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Liam’s brow furrows curiously.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He’s at the door to my office when I clear my throat.
“Have Michael start preparing the jet.”
He grins out of the corner of his mouth.
“On it, boss.”
A few hoursand three hundred kilometers later, for the first time in maybe nine years, I’m face-to-face with yet another old friend.
In quite possibly the shittiest dive bar in all of Manchester.
At our small table in the corner of the utterly empty Black Duck Pub, Kristoff eyes me, a small smile on his lips as he lifts his pint to clink with mine.
We’ve all aged relatively well. But Kristoff, always the youngest looking of us all, seems to be wearing his early forties like they were tailor fit for him. His face is more lined than the last time I saw him, of course—age, the pressures of being second to the top of one of the largest and most profitable criminal organizations in the world.
But he’s still got that smug, slightly cocky, roguish look he always had. Ice blue eyes, defined cheekbones, strong jaw, and covered with even more tattoos than he was nine years ago.
If it wasn’t for the several thousand-pound suit and the armored Rolls Royce he pulled up in, he could pass as the well-aged front man for a successful rock band.
“Crime suits you, you know.”
He smirks.
“And wealth and power suit you.”
“You’re not really going to try and cry poverty to me, are you?”
He chuckles darkly, taking a sip of his beer.
“I’d hate to lie to an old friend.”
He frowns, lifting his eyes to me.
“And wearestill friends, yes?”
“I would hope so.”
“Friends have a way of calling each other more than once every half decade.”
“Those types of friends sound horrifically bored and undriven.”
He sighs, shaking his head.
“At what point, Noel, do you stop grinding for more mountains of gold? Certainly you’re rich enough.”
“There’s the Kafka-quoting, Communist Manifesto-reading Russian I knew in business school.”
He rolls his eyes.
“And I saw some the quarterly earnings for some of the Tsavakov empire’s companies. Again, don’t cry poverty to me.”
Kristoff smirks again.
“Business is… good. Misha’s got a good, disciplined head on his shoulders. And he doesn’t have the temper and…” his face sours. “Evilsof his father. That and him being best friends with Ilya Volkov and Lukas Komarov means those two Bratva families and ours are basically one force now. The Reznikov empire as well, actually.
