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I’m not. I shoot a glare in the general direction of Ilya as we sit in my living room on the second floor. It’s an old library, one I converted the books in another room. In here, things aren’t for display. I’ve no interest in keeping books, paintings, furniture, or statues that speak of wealth and famous artists and designers, and I definitely don’t give a fuck about rarities.

Things in here are mine. It’s my space.

One where I read or spend time with Ilya. I don’t bring women here. They go to my penthouse duplex in Chicago, overlooking the glitter of the city and the Willis Tower in all its neo-Gothic glory.

This room usually brings me peace.

Not tonight.

I shift on the sofa and sip the vodka he brought with him, thick and ice-cold from the small dedicated vodka freezer that’s attached to the wet bar.

The black bread is still sitting on the tray with all the various toppings Magda set out.

He gives me a flat-eyed stare back and moves from the window. “Because you seem like you’re not listening.Tvoja golova v oblakakh.”

“My head is not in the clouds, Ilya.”

He snorts and pulls out the vodka, topping his glass up. Really, it should be thrown back, not sipped, but I’m not in the mood to get drunk. I can’t afford it, not with a child here, and not with this issue.

“You told me your contact in the police force had information.”

His irritation is real. He knows I wasn’t paying attention. But Erin is taking up space in my head, and for some reason her pain’s cutting into me. The flea-bitten toy’s sitting on the sofa next to me and I know I have to give it to him. He’s asked for his goat before and I’m not so cruel that I’ll make a tiny child suffer.

“I said, Demyan, that she told me the print from the finger was from a lower ranked member of the Fedorov Bratva.”

“Fuck.”

Revenge. Pure and simple. Those bastards ruined my sister’s life over fucking revenge. “Where is Niko?”

“You can’t get to him. He’s gone to ground right now. Observing is my guess. Official word is he’s out of the country.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Two years ago, I killed that dickwad, Denis. A greedy, duplicitous guy. Niko Federov’s younger brother. The capo doesn’t seem to understand it was within perimeters that Denis ignored warnings, crossed lines, and faced the consequences.

But Niko never understands anything. His thirst for revenge is legendary. I breathe out, then toss back the last mouthful.

“Ilya, set up a meeting with Sergio.”

His eyebrows rise. “Boss?”

“Shove that boss shit up your ass,” I say to him in Russian. Then I add a few choice words about his mother.

“She would, but she doesn’t fancy you. Boss.” Then he sighs. “Are you sure about Sergio? The don’s got a host of wants. Augusto is accommodating when he chooses, but his favors are never cheap and often hold a nasty sting.”

I shrug. “I can handle Augusto.”

“It’s not about handling, Demyan; it’s about the man himself. He’s been useful so far in carefully controlled areas, but this is one where we can’t bluff as if we don’t care. We can’t be blasé, or the man will take advantage.”

“Perhaps, but he’s got no love for Fedorov. That works for us. He has connections.”

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters as he knocks back his vodka before setting the glass down and folding his arms. “He’s got connections, but he’s not exactly trustworthy. Didn’t he screw over Abram Popov last year?”

“In a bid to take over his assets, yes.” I meet Ilya’s gaze and hold out my glass. He fills it and I knock it back. He fills it again. “I can handle him.”

“He’s slippery.”

I hold up a hand. “Just set up the fucking meeting.”

“Demyan…”