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“They had their demons to slay,” Lyon said.
His unspoken words hung in the air: if they can do it, so can we.
Except Raneiro hadn’t been a former KGB operative. He’d been Nico Vitale’s mentor, but he hadn’t been his father, and Nico had been able to act with a large degree of autonomy, in the beginning at least, before he threw caution to the wind for the woman who became his wife.
It had grown crowded by the map, and they passed the next exhibit, crowded with school children clearly on a field trip.
“Let’s go up,” Lyon said.
Roman cut him a sharp glance, and Lyon was startled by the vacuum in Roman’s eyes, so dark they were almost black. “You didn’t say you wanted a sightseeing companion.”
Lyon shrugged. “We’re here, and it’s crowded on the first floor.”
They made their way up the stairs in silence, then emerged into the Great Hall on the building’s second floor.
There was more space here, and they continued to an exhibit on immigrants and labor. Old signs hung from the ceiling advertising work for farm hands and miners. They stopped in front of a row of pictures behind glass, all of them depicting people doing the most laborious of work.
“My assistance is not a gift,” Roman said.
“I’m aware.” The men Roman lent Kira to rescue Lyon, the men he would lend Lyon to kill Vadim and his son, were a trade. “How are things here?”
Roman didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, there was something heavy in his voice. “The same.”
Lyon didn’t know a lot about the workings of New York — he’d had his hands full in Chicago — but Igor Kalashnik had a reputation for being ruthless, even with his oldest son.
Especially with his oldest son.
He was a cruel king bent on retaining his crown. Lyon didn’t envy Roman the problem.
“Do you have a timeline?” Lyon asked.
“Soon,” Roman said. “As soon as you have Chicago in hand.”
Lyon nodded. Roman would need all of Lyon’s help — and then some — if he was going to forcefully depose his father. “I’m working on it.”
“Work fast,” Roman said, looking into one of the glass cases where old passports and inspection cards were on display. “My patience is wearing thin.”
Lyon bristled against the other man’s demand. He was the Lion, used to giving commands, not obeying them.
He forced himself to stuff it down. He needed Roman’s help, and Roman was right to be frustrated. Lyon had expected to be firmly in power with his killing of Musa Shapiev. Instead, new enemies had emerged from the shadows, one right after the other.
For all his distance from the fighting, Roman had battle fatigue, was eager to get on with his own fight.
“This will all be over within the next three months,” Lyon said. “One way or another.”
“What’s happening in three months?” Roman asked.
“My wife is having a baby,” Lyon said.
Roman looked at him, surprise shading his ebony eyes. “In three months?”
Lyon nodded. He hadn’t told Kira yet, but he’d vowed to do whatever was necessary to bring their child into a safe environment, safe being relative to his line of work.
That meant he either had to find and kill Vadim and his son or leave the bratva behind. Kira would object — she was his equal when it came to ambition — but he would leave her no choice.
Bringing up a child in the bratva when he was a pakhan solidly in control and surrounded by loyalists was one thing. Doing it with barbarians at every gate, willing to use Lyon’s family as a weapon, was unthinkable.
He wanted all the power leadership of the bratva ensured, but nothing was worth unnecessary risk to Kira and their child.
