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He lowers his head until his lips brush my ear. “I don’t think so.”
Drago’s breath and warmth are suddenly gone as he walks away and leaves the kitchen. I have a silly urge to go after him and insist that he should drive me to the mall himself.
“So, ahem.” I clear my throat and turn to Keva who’s drying a glass. “Jelena told me there’s a fountain out front. Can someone point me in the right direction? I want to take some selfies.”
* * *
“I’m fine Arturo, as I already told you ten times today! Please stop calling.”
I shove the phone into my pocket and roll the last suitcase inside my new bedroom. It’s all the way on the other end of the fourth floor, the farthest from Drago’s. The space is small and has only one window that doesn’t even have curtains. A faint smell of fresh paint lingers in the air, hinting that the room was probably renovated recently. My eyes fall on the narrow bed next to a wall and stay glued to it.
I don’t like sleeping alone.
The night after my parents’ deaths was the first time I snuck into my sister’s bed to sleep. Arturo found me there when he came to check on us in the morning, but he said nothing. I kept sneaking into Asya’s bed every night after that, for years. I had a bone-chilling fear rooted deep inside my mind that Arturo would wake me one night to tell me that Asya was gone, just like our mom and dad. I was convinced that if she was next to me when I fell asleep, she would be there in the morning, as well.
Asya never asked me to go back to my bed. Not once. Even when her bed became too small for the two of us. My twin sister. My other half. People have often made the mistake of assuming she was the more fragile one. Asya has always been an introvert, the quiet one, and nothing other than her music held her interest for too long. But she is so much stronger than me. I’m just better at pretending.
As we got older, I stopped sneaking into her bed. I was a big girl, and it was expected that I would sleep in my own. It was always cold and lonely, never peaceful. Most nights, I managed, but there were times when I couldn’t rest. I would toss and turn until the bed beneath me would squeak as Asya climbed in next to me. She always knew. God, I miss her so much.
I’m so glad she found Pasha, though. The day of her wedding was the most joyful day of my life. Seeing her happy and smiling, after everything she’d been through, was a wish come true for me. Even if, in a way, it meant losing her.
I take my phone out again and stare at the screen. It’s too late to call Asya now, and we already chatted this afternoon. Throwing the device on the bed, I crouch next to my yellow suitcase that holds the essentials and start digging around, searching for my notebook. Writing always helps lift my spirits when I’m feeling down.
Five minutes later, I’m sprawled on top of the duvet, leafing through my thick glittery notebook when a thought strikes me. I never did ask Drago how he knew about my story.
The blond man sitting across from me in the booth leans forward and points his finger at me. “I don’t like you, Drago.”
“Well, I don’t like you either, Belov, but, as it happens, your pakhan likes the ammunition I’m offering. So, are we doing business or not?”
The Russian narrows his eyes at me and bursts out laughing, then takes his phone and calls someone, probably Petrov. Sergei Belov has a deep voice so I can hear everything he says, but it doesn’t give me much insight into the conversation he’s having in Russian with the Bratva pakhan.
“Delivery every two months,” he says when he ends the call. “And Roman wants to meet you in person. Next month.”
“All right. I’ll let you know the time and place.”
Belov nods and stands up to leave, then looks down at the armchair he just vacated. “Mind if I take a picture of the booth? I keep trying to convince Pasha to change the interior of our clubs to white. He said he’ll consider it when I retire.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Any particular reason for that?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his phone and snaps a shot. “It’s a bitch to get blood out of the light-colored upholstery, apparently.”
I follow him with my eyes as he strolls toward the exit, whistling along the way. It seems the guy is as crazy as I’ve heard people say.
Picking up my phone off the table, I check the message Filip sent me earlier—an address for the man who squealed to the Romanians about our shipment. It’s a couple of hours away, but there’s still time to drop in and see what my sparkling wife is up to before I head out. Jovan has been sending me hourly updates, and the last one said Sienna and her friend just entered a restaurant that’s fifteen minutes from the club.
The underground garage below Naos is filled with several vehicles, including the SUV I drove here and two beat-up cars I use when I don’t want to be noticed. I move past all of those and approach the black bike I parked in the far corner. Riding on two wheels is a much wiser choice when handling delicate issues. Our snitch, Wesley, has become one of those issues and needs to be made into an example so our other associates know what will happen if they follow his lead.
When I reach the restaurant, I park my bike on the driver’s side of Jovan’s white sedan and raise the visor on my helmet. My wife is sitting at a table next to a floor-to-ceiling window, and the blonde girl from Naos is with her. They are laughing about something. Sienna is wearing a sweater in an awful shade of blue. As if that’s not enough, it has glittery gold detailing that sparkles whenever the sunlight falls upon her. My eyes slide down to her legs, clad in shiny gold skinny pants, and stop on the shoes. Same blue hue as her sweater, with small bows on the heels.
“I’m listening,” I say and turn to Jovan.
He leans his elbow out of the open window and nods toward the women. “She met up with this girl, Luna, and another friend at the mall. They went to a few boutiques to buy some trinkets, then she dragged them to a store that sells stationery.”
“What did she buy there?”
“A few notebooks and some pens. And a pen holder that looks like a rabbit.” He rolls his eyes.
“And after?”
