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I don’t need to see the man’s face for the wind to get knocked out of me. That voice. Distinctly different from the one in my head.

“Oh, man. Things are about to getreallyfucking weird for you, Er.” Ciro’s imaginary words drift off to the sound of his laughter.

The man in the doorway steps into the light. To my perception, it should only be a year or so since I saw him last. But he looks older still, a few more scars lining his once boyish face.

This Ciro is tough as nails. Looks more like Alessandro.

Light, hazel eyes bore into me, contrasting with the hint of a smile on his lips that never reaches those eyes. Seconds pass and my head dips, fighting nausea and drowsiness.

“Fyodor, could you give us a minute?” Ciro says, the question sounding a whole lot more like an order. “I need to speak with my brother, please.”

Fyodor hesitates, setting me down and scowling. Ciro only raises one eyebrow, nodding toward the door.

With a deep sigh, Fyodor squeezes past Ciro, thumping him on the chest with the back of his fist. “She will not be happy with this. I will be watching.”

“She’ll be fine. She trusts me.”

“Eh. I trust you too, with my life. Idon’ttrust him.”

Alone, I try to hold Ciro’s gaze. My jaw works a few times.

Finally, Ciro plops down across from me, a bewildered look on his face. “You know, you’re supposed to be dead. And you were damn sure never supposed to come back to Russia.”

“In that order?”

Ciro glares. “I watched you die.”

“That’s my line. But then again, that was a lie. Lot of those going around lately.”

Ciro scoffs, not following my very reasonable line of thinking. The sterner, more serious version of my brother leans forward, forearms on his knees. Hands clasped.

Damn. He’s really got that stone-cold stare down. Suddenly it shifts to disbelief.

“You’re really here, aren’t you?”

“And you’re really here too, right?”

Ciro reaches over abruptly, pinching me hard on the leg. “Heh?”

“Not really as effective as you might think. You carried me for like, a whole mile last night.”

“I don’t know what that means. But now I am sure you’re not my twin brother.” Ciro kicks his chair back.

“Why is that?”

“Because my brother wouldn’t know a joke if it cock-slapped him in the mouth,” he snaps, grinning for real.

“Then I guess you could say that I’ve had the shit cock-slapped out of me since we last met. At least the last time we met in real life.”

“Please tell me what the fuck that’s supposed to mean,” he blurts out, and suddenly we’re chortling, cackling, roaring with laughter.

“Who the fuck are you?!” he howls.

“Some people call me the ‘Gangster of Love,’” I warble out, choke on a snort and we’re crying.

Slowly, the hilarity dies down, fading to silence. We sit there in the still, staring at each other.

“Oh man, I forgot how good you can sing,” Ciro finally speaks up.