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“But it’s not just her. I genuinely tried to date after she left me, but soon realized they would all lie.” I turned to face him. “You’re the first person I’ve been with who was honest to my face that I was small. You know it and still want me. That’s something rare for me, Yuriy. And maybe I got a little crazed there because I didn’t want to lose that.”

“Stas, come here.” Yuriy guided my head to his shoulder, and an ache formed deep inside my chest. I’d never had anyone hold me like this before. I’d never had anyone meet the vulnerable, uncertain parts of me. No wonder I was so anxious about losing this.

“You don’t need to hug me like this. I’m a grown man and won’t fall apart because my wife left me for not being man enough to satisfy her.”

“I’m holding you because I don’t know what else to do to make you feel better. I don’t like seeing you like this.” He stroked my hair gently. “Your wife was a fucking cunt, Stanislav. She made a commitment to you and should have stuck by it. I have bigger reasons to leave your ass than what’s in your pants.”

I almost choked on the laugh that spurted from my lips. “Like what?”

“The bullet you put into my leg three years ago?”

I closed my eyes, the tension releasing from my body at the way he massaged my scalp.

“What else?”

“My shipment of guns you stole six months ago.”

“There’s no proof I did that.”

“No one else is smart enough to pull it off.” He tightened his fingers in my hair and tilted my head back. “So you see? You don’t have to worry about me sleeping with anyone else. That’s my word, and I haven’t broken it to you.”

“See that you don’t.”

“Are we good now, or is my brother going to find my bullet-riddled body come morning?”

A smile tugged at my lips. “We’ll see. You should go. Yelena usually pops in for a chat before she goes to bed.”

This time, when Yuriy wrapped his arms around my waist, I allowed him. Even eased back against his chest. The curve of his lips pressed up against my neck.

“You’re very much unexpected, Stanislav,” he murmured. “But in hindsight, we’ve always been inevitable. I’ll sneak back in past midnight. How about that?”

“Yes.”

20

YURIY

Zasha and I had simple plans. Hit a bar he swore I had to try before I left Kansas City. Grab a drink, catch up like normal brothers instead of two men who’d survived a Mafia family imploding around them.

Easy. At least, that was the theory.

I’d been craving that drink ever since Zasha dragged me to volunteer at a homeless shelter—hours of standing, serving meals, and being lectured by elderly women for “not scooping the potatoes with enough heart.” My feet were begging for a barstool. My sanity was begging for vodka.

Instead, we stood like statues in the living room while Zasha spiraled into full-blown husband guilt.

“Zash, I’m pregnant, not dying.” Yelena laughed as he tried—again—to fluff the couch pillows behind her.

“You sure?” He tucked the blanket around her knees like she might catch a draft and perish.

“Positive.” She kissed his cheek, amused but fond. “Go. Spend time with your brother while we hang out.”

By we, she meant herself and Stas, who was slouched in the recliner beside her like some pissed-off gargoyle, clutching a bowl of popcorn as if it had personally wronged him.

Die Hard played softly in Russian dub because apparently the Zhukovskys celebrated Christmas with explosions, Bruce Willis, and homemade nalivka strong enough to take the rust off a tank.

Stas wasn’t looking at me, not directly. But the awareness was there, sharp, heated, curling around the edges of the room and straight into my chest. A silent claim I couldn’t acknowledge with his daughter two feet away.

“Go,” Yelena insisted, shooing us. “I’m fine. Papa and I are about to finish Die Hard. It’s tradition.”