Page 2 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Patrick had started saying cargo routes lately, which was never comforting from a man who once lost his own suitcase on a direct flight. He’d also picked up a fresh interest in Russian names he pretended were ordinary business contacts. Morozov was one of them, said with the casual tone people use when mentioning a shark they swear is nowhere near the boat.

I glance at Dmitri again before I can stop myself. He’s no longer looking at me. He’s watching Patrick now, and his face says he’s found a math error.

“Volkov,” I repeat. “As in don’t-breathe-near-their-money Volkov?”

Patrick’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t say things like that here.”

“Then don’t invite me to felony brunch after dark.”

“It’s a reception.”

“It’s a room full of criminals and shrimp towers.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I am. I’m using my indoor indictment voice.”

Patrick gives another charming laugh for the benefit of a passing couple. The woman smiles at him, then at me, then hurries on because she has clearly decided sibling affection is better observed from a safe distance.

“Try not to audit the room out loud for one night,” he says, lowering his voice the way he does when he wants to remind me he’d been born first by a handful of years.

“I’m not auditing. I’m sampling,” I mouth. For frauds.

“You’re making people uncomfortable.”

“Then your people should stop using fake names badly,” I say, smiling into my glass.

Patrick’s hand closes around my elbow, light enough to look polite and tight enough to annoy me.

“Careful.”

I glance down at his hand, then back at his face. “Or what? You’ll tell Mom I’m being difficult?”

Patrick keeps hold of my arm, smiling for the room.

“Then stop bringing me to parties where the fraud has appetizers,” I say.

His smile holds, but only because witnesses are nearby. “You don’t know what you’re looking at.”

“That has never been my problem.”

“Tonight it might be.” His thumb presses once against my sleeve, warning dressed up as brotherly concern. “These people don’t like being studied.”

“Then they should try being less interesting.”

His hand tightens.

Before I can decide whether to make a scene or merely ruin his whole week, a voice says, “I wasn’t introduced.”

Patrick releases me. I look up. Dmitri Antonov stands beside us, glass still in hand, mouth almost amused.

“And I wouldn’t dare use a fake name badly,” he says.

Dmitri Antonov has crossed the hall without making a ripple. One moment he was near the windows, and now he’s close enough that I can see the faint scar cutting through one eyebrow and the cool patience in his eyes. They’re dark, but not flat. There’s something alive in them, something amused and dangerous, which is frankly rude. A man should pick one lane.

Patrick recovers first because fraud and charm are his twin lungs. “Antonov. I didn’t realize you’d met my sister.”

“We haven’t.” Dmitri looks at me. “Not properly.”