Chapter 35
ABOUT A WEEK LATER
I should be used to leaving by now, but the sight of Eavan curled up on the couch, wrapped in my hoodie, makes the idea of walking from this apartment nearly unbearable.
Her hair is still messy from bed and her legs are crossed beneath her; she flips through the book in her lap that she’s pretending to read.
She hasn’t actually looked at a page since I started putting on my boots.
“You sure you have to go?” Her voice is soft, and there is no denying the concern woven in it.
I step closer, brushing a hand over her cheek. “Unfortunately.” I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep. I want her to taste the apology I don’t say out loud. Her fingers tangle in the collar of my jacket for a second too long, like she’s thinking of pulling me down beside her.
“Don’t get shot,” she mutters against my lips, her lighthearted tone trying to hide her sincerity.
“I’ll try not to.” My retort is only slightly playful.
“Not good enough,” she grouses, brattily crossing her arms and sulking.
I walk backward toward the door, unable to pull my eyes from her.
“I’ll bring you home a black-market souvenir.
Something with a questionable origin and no warranty.
” She grabs the couch pillow and hurls it across the apartment at me.
I laugh, tossing it back at her and slipping out the door before I decide to stay.
Nikolai is already leaning against the G-Class when I reach the parking garage—his reflective sunglasses hide his eyes but not the shit-eating smirk that’s far too wide.
“What took you so long?” The smile somehow grows more as he razzes me.
“Did she threaten no more sex if you skipped cuddles before leaving?”
“She didn’t threaten,” I snip, jokingly. “It was more of a plea with knives.”
“A woman like her,” he muses as we climb into the car, “well worth getting stabbed a time or ten. ”
“Shit, Nik.” I smirk, turning over the engine and pulling from the parking spot. “Are you getting all sentimental and poetic on me?”
“Fuck,” Cillian mutters from the backseat. “Do I have to worry about you fucking my sister now, too?”
Our ride is short—a little café in the center of Midtown.
A highly populated tourist area with far too many people drinking overpriced espressos for this meeting to go south.
The Armenians picked it—probably to ensure Cillian didn’t put a bullet through their skull before taking a seat at the table.
Gunnar swept the place an hour before we got here.
One exit to the front and a side hallway that leads to the kitchen.
No visible security in the restaurant, but two men at a corner table haven’t so much as touched their drinks.
Amateurs. Scanning over the crowd, I barely recognize Gunnar.
Dressed in a three-piece suit, with a laptop and various papers spread before him, he looks like the other nine-to-five schmucks filing this place.
“Mr. Roseti. Mr. Romanov. Mr. O’Brien.” The man in his mid-thirties stands from his seat, chirping our names a tad too brightly. He’s thin, forgettable, and fidgeting nervously with a napkin. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
I slide into the booth, setting my phone and keys on the table without bothering to accept his hand. He laughs nervously, retaking his seat, and sliding deep into the booth as Cillian forces his way in behind him. “I’m Narek. ”
Nikolai gives him a charming smile and saddles a chair up to the end of the booth, relaxed like he’s here to talk about real estate. “You know, Narek, there is a remarkable vodka tasting room down the block. We could have met there instead.”
Narek blinks. “Uh… I guess. It’s ten in the morning.”
“Live a little.” Nikolai winks at him. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Unsure how to respond to Nikolai’s relatively unhinged proposal, Narek looks like he wants to evaporate where he sits. His phone buzzes, and he apologizes before pulling it from his pocket, quickly scrolling through it, and placing it face down on the table between us.
“What is it you want?” Cillian huffs, reeling the conversation back in.
“Our people don’t want more conflict,” he says quickly.
“We know about the… um… issue with Davit Sargsyan and… the girl. Those of us here in Brooklyn, we aren’t involved in that.
” I stare back at him in silence, waiting for him to make the point he brought us here for.
“If… I mean, when things come to a head with him—because they will—we don’t want to be caught in the middle. ”
If Sargsyan actually comes, everyone will be caught in the middle
“Unless you are willing to entirely cut ties with your Armenian brethren overseas, that’s not a promise I can make,” Cillian responds flatly.
“Understood.” He nods, clearly unhappy with my decision.
When he reaches over the table to shake my hand, he topples the glass of water between us.
He instantly grabs both our phones and my car keys before the puddle reaches them both.
“Apologies,” he says quickly, all of us slipping from the booth before the water spills over the table edge and into our laps. “Tight space.”
I wave it off without a thought, extending my hand. “My things?”
“Oh… of… of course,” he stammers, his grin lopsided, as he places them into my waiting palm. Nikolai’s inquisitive gaze lingers on him as we walk toward the door, but I don’t bother to ask.
We walk two blocks before Nikolai speaks again. “Well, that was productive.”
“In what world?” I grumble.
“Okay, maybe not productive, but entertaining. Narek looked like he was about to piss himself.”
Cillian shakes his head. “I don’t know what it was, but something about all of that just didn’t feel right.”
“They’re trying to keep the peace while buying time,” Nikolai insists.
We pass a guy leaning against a kiosk, dressed like any other businessman, scrolling through his phone. But the screen has gone black, and he’s not really scrolling. He’s just watching the crowd .
“You see him?” I murmur.
“Yup.” Nik and Cillian answer in unison.
“Think he’s one of theirs?” I ask, casually glancing over my shoulder to see if he is following us.
“No.” Nik shakes his head. “He looks too clean-cut. I’d put my money on him being a cop.”
“Great… Just what we fucking need.”
Back in the SUV, I check my phone. I tap into my messages, but the app flickers and crashes. Weird . I try again. Same thing. My brows furrowing, I power off the phone to reboot the device.
“Something wrong?” Nikolai asks.
“Must be a glitch. They make these things far too fucking smart now. Like they’re trying to think for you.”
We drive in silence for a while. Nikolai hums tunelessly, probably just to irritate me. Phone powers back on, and I flip open the texts without issue—or any new messages.
When I walk into the apartment, the first thing I see is Eavan’s bare feet poking over the couch arm. She hears the door and pops her head up, beaming. “You’re back early.”
“We’re just efficient.” I pause in the kitchen to remove the Glock from my waistband and set it on the counter.
“Did you get me something shady and illegal?” she asks, and Cillian arches an inquisitive brow .
“I was going to grab the Mona Lisa while we were out,” I playfully fib. I take a seat beside her on the couch, toss my phone onto the coffee table, and pull her legs over my lap. Her fingers find mine easily, like they belong intertwined with mine. “But did you know that thing is in Paris?”
“You’re ridiculous.” She chuckles, curling into me and resting her head on my chest. “Who would’ve thought the big bad mafia guy was a funny man?”
“Or such a generous lover.” I drag her into my lap to taste her lips. My phone buzzes on the table, but I ignore it. I press my lips back to hers and kiss her slow and deep, just for a moment, forgetting everything but the two of us.