Inside contains low red lighting and row after row of secluded, shadowed boots lined in maroon crushed velvet. The bartenders here remember your drink, purposefully forget your face, and would never dare to ask your name.
Matvei Satyrin is already in our usual booth in the back corner, nursing one of the two glasses of Clase Azul on the table. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater pushed up at the sleeves and that easy, self-satisfied grin he never takes off.
“You look like you just crawled of a sewer,” he remarks as I drop into the seat across from him.
I pick up the tequila and drain half of it. “I’ve had a rough night.”
Mat watches me over the rim of his glass. “A rough Kir night, or rough Lukas night? Because those are two very different conversations and I need to know which one t
