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My father was right—the High Table’s obsession with Russia’s most beautiful gem borders on the superstitious. Serafim Isidor seemed to believe that the Bratva had suffered nothing but back luck since they lost it. He was willing to agree to almost anything to get it back.
My dad came to Moscow to broker the deal, and to make amends to the Bratva in person. He can be very charming when he wants to be. After three hours of negotiations, Isidor was placated enough to apologize in turn for Alexei Yenin’s betrayal of the blood oath.
My dad stayed afterward to take Adrik and me out for dinner. I think Adrik was nervous—he hadn’t seen my father since their car ride together, and the last time my dad saw me, I wasn’t exactly at my best.
I arrived at the restaurant shining like a star, in brand new dress, hair glossy, face immaculate, not a bruise to be seen. I hung on Adrik’s arm, overflowing with happiness to have two of my favorite people at a table together.
My father looked more than relieved when he saw me. We talked all through dinner. I could tell he was impressed with Adrik’s descriptions of our supply chain and distribution models. When he found out Adrik plays chess, that was almost enough to make him smile. In time, he might accept that I really do love Moscow—maybe even more than Chicago.
The diamond wasn’t the only price to wipe our slate clean—Adrik and I have to pay the Koslov family an outrageous percentage of our earnings for the next two years. SinceMolniyaand the rest of the line-up continue to earn money faster than we could ever spend it, it’s not the worst deal in the world.
It helped that Nikolai Markov supported us. Isidor cares what he thinks much more than Foma Kushnir, who flatly refused to vote in our favor. Ilsa probably put in a good word with her dad, or Nikolai simply realized how profitable it would be to renew his contract for our pills.
Ilsa comes to see me weekly to pick up fresh product. She hasn’t quite resigned herself to Simon, but her and Neve are as close as ever.
Thekachkistill hate us, not that they have the pull to do much about it. As long as we stay away from their favorite gym, we should be fine.
Krystiyan’s relatives likewise hold a grudge. The Petrovs and the Malina already loathed each other, so that’s basically status quo.
You’re always going to have enemies in our world. All you can do is make it lucrative for people to keep you alive, and dangerous for them to kill you.
Hakim and I abandoned Yuri Koslov’s lab and returned to the old brewery. It took a shit ton of effort to make it operational again, but with all the hours we work, it’s the only way he can see Alla as often as he likes. He brings her lunch from her favorite places so she doesn’t have to cook any more than necessary.
He didn’t give me too much shit about burning the lab. All of the Wolfpack were more forgiving than I feared, even Vlad—they only had one stipulation.
“It’s time for you to get your patch,” Jasper says.
I groan, even though I knew this was coming.
I’ve always liked tattoos, but never felt sure I could commit to one on myself. Even though the idea of stamping my arm with the Petrov wolf is not as anathema as it once was, I can’t say I’m thrilled about the idea.
“You better take me someplace good,” I say. “I don’t want hepatitis from some rusty Russian needle.”
“Don’t worry,” Andrei assures me. “Bitterroot has the highest standards. They lick the needle clean between every client.”
Despite Andrei’s best efforts to wind me up, the tattoo parlor is perfectly welcoming. It’s located in a neat brick building on Main Street, a large skylight flooding the room with sunshine, and cheerful orange tiles on the floor.
I relax a little more when I meet the artist Jaromira, who has shiny black hair down to her waist and sleeves of beautiful black roses on both arms. She shows me examples of her work, all fine lines and delicate shading.
“All right,” I sigh, situating myself on her chair. “I’m ready.”
The Wolfpack has come along to watch me take my licks. They rib me and offer sips of vodka from Vlad’s flask.
“Try not to cry,” Hakim says.
“I never cry,” I say, scornfully.
“Never,” Adrik agrees, giving me a sideways smile.
My cheeks get hot, but I smile back at him, not really minding that he saw me in my lowest and most desperate moment. It was his, too. We were both drowning, and we both pulled each other out.
I can’t watch when Jaromira sets her buzzing needle against my arm. I thought it would feel like punctures, being stabbed again and again, but really it’s more like someone drawing on you with a sharp pen.
After a while, the endorphins kick in. It’s almost pleasant. The sunshine is warm, the buzzing soothing.
I lay my head against the rest on the chair, listening to Jaromira’s excellent selection of Russian chansons.
Much like the Mexican ballads that detail the exploits of drug cartels, chansons are songs about the underworld.
