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"So, he expects me to come running," I observe.

"I know. It's inappropriate. Want me to tell him to go fuck himself?"

There's my cousin again, making everything sound forced.

"No. This is a minor concession to prevent something worse. I'll arrive shortly."

Of all the games risking bloodshed, posturing ranks as the worst. It yields nothing substantial. When a man has to prove himself, his only options are to fight or die. That's when his true character emerges. All the petty power dynamics and political maneuvering require a cool mind. A calculating mind. Like my legitimate profession, the underworld operates on facts and figures.

I meet Adrian and Viktor at the Vine. Viktor's solitary presence, without Bratva reinforcement, is a positive sign. We take our customary booth away from the windows in the room's corner. Call us cautious.

Viktor remains sober—another favorable indication. He shakes my hand with a surprisingly gentle smile. In certain instances, the slender man appears almost avuncular... nearly making me forget his true nature. Almost. Adrian fidgets restlessly beside me.

"Thank you for meeting," Viktor says in Russian.

"Why don't we converse in English so Adrian can participate?"

Adrian never mastered Russian. Maybe that contradicts my suspicions about his loyalty.Perhapshe is trustworthy. Or perhaps he's simply lazy and unconcerned, since the Bratva speaks English.

"Or perhaps you prefer he remain uninformed," I suggest when Viktor sits silently.

"What I wish to request... it is sensitive. If you reject this proposal, it will make me look very foolish. We both understand that humiliation, in our profession, necessitates retaliation."

He's correct. Posturing differs from outright disrespect. Certain affronts can be overlooked. But excessive power plays risk undermining a Don's authority, encouraging ambitious young pups to think they can take down the big bad wolf. That's when a man shows his teeth.

"Continue..."

"We're encountering difficulties with warehouse permits. This has persisted for some time. However, I'm willing to disregard the permit issues if you'll attend a party, I'm hosting... with Anya as your companion. Your official date. You'll arrive together. Have photographs taken with her. Treat her exceptionally well; ensure she experiences an unforgettable evening."

I nearly ask him to repeat himself. This arrangement seems suspiciously good… Surely, I can endure one evening with Anya? I've known her for years without any attraction developing. Meeting Sienna has only emphasized that absence of chemistry.

But could I feign interest for a single night? To resolve Viktor's warehouse complaints? It’s my duty to do anything that makes the city safer.

"Just one date?" I confirm. "You won't spring additional conditions later?"

"Just one date," he affirms.

I nearly explain that I'm participating solely as part of our agreement, that there’s no chance I’ll feel anything real. But what purpose would that serve?

"Do we have an arrangement?" he asks, extending his hand.

I think of Sienna. For a brief, irrational moment, I wish I could take her instead. Then I shake his hand.

ChapterEight

Sienna

My WiFi's gone belly up, forcing me to use the West Branch Library's antique computers. The machine sounds perilously close to expelling a cloud of black smoke. Ostensibly, I'm searching for employment opportunities.

Office work, perhaps, something steady. But somewhere between browsing job boards and nursing half a cup of lukewarm coffee, I find myself researching Nico Moretti. I know I need to be strong, to stick to my plan: one assignment, one payment—Gianna transferred the money mere minutes after receiving the digital image—followed by a new chapter to my life.

Yet I need to know. Is he truly a bad man? Or am I deluding myself by believing the internet can tell me the truth?

The articles present a polished image. Hedge fund triumphs, numerous charitable foundations prominently displaying his name. He finances cancer treatment initiatives, builds playgrounds in neighborhoods I avoid after nightfall.

One photograph shows him cutting a ribbon in Bishop Arts. Sunglasses, tieless, one hand casually pocketed as though he's not posing but simply existing in the right lighting. His attractiveness frustrates me. Even in still images, he appears attentive to something just beyond the frame. Perpetually strategizing, perhaps.

Another image captures him at a rooftop fundraiser, cufflinks gleaming, head turned toward a man I don’t recognize. Though not smiling, his mouth softens at the corners, suggesting the possibility. I wonder if he ever looks like that when no one’s watching.