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“Drink?”

I pull back from Nero and see Kir’s brow furrowing as he looks at my father. Papa is completely ignoring Angelina and Rurik’s attempts to get him to sit so they can, you know, address the small problem of thebullet holein his body.

“Marko, you’ve beenshot,” Kir says patiently, like we didn’t just all experience utter hell downstairs, which is still a complete bloodbath.

“Yet—here I am,” Papa crows. “Still standing. Still Russian. So,again, Kir, would you like a drink.”

Kir starts to shake his head, but Papa holds up a hand.

“It was a rhetorical question, Kir. Right now, we drink.”

“Papa,” I sigh, shooting him a look when I grab his attention. “Will you please stay still so Angelina can patch you up until the doctor arrives?”

He grins at me. “Not the first time I’ve been?—”

“Sit, Papa,” I snap.

Papa sighs heavily. “Fine,” he grumbles, dropping heavily into his office chair with a grimace. Rurik helps him with his shirt, undoing it to reveal the wound as Angelina, who used to be a nurse, kneels down to start cleaning and dressing it.

“I believe this was a ricochet, Mr. Kalishnik,” she frowns, peering at his stomach. “Otherwise you’d have a much bigger problem on your hands.” She glances up at him. “I think I can get the slug out, unless you’d prefer to wait for the doctor?—?”

“I’d prefer to not have a bullet in my gut, Angelina,” Papa sighs, smiling at her with a touch of pain in his eyes. “If you wouldn't mind.”

Angelina gets to work as Papa nods at Kir.

“I’ll have that drink now, Nikolayev.”

Kir glances my way. I sigh. “Sure. He's going to have one anyway.”

He smiles and walks over to the bar cart near the wall, pouring two glasses of vodka. “Anyone else?”

“Fuck yes,” Nero rasps, wincing as he raises a finger. “Right here.”

“The hell you are,” I scowl at him.

“You understand that I’m in aconsiderableamount of pain, yes?”

My eyes soften as they drag over him. “What hurts?”

“Everything,” he chuckles hoarsely.

“Nero.”

We glance over to my father sitting in his chair, looking at us. His mouth is grim.

“You saved my daughter’s life. After I beat you to a pulp and broke your fingers and toes.”

My eyes bulge. “Excuse me!?”

“Easy, princess,” Nero groans. “I’ve already put myself in his shoes. I definitely had it coming.”

“I owe you an apology,” Papa continues, grimacing when Angelina yanks the slug from his wound. “To both of you,” he says quietly. “For all of it.” He turns to Kir. “Where are we with that vodka, anyway? One for Mr. De Luca, too,” he grunts.

“Exactly when did I become the bartender,” Kir mutters. “Anyone else?”

Screw it.

“I’ll take one,” I sigh.