Ivan gave the demon a blank look. “Why wouldn’t it be?” At Nix’s unimpressed stare, he waved a hand in the direction of the hallway. “Go. Stay in the guest room until he leaves.”
For whatever reason, Nix listened to him, straightening with a sigh and disappearing on quiet feet, the snick of the guest bedroom door shutting gunshot loud in the otherwise silent apartment.
Ivan waited in his seat, breathing evenly, fingers wrapped around a pen so he wouldn’t tap at his desk in the meantime.Sergei had known him too long, was too aware of Ivan’s tells, for Ivan to allow himself free rein to fidget.
He remained in his desk chair even as he heard the elevator door open into the apartment, and a moment later, there was Sergei in the office doorway, a sight as familiar to Ivan as his own father had been. Maybe even more so. He was no artist, but Ivan was sure he could draw from memory Sergei’s stocky form, his dark hair now peppered with more than a bit of gray, his nose that had been broken more than once.
The man who’d been in charge of Ivan’s education. And, with that, his discipline.
How many beatings had Ivan endured under Sergei’s hands?
That was before, of course. Back when Sergei had answered to Ivan’s father. Now Sergei answered to Ivan. Loyal to the end; that was Sergei.
What a fucking joke.
He was carrying a white cardboard box, spots of it almost transparent with grease. He set it down on the desk, lifting the lid. The enticing smell of spiced meat wafted to Ivan’s nose.
“Piroshki,” Ivan murmured.
Sergei nodded. “From the bakery in my neighborhood,” he said, his Russian accent subtle but never fully gone, even after all his years in New York. “The good one.”
Ivan eyed the little meat-filled pastries, his stomach tightening to the point of cramping. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
Sergei scoffed in a way that managed to sound fond. “Of course you haven’t.”
Ivan didn’t take one yet, but he did meet Sergei’s eye. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, boss.”
Boss. It was what Sergei had called Ivan’s father. What he now called Ivan, ever since Ivan’s father’s last breath.
Ivan had never considered it an ironic title, but apparently that only showed how little he’d known.
He sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his midsection. “To what do I owe this visit?”
Sergei took the seat across from him, thumping down with his usual lack of grace. “I’ve heard whispers,” he said as soon as he was seated, cutting to the chase already. “The Carusos were taken down tonight. A major hit.”
“You don’t say?” Ivan said lightly. “About time.”
Sergei didn’t so much as twitch, but his dark eyes bore into Ivan’s. “There’s talk that Sascha was involved.”
“Our Sascha?” Ivan’s lips quirked into an almost smile. “How unlikely.”
“They’re saying Luca is dead,” Sergei persisted, his tone giving away nothing as to how he felt about that development. “And eight other men, all higher-ups. His stepson, Matteo, is missing, presumed dead as well. And the rest are scrambling.”
“We should make sure they don’t scramble into any trouble, then,” Ivan said. “Tag and Jace are close to the Carusos’ main warehouse. Have them clean up any stragglers.”
Sergei’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward as far as the desk would allow. “What are Tag and Jace doing close to Caruso territory?”
“Carrying out my orders,” Ivan told him firmly, allowing some of his irritation to creep into his voice. “Is that a problem, Sergei?”
Sergei sat back, seeming to realize the fine line he was walking. In an instant, he was the picture of ease. “No,” he said with a smile. “Of course not.”
He tucked a hand into his breast pocket. Was he about to draw a gun? Maybe Ivan would end the night with a bullet to the head.
What would the incubus do then?
It was a stupid fucking thought to be his last one, but Ivancouldn’t come up with anything else. He was too tired, maybe. From the summoning. From life. From Sergei’s stupid games.
