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Genesis strokes my skin, tracing the lines of the tattoo. “That’s beautiful.” She rises up to press her lips against the edge of mine. “And, Julian, you’re going somewhere beautiful when you die … when you’reold as fuckand you need a cane.”

I offer her a soft smile, not believing a word she said.

Men in the Mafia don’t live long. Most don’t make it past their forties.

I’ve never expected to live a long life.

“You’re literally tatted everywhere,” she comments, looking over my skin as if reading a script. “Your arms, your hands, your fingers,everywhere. When I got the butterflies, they hurt like hell.”

“I’ve been through far worse pain than getting some ink, baby.”

“Why the Cupid?” she asks, moving her attention to the tattoo on the side of my neck. “For someone so anti-love, that sure says the opposite.”

“That’s for my parents. Cupid was the son of the love goddess, Venus, and the god of war, Mars. It’s how I saw them. My mother as love and my father as war.”

Lowering her head, she presses a kiss to Cupid and then runs her finger along my jawline. “I have one last request.”

I stare up into her eager eyes. “You’re sure asking for a lot of those tonight.”

She grabs my hand again and lowers it to my chest, right over my heart—one small section of my skin that isn’t inked. For some reason, I’ve always felt like I needed to save that space.

“Here’s where I want you to have a tattoo for me,” she says, her voice so light and tender. “Then, next to it, I want one for our child.”

I waituntil Genesis has been asleep for an hour before slipping out of bed and driving to the casino.

During the drive, I realize something.

My entire time with Genesis, I didn’t once think about the Russians, or Lucky Kings, or the chaotic shit happening in my life.

My mind was present and there with her.

She picked a movie for us to watch, which I hardly paid attention to because she chattered the entire time, foreshadowing what’d happen in the movie. Not that she made it to the end. She’d yawned nearly a hundred times before dozing off.

While she slept, I checked my phone, seeing the text from Franko, telling me where he’d taken the Russian who came to the casino.

I arrive at the warehouse we lease, located thirty minutes from the New York casino, shortly after two in the morning. When I walk in, I’m disappointed it’s not Dima.

Though I didn’t get my hopes up.

I know Franko would’ve told me if it was.

Since I’ve been doing my research on the Russians, I know the man tied to the chair is Marlen. Franko shoved a rag, which I know has drain cleaner on it, into his mouth, which means he probably wouldn’t shut the fuck up and Franko grew tired of it.

Franko is in the corner, sitting on a stool, eating Taco Bell and reading aMaximmagazine. He tips his chin toward me, dropping the magazine on the table, and sits back to enjoy the show.

Marlen jerks his head up when he hears me click the door shut. Drool falls from his mouth, landing onto his scuffed sneaker and the floor.

Both of his eyes are bruised, and they widen when he sees me.

Did the dumb fuck not know this would happen?

Marlen is a soldier with the Russians. He holds hardly any rank, but I know he answers mainly to Dima. I also know Dima fucks his girlfriend while Marlen is out, killing for his family.

What great loyalty they have there.

Walking straight to him, I backhand him across the face. “What the fuck were you doing in my casino, Marlen?”

Marlen flinches not only from the slap but I think from my knowledge of his name as well. He whips his head from side to side, attempting to speak, and I drag leather gloves from my pocket before tugging the rag from his mouth.