We embrace over the center console and he pounds my back twice, the way my uncle used to. It brings me right back to my childhood—summers in Russia, wrestling matches in the backyard, pierogies and pastilas every evening. Dimiv even smells like Uncle Petyr: cigarette smoke and Soviet-era Old Spice cologne.
“I wish we were reuniting under better circumstances,” he says with a sigh when we break apart. “You should have called me the minute s**t hit the fan.”
I pull out and take the on-ramp that leads to the highway. “You have your own s**t to deal with in Moscow.”
“Family is family, Uri. I know you’d show up if I called and said one of my boys was taken by some mudak with more greed than common sense.”
“I would. How are the boys, by the way?”
“Bogdan is studious and quiet. Osip is a han
