Page 34 of Dressed to Kill
Izzy nodded once. "And the Italians?"
"Have your people call my people. We've got an infestation, and you know as well as I do that once they get in the walls, the only way to get rid of the fuckers is to burn the whole place down."
Izzy looked at the candles for a long moment.
"So we stop them from nesting in the walls," he said.
Izzy walked me to the door. In the narthex he put his hat back on, told me to be careful on the roads, and waited until I'd said the same before he stepped aside.
Pavel. Christ. The man had stood next to me at Pop's funeral with his hand on my back. A week ago he'd been in my apartment drinking the good vodka, telling me about his daughter at Ohio State. He was so fucking proud. And the whole time, he was on Dario Kastelani's payroll.
I crossed the street, dodging cars and keeping my head low in the rain. When I reached the car, I yanked the door open and dropped into the back seat.
"Call Nikita," I barked, peeling off my gloves.
"Everything okay, boss?" Gregori glanced in the rearview.
"Fine," I lied as the phone rang over the car speakers.
"Volkov Law Office. How can I—"
"This is Aleksi. Put me through."
The phone line clicked as Nikita's secretary transferred my call. Nikita picked up on the second ring. "Do you have good news?"
"I have news. Don't know if I'd call it good." I gestured for Gregori to start driving. "The Greeks are going to sit down. They want the Italians almost as badly as we do. Fuckers hit a flower shop. This is starting to get ugly."
"Agreed. I hope there've been further developments with that research I asked you to do."
I let out a heavy sigh. "I'm on my way over right now. Get Pavel. And Nikita? You're going to want to clear your schedule for the rest of the day."
"Noted," he said. "See you in twenty."
The bed was aproper wreck by the time I was done with it.
I'd dragged the duvet sideways off Aleksi's mattress, kicked his pillows to the floor, and twisted the fitted sheet at the corner where the elastic clung. Took me less than a minute. It looked like somebody had slept in it badly, or wrestled in it, or done one of half a dozen other things I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of imagining. Just enough wreckage that Aleksi would come home and look at it and know somebody had been in his bed. The one room in this flat he'd told me to stay out of since the night he'd dragged me here in handcuffs.
I left the door open on the way out.
The flat was mine for the day. Aleksi had left before half eight, suit on, gloves on, without a word at my door on the way past. There was a guard out in the hall somewhere, but he wouldn't come in unless I gave him a reason. I had no plans to give him a reason.
I went to the kitchen.
The fridge was full because Irina kept it full. She wasn't in today, which was a stroke of luck I hadn't earned, and I planned to ride it. I pulled eggs, butter, the good white sourdough from the bakery down the street, and a tomato off the counter. It was my da's breakfast. He'd made it for me every Saturday since I was old enough to sit on the worktop and keep my hands out of the pan.
You cut a hole in the middle of the bread, big enough for the yolk. You butter the bread both sides and you put it in the pan, and you crack the egg straight into the hole. The toast and the egg cook together. The yolk runs through the bread when you cut it.
Da called it eggy in a basket. I don't know if anybody else did.
I cooked. I burned the toast a wee bit, the way Da used to, because Da would say a perfect breakfast was a sign of a man with no character. The yolk ran when I cut it. I ate standing up at the counter because Aleksi's fancy stools were uncomfortable and I was making a point.
Then I took the second one and a glass of orange juice into the living room and turned on his TV.
His TV was bigger than my whole flat in Edinburgh. I pulled up the streaming menu and scrolled until I found something with Scottish accents, an old Doctor Who episode from when the Doctor was Capaldi and Scottish and angry in the proper Scottish way. I lay back on the sofa in just my pants and ate my breakfast.
I'd told myself this morning that the bed thing was about Aleksi. So was the breakfast. So was the telly.
That was a lie.
