It’s the ass-crack of dawn on Monday morning and the last person on the planet I feel like talking to just strolled into my office without preamble or permission.
“Morning to you, too, Uncle,” I say through gritted teeth to Afon Satyrin, my father’s brother and the right-hand man to Lukas Lazarev, pakhan of the Lazarev Bratva. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
Afon sprawls in the leather chair across from my desk. He sets a manila folder on the edge of my desk and pats it once, twice, like a man showing off a dog he’s proud of.
I don’t look at it.
“I’m working,” I tell him instead.
“This is work.” He nods at the half-empty espresso cup by my elbow. “How many of those have you had this morning?”
“Not enough to deal with you, that’s for f*****g sure.”
Afon smiles. It’s that slow, cr
