Now, though, my body is demanding that I pay attention to it, because it’s f*****g pissed. My neck and face throb from being pressed into the floor of Raymond’s apartment by two hundred and fifty pounds of angry NYPD SWAT officer.
But I set that aside once again.
Across the table from me sits the pakhan of the Lazarev Bratva. He’s always been an aloof figure to me—furious and unapproachable in the old days, still somewhat mysterious now, like a mountain that prefers to hide its face in the clouds.
To his right is Kir, my best friend since he was a scrawny, wide-eyed kid whose mother had just been buried. He looks more like his dad than ever these days. It’s less of a physical resemblance than it is a similar aura they carry around themselves.
“We’re waiting,” Kir drawls. “This is the f
