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He looks like a Siberian bear standing on hind legs. His fur coat reaches to the floor, his boots dropping melting puddles of slush on the flagstones.
“Ivan!” he cries, holding his arms wide.
I step into them, though I’d rather not, and we embrace.
When he releases me, he turns to Sloane with the look of shock and wonder that no man can hide when he catches sight of her.
“By god,” he says. “I heard you were a beauty, but for once the rumors cannot exaggerate. Now I understand how my friend Ivan went from viciousVorto family man.”
Sloane holds out her hand to be kissed, a deft maneuver that prevents Marko from attempting to embrace her as well. Her dark eyes size Marko up, cataloging his every word and gesture.
“Would you like a drink?” she says. “This cold will steal your soul.”
“I never turn down a drink,” Marko says, following us deeper into the house.
Several of our men are occupying the billiards room where the full bar resides. Sloane leads us back to the sitting room, swiftly plucking up the book from the sofa cushion before Marko can sit on it.
“What’s your fancy?” she says to Marko.
It’s not like her to play housewife—I’m guessing she wants to stay on her feet, free to cross behind us, and free to access the bevy of weapons stashed all over the monastery, including behind a false panel of books on the shelf.
“Surprise me,” Marko says with a grin.
Sloane mixes the drinks at the smaller bar. I know she’ll make mine weak and Marko’s strong.
Marko looks around the room at floor level.
“Where’s your son?” he says.
“Asleep. It’s past midnight,” I remind him.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he says. “I won’t keep you long . . . wouldn’t want your wife to miss her beauty sleep.”
I can almost feel Sloane’s irritation like a furnace behind me. She despises when men try to make her looks her defining characteristic—as if beauty is the only and highest achievement a woman can reach.
She hands Marko his drink, deliberately spilling a few drops on the thigh of his cargo pants. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Thank you,” Marko says, allowing his eyes to rest on her a little too long.
This is a deliberate provocation. If he does it again, I’ll cut his fucking eyes out of his head.
Marko turns to me, smiling more widely than ever. “I want to invite you to my wedding,” he says. “Though I wasn’t invited to yours.”
“It was a small and private ceremony,” I say. “Dominik and Lara were married at the same time.”
“Two brothers wedded on the same day,” Marko says, that old jealousy creeping back into his voice. “What a bond you share.”
“Congratulations,” I say, ignoring that. “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Her name is Daryah Tataryn,” Marko replies proudly.
I can tell he’s genuinely excited for the match. There’s no reason for him to marry otherwise—more than ever these days, Marko answers to no one.
“She’s a famous swimmer,” Marko says.
“I’ve heard of her,” Sloane perches on the arm of the couch, not too close to Marko and me, and not so settled that she couldn’t rise easily. “She swam from Florida to Cuba.”
“Indeed,” Marko grins. “And that is how we met.”
