining it. My husband is smiling at me. A real one.

Chapter Eighteen

In which ribeyes are not the only thing getting carved at Gordi’s Sandwich Paradise.

Andrey…

Gordi's Sandwich Paradise has always been a neighborhood favorite. It's an old-fashioned style diner with black and white checkered floors and a meat counter for high-end purchases. Employees from Bellevue Hospital around the corner come here to get a break from the blood and guts to eat their meatball sandwich in peace. Other customers stop by at the end of their workday to pick up a couple of magnificent ribeye’s, or some imported sausage. Gordi is a big, friendly guy with an enormous mustache and the sharpest set of cleavers on the Eastern Seaboard.

Right now I'm holding one, hefting it, feeling the weight as I stand in the second area of his basement. The one the health inspectors know nothing about, nor do they want to. It's dank and terrifying with a lingering stench of blood and Clorox that never really goes away. My brother is here too, waiting for a show.

I tilt my head toward the bored Nikandr, who is lounging against a steel-topped table loaded with equipment. "My brother here is very fond of drills. Admittedly, they do the job." I walk in a slow circle around the man chained to a chair that's bolted into the cement over a drain. It's the feature every hostage sees first. This worm is sobbing and we haven't touched him yet.

"Is he crying already?" Nik says with disappointment. "He was acting all tough when he was harassing college kids for information."

"Yes, these low-level gossip fucks live off whatever bonus they can get for exposing someone's private misery. Isn't that right, Ramon?" I slap him hard across the mouth. "Digging up illegitimate children, crippling debt, perhaps a family member consumed by drugs and alcohol. You love dragging them down, don't you?"

Watery eyes look up at me and he shakes his head rapidly. "No! No, I swear, Mr. Morozov, that's not what this is at all!" The rest of his feeble denial is cut off as I punch him three times, hard, in the ribs. I can hear them snap under the impact of my knuckles.

"You're wasting my time," I say irritably, checking my watch. "It also appears that I'm going to have to throw away this Tom Ford suit, because you just pissed yourself." I step back as the yellowstream heads towards the drain under his chair.

Nikandr picks up one of his drills and turns it on, idly pulling the trigger. The high whine pulls another shriek out of Ramon: Reporter/Private Investigator, according to his grubby business card. "As investigators go, you're actually not bad, Ramon. Middle tier at best."

Strolling over to Nikandr, I continue. "He's the kind that if someone dangles enough money, he'll make damn sure he's got something shitty to send back. Right, Ramon?"

The blood from his split lip is staining his white T-shirt, and his sobs have turned into shudders. He's silent, too terrified to say anything.

"Did I mention, Ramon, that you're wasting my fucking time and I have things to do?"

"Oh yeah," Nik says cheerfully. "That thing tonight."

I narrow my eyes as he grins at me. He's speaking, of course, about the wedding party that every woman in our familyinsistedon throwing for Iris and me.

"We must admit, though, that there's nothing that puts us in a better mood than drilling out the kneecaps of someone who truly deserves it," I muse.

Ramon's body is stiffening, his bloody face lookingup with teary eyes. "No, it wasn't me! It wasn't me. I told them this was a terrible plan! But she c- could contact one of her friends here in Manhattan, she could get my brother out of jail with one signature! With one phone call!" He wails, rocking back-and-forth in his desperation.

Just before I put my hands on my hips, I remember my knuckles are bloody. This suit is never going to get clean. "Who isshe,Ramon?" I ask, leaning closer until I can see my reflection in his terrified brown eyes.

"I can't. I didn't mean to sayshe, it was –"