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“After the unceremonious death of his father, Robert Winthorp has had to shore up support among the old man’s allies,” Sergei says. “Some of them, admittedly, are wary about an untested upstart. I know for a fact that Robert is on his way to one of those men as we speak. Unfortunately for him, I have my men staked along the route as well.”
“So an ambush,” Mischa surmises, stroking his chin. Raw hunger for revenge sinks into the line of his mouth, tilting it at the corner. His eyes, however, remain mistrustful. “And what is your plan?”
“Simple,” Sergei replies. “I’ll provide support. You and your men can have your prize. I won’t interfere.”
“Oh?” A tense few seconds pass as Mischa rattles off various logistics at a rapid-fire pace.
When.
Where.
How.
Sergei has an answer for every one.
Finally, Mischa sighs and drags his fingers through his hair, raking the strands back from his face. “So when do we go?”
“Now.”
As if on cue, a man appears in the doorway. Though he isn’t wearing the crisp, black ensemble most of Sergei’s men do, I don’t recognize him as Mischa’s, either. Plain jeans and a short-sleeved tee-shirt set him apart, as do a few scattered tattoos down the length of his arms. One in particular draws my interest: a serpent coiled around a cross.
“This is one of my best scouts,” Sergei says, drawing my attention back to him. “He will be your liaison as we bring up the rear.”
“You won’t be with us?” Vanya asks.
“I think it’s for the best if Mischa takes the lead in this instance,” Sergei replies, eyeing the younger man thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
“But shouldn’t we call another council? Discuss this with the other heads? Request support—”
“You worry too much, Ivan,” Sergei interjects.
“Does he though?” Mischa cocks his head as if a sudden thought occurred to him. “It isn’t like you to be rash, Sergei.”
“Rash?” The man strokes his chin. “Or prudent? After all, the best way to catch your enemy is off guard. However, I will concede to convening with the heads. It’s unusual to meet so soon after a council—”
“But we’ll make an exception,” Mischa says. His eyes cut in my direction, impossible to read. “Little Rose should learn the true ways of themafiya.”
“Infernal politics,” Vanya grumbles.
“Though necessary,” Sergei says. “What say you, Mischa?”
“Fine. I’ll arrange abanquet.” He puts a mocking twist on the term. “For tomorrow night. From there, we can discuss our next course of action.”
Both brothers nod in unison. “Agreed.”
“Good.” Mischa pulls away from the wall, but on his way out, he grabs my arm, dragging me after him.
In silence, he leads me past the staircase and into another room. One that, I assume, was chosen at random. It’s spacious, but instead of portraits on the walls, this one sports weapons locked behind glass. Knives. Guns.
It’s like being inside Mischa’s brain.
“So what do you think?” the man in question murmurs against my ear. “Should we trust the charming Sergei Vasilev?”
He grunts when I don’t give him an answer—but I’m still stuck on his use of that dangerous term.We.
“Tell me, Rose—”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But you don’t.”
