“In case this wedding is a sham and you need an out,” Makar says, leaning in too close to whisper tome.
I search his face for a sign of whether this is a joke or a threat, but his expression is frustratinglyneutral. Is it customary for the Bratva to gift the don’s wife a weapon? Why does it feel so creepy andwrong?
“Do you like it?” Makar presses. “This knife is special. It’s the one we took out of Nikolai’s back.”
That clears things up: it’s an insult. At best, this is an insult. At worst, Makar is threatening me.
But by the time I put the pieces together and am ready to tell Makar he better get the f**k out of myroom before I plunge this knife into his face, he is at the door.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” he says with a finger-wagging wave. “Big day.”
My h
