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"I know how that feels."
His smile was more of a grimace. "I’m sorry for your loss, Aidan. Truly."
Raising my cup to my lips, I took a sip and nodded. "I believe you."
And I did.
We shared a glance.
"We are not our grandfathers or our fathers," Luciu mused. "You sit at my table, about to share brunch with my wife and me, who is best friends with yours… You came to our wedding. You were there for Saverina’s baptism, and you’ll be there for our secondborn’s.
"We are no longer simply Sicilian and Irish, Aidan."
Hadn't I just been thinking the same thing?
"I know." I mused before I slowly murmured, "We are family."
He dipped his chin in satisfaction, seemingly aware I'd had to choke the words out.
Because it was easier to discuss business, I informed him, "Stepanov has set his sights on taking Maxim Lyanov down. He wasn’t high in the ranks when Ivanov was Pakhan, though hewasa trusted financier. He believes he is more suitable for the role of leader.
"Before MacMurray died, he shared with us every piece of information he’d given to Stepanov."
Interest lit up Luciu’s eyes. "Anything… dangerous?"
"Depends on what Stepanov does with it," I dismissed.
"What information did he share?"
"Trade routes, mostly."
"Drugs?"
"Guns, other shipments. Our partnership with the Satan’s Sinners’ MC over in New Jersey was of particular interest to Stepanov."
"Think he’ll try to poach the MC?"
I shrugged. "Perhaps."
"You don’t sound worried."
"The Russians don’t do business like we do so I can’t see it happening."
"Every leader does things his own way."
"Of this I’m aware," I drawled. "I’ll touch base with the Prez of the Sinners. We met earlier this year at a funeral."
"A cheerful reunion."
"It’s a year for death," I agreed, taking a deeper sip of my drink. "What’s going on with the production of Red?"
Lines of tension bracketed Luciu’s mouth, but he answered easily enough, "My brother is tweaking his creation."
"I saw what his creation did," I said darkly. "The only reason I knew MacMurray was up to something is because he beat a hooker to death." Luciu’s moue of displeasure had a lightbulb shining over my head. "You don’t like that he’s making the drug, do you?"
"Would you?" he bit off waspishly. "It’s one thing to trade in the misery of others, another to create it from scratch. But Custanzu is Custanzu and he’ll do what he wants until he tires of it."
"Production is limited?"
