Page 200 of Mafia and Scars

Nikolai’s jaw drops. “You wanna talk aboutaggression? First mydrones, nowthis. There’s a twelve-foot fucking fluffycloud cityin the corner!”

“It’s eight feet,” I correct him—because I like things to be accurate. “And each platform is a different kind of cloud. Cirrus, cumulonimbus, stratocumulus, etc. It’s hercloud kingdom.”

He glares at me. “Cloud fucking…what?!”

Queenie leaps over the cat tunnel shaped like a rainbow, meowing triumphantly, and her fluffy paws begin batting the pink pom-poms dangling from the ceiling.

Nikolai spins around. “We’re supposed to be running an empire here!” His arms flail in the air. “Not a…a…feline fucking amusement park!”

I shrug, not giving a shit about his dumb opinions. “The empire runs better when Queenie is happy.” Because if Queenie’s happy, then I’m also happy.

“Happy?” Nikolai splutters. “I don’t care about your goddamn happiness levels. This is totally out of order. Your cat’s got…got…a personalthronenow!”

“It’s ergonomic,” I grit out before I can stop myself.

“But all this is in the space I use to store my grenades,” he whines. “Where are my grenades supposed to go now? You know, Viktor, I think I preferred you when you were a grumpy fucker.”

I ignore him.

But his scowl slants across to the couch at the back of the office—the couch where he likes to take an afternoon nap. He stomps over to it, snatches up the new cushions I bought. “What in hell’s name are these?” he wails.

“Cushions for when Queenie is tired and needs to rest her fluffy paws,” I reply. He reads out the slogans on the cushions I picked out.

Seat Taken. Meow Means No!

Knead. Nap. Repeat.

Property of the Cat (Violators Will Be Scratched.)

As Nikolai glares, Queenie leaps onto the couch with the poise of a velvet-pawed queen.

He stiffens. “No. Absolutely not! You have an entire cloud city for this!”

She ignores him completely, circles twice, and settles down right in the middle and stretches out, her claws digging into the upholstery.

“Off,” he orders, pointing toward her tower. “Go. Rule your ridiculous kingdom.”

She blinks, slow and deliberate, then yawns directly in his face.

“Viktor,” Nikolai howls, “your cat is violating my personal space and my human rights!”

“She’s expressing affection. Consider yourself honored.”

Nikolai glowers at me, then back at the cloud city and white puffball tunnel glowing softly with twinkle lights. And he makes a sound that’s like a groan and grunt combined. “I’m surrounded by fucking lunatics.” He presses his fingers to his temples. “I need vodka. Immediately!”

“Top shelf,” I clip. “Next to the catnip.”

And Nikolai’s horrified shriek echoes through the room—while Queenie plays on the couch with her little glittery bell, clearly satisfied with her kitty kingdom and her attempts at world domination.

The next afternoon, the door slams open. And Nikolai stands there in the doorway, clutching his coffee as though it’s the last fragile thread holding his sanity together. His eye twitches. “No. No, no,no.Absolutely not. Not again. What…the hell ishappeningin this office?”

I look up from my laptop just in time to see Albert trotting through a row of pink cones, tail wagging like a victory flag. There’s a red carpet starting line. A velvet rope. And miniature chandeliers dangling above an agility ramp wrapped in gold ribbon.

Grigory stands beside it all, arms crossed and chest puffed. “IfViktor’s catgets Whiskers Wonderland in this office,” he declares with a steely look in his eyes, “thenmy doggets his own assault course in here.”

Nikolai’s voice shoots up an octave. “Assault course? And why inthe hell does your creature need that? He spends his days stealing food and sleeping. He’s hardly in training for active combat.”

“It helps hispoiseand inner equilibrium,” Grigory explains smoothly. “Buildscharacter.”