Page 67 of Fallen Rook

Me: Aww

Sweet Jesus, was he writing his dissertation? It seemed like the kind of thing this overachieving asshole was capable of when asked an open-ended question.

I parked in front of the Forbidden Fruit and stared at my phone with a shit-eating grin on my face, watching him typing for a solid eight minutes.

Finally, the text came through.

Tomcat: See you tonight.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Tweedle-dick and Tweedle-cum.” Achilles’s lips quirked derisively at the sight of Alex and Slava Rasputin. “Please, have a seat.”

“Those are some nice seats. Can I take one home?” Alex glided into a chair nonchalantly, a pleasant smile on his handsome face. “What’s yours is ours, right?”

Achilles’s nostrils flared, which was something, considering the fucker would probably list torture as a hobby if he ever opened a profile on a dating site.

What the shit did Alex mean?

“What’s mine is mine,” Achilles drawled slowly. “And what’s yours is about to be mine, if you don’t shut up. That includes your intestines, which Zelda, my pet snake, would just love to have for dinner.”

“Speaking of delicious dinners, how’s your wife doing, Achilles?”

Every head at the table snapped up at Alex’s words. Achilles reached for his holster. Alex’s easy smile widened further. “What? Tierney’s the best cook I’ve ever met.”

“She’s better than ever, now that the Rasputins are out of her life.” Achilles removed his hand from his gun almost forcefully, reaching for his cigarette pack.

“Business,” Luca clipped out, cutting through the bullshit. “We’re here to discuss business. Even if my schedule allowed meaningless chatter, I wouldn’t be indulging in it with you assholes.”

“Katya wants a 100k florist budget, an artificial lake, and some swans,” Slava announced from his seat at the table.

Slava Rasputin looked as princely and formidable as his older brothers, Jeremie and Alex. Like them, he was tall, muscular, and effortlessly elegant. Unlike them, though, his arctic-blue eyes held no shine or charisma. Instead, they were dead, flat, and menacing. Though he was arguably the cruelest of the three, he held no chance at becoming a pakhan. Alex was the eldest, and Jeremie was the brains behind the operation, and next in line for the throne.

To make up for his rather lackluster existence, Slava had developed a sharp tongue and lethal performance as an assassin. We were all very good at killing people, but Slava didn’t just kill for work—he killed for fun.

“What does she need so many flowers for?” Luca asked.

Slava shrugged in his three-piece suit, his finger rimming the crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “She’s getting the lowly Ferrante brother. The Ringo Star of the clan. The least she could ask for is a nice, proper weddin—”