I’ve been here a few times.
Antonio’s daughter, Amara, loves their pancakes.
They make them into smiley faces.
The hostess shows us to a red booth.
Antonio and I sit across from Rurick and Lev.
Lev looks nervous, and I’m surprised that, with his age and closeness to Aleksy, Rurick is even allowing him to be around.
It also makes me question Lev.
I had no idea he was scheming behind Aleksy’s back withusand Rurick.
I glance at Rurick as the hostess hands us menus.
We all order coffee. That’s it.
Rurick has to be in his late seventies. His face is wrinkled from a hard and violent life. It’s a look I’m familiar with—seeing it on so many aged faces in the Mafia. He’ll be unfit to lead soon and have to pass his corrupted empire down to someone else.
God help him if it’s Aleksy.
God help every man in the Bratva.
He clasps his veiny hands together and rests them on the table.
No one starts the conversation until the server delivers our coffees and scurries off.
Rurick picks a creamer from the basket, cracks it open, and stirs it into his coffee before bluntly saying, “I want Aleksy gone.”
I maintain my composure, holding in the surprise.
“That’s your grandson,” Antonio states as if Rurick somehow forgot.
I’d want the guy gone, too, but I’m not Bratva.
This isn’t my business.
“I’m aware,” Rurick says.
Lev repeats every motion Rurick makes.
From the creamer he selected to how he’s stirring his coffee.
“Aleksy is ruining our organization. I won’t allow him to ruin the decades of blood, sweat, and death my family sacrificed for our success.”
Lev nods in agreement.
I lean in, cutting to the only thing I give a fuck about. “Who shot at me and Liliya?”
That’s my priority for the day.
“Aleksy made the call,” Lev says matter-of-factly.
I grind my teeth, rage barreling through me.
It takes all my self-restraint not to pick up the butter knife beside me and slam it into his jugular. Sweeten his coffee with his own fucking blood.
