Page 54 of Fallen Rook

Me: Fair. But it’s not a dick pic (this time). Open it.

Tomcat: Okay…

Tomcat: What the fuck am I looking at?

Me: It’s me as a pumpkin for Halloween when I was 3. Cute, no?

Tomcat: You’re…

Me: Adorable?

Tomcat: Unhinged.

Me: I feel like there’s a compliment hiding behind this statement…

Tomcat: There isn’t.

Me: TELL ME YOU DIDN’T SMILE.

Tomcat: Fuck off.

Me: I was a bundle of unabashed joy.

Tomcat: Shut up.

Me: You smiled.

Tomcat: No.

Me: ADMIT IT.

Tomcat: Fine. I smiled. Goodbye, kid.

Me: Bye, daddy.

“There’s some trouble with the Russians.” Luca gazed out the wide-paned window of my mother’s mansion, his dark eyes following landscapers on golf carts across the manicured lawn.

“There’s always trouble with the Russians.” Achilles shoved a hand into his obsidian hair, curling the ends while texting on his phone. “Does anyone give a fuck about the fact Tier and I are supposed to be on our honeymoon in Europe right now?” He pointed at said phone. “I just had to cancel the yacht I rented for us in Nice.”

“I do,” I said unhelpfully, eyes still glued to my exchange with Tomcat. I didn’t know why I was so transfixed on getting the man to like me, but somewhere down the line it had turned from a manageable desire to a catastrophic obsession.

I needed him to like me. My entire fucking self-esteem depended on it. Don’t ask me why.

“You’ll get your precious honeymoon just as soon as we deal with the Bratva,” Luca snarled, pinning Achilles with a glare.

“And what’s the timeline on that?” Achilles demanded. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I just got a hot tip from Federico.” Luca pushed off the window, sauntering to the chessboard, his hands in his pockets. “He’s chummy with Slava’s girlfriend, the Met curator?”

Achilles and I both shook our heads. We didn’t pay attention to whom the Russians were dating, as long as it wasn’t our women, in our territory, or both.

“Anyway, she told him the Bratva are waiting for a shipment that should be arriving at our port, here in New York, in the next few weeks.”

“A shipment of what?” I asked.

“Drugs.”

“That wasn’t cleared with me,” I said.