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I frown. “Only the letter A is wrong in that sentence.” I turn my attention toward the kitchen, where I saw Katya last. “Back home, I had a sense of humor.”

Izzy snorts and Lance devours her with his eyes as if she’s a queen. “Oh, you have a sense of humor here, too.”

It’s weird hearing compliments from someone other than Katya. It feels like I’m having an affair. I don’t like it.

My eyes drift toward Katya as Lance walks off to take a phone call. Izzy is easy to talk to, and I think I feel safe because Katya is nearby. I tell Izzy more than I should about Ian and how we got to America. She keeps circling the conversation back to Lance. She has only one interest tonight. Seems we have a lot in common. Both single parents, on the outskirts of the crime families, and both of us have someone else we’d rather be talking with.

I like Izzy, and I get why Lance feels so protective of her. My hackles go up on his behalf when this middle-aged creeper comes over to pay tribute to Izzy. She’s not sure what to do or say, but her face is in a tight scowl and the creeper isn’t taking the hint. He’s full of backhanded compliments, and I’ve had enough.

I roll up my sleeve, flashing the octopus tattoo. The creeper flinches and stammers, recognizing the symbol and putting two and two together, and he makes a quick exit.

I really like this tattoo. It’s effective, but it’s faded over the years. I should get it touched up. I scroll on my phone to make anappointment, but the closest date is six months from now. Shit. How different will our lives be in six months?

The bride and groom do their dance and, um, I knew it was going to be suggestive. After all, I heard Tawny and Scott are having a post-wedding after-party at the club. I’ve seen him tie her up and smack her ass all shades of red, but grinding in front of your grandmother seems like a lot.

Izzy and Lance don’t react at all. They are…distracted, by each other. Lance keeps reaching out to touch her. I can’t fault him, I did the same thing to Katya. But now she’s on the other side of the room, helping the greasy troll who chatted it up with Izzy, and my hands are getting restless.

Izzy and Lance get up and meet with the bride and groom. I finish making the tattoo appointment, paying the deposit and all that stuff, when I hear, “THERE’S NO CAKE!” Izzy is in the bride’s face. The crowd of people pause. Even Katya catches my eye.

The other people at the table start to talk. “What kind of wedding doesn’t have cake?”

Outrage spreads across the room. Lance hurries back to the table and grabs Izzy’s purse. “Good luck.” I’ve seen the same look in Lance’s eyes now every night at work—a man on his way to get laid.

It sparks something primal in me, a side I haven’t tapped since Russia. But until today I haven’t felt the confidence I had in my homeland.

My Katya phone has three text messages left, so I should use them wisely. I catch her eye, making a quick gesture with my wrist to ask her to come over. She looks around and points to herself. It’s the same shit she used to pull whenever I asked her for anything back home.

She comes over to the table and asks, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

The elderly couple asks for more water. The twenty-year-old addicted to her phone all night asks for another white wine. Katya walks around the table closer to me, stopping in the spot where Izzy and Lance were sitting. “Can I get you another beer to strip?” She motions to the label I’ve been peeling away all night.

I grin like a wolf staring down a fox. She’s not prey, but not the same as me either. “This won’t be the only thing I get naked tonight.”

The woman next to me pulls the phone away from her face and snaps her fingers. “Get it, Big Boy.”

Katya rolls her eyes dismissively, but not at the woman. She’s rolling her eyes at me.

A hazy plan forms in my head. All night I’ve listened to the language people speak. It’s been all English, a few smatterings of Italian, but nothing else. So in Russian I say, “Give me your panties.”

My spy girlfriend, who never gets frazzled in the field, blinks at me a few times. For a flicker of a second, her lips curl, and she returns to her confused expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

I say slower in Russian, “I want your panties. Take them off.”

She scrunches up her nose. “I don’t think the bartender can do that.”

Rolling the bottle on its rim, I say in English, “Why don’t you check.” I didn’t say please or thank you. That’s going to drive her crazy.

Annoyance flashes in her eyes. She hates being bossed around, but tonight I want to see if she’s willing to play this game.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, or at least she does the motion—it’s purely habit. But it normally happens when she’s about to give in. “I’ll see what I can do,” Katya offers before vanishing into the crowd.

“You should get her phone number,” the woman next to me says.

I huff under my breath. “I’ll get more than that.”

She shifts her weight toward me, her breast like a heat seeking missile. “Do you want to start off with an appetizer?” Her fingers trace her neck line.

My smile has an icy overtone. “She’s more my type.”