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Mackensie takes a sip, sets the glass down.

“The agreement isn’t perfect. We both know that,” Mackensie continues. “But it is better than nothing. While it holds, the Lucci cannot walk up to Maxim or Nikolai and buy their guns. That matters. Even if those two are sitting on their hands for a week.”

I stare at the bottles behind the bar. Mackensie is right. I hate that he is right. A week is still a week the Lucci can use. But a week with two families bound not to help my enemy is not the same as standing alone in an open field.

“You always have the clean answer,” I say.

Mackensie glances at me… “Someone has to.”

I turn the glass in my hand. “Perhaps you should be in charge?” It comes out lighter than I feel. Playful, if a man like me is allowed the word.

Mackensie shakes his head at once.

“No chance,” Mackensie says, half a smirk on his face.

“You didn’t even think about it,” I laugh.

“I don’t need to,” Mackensie says. “I like where I am. I see what you see. I say what you need to hear. I don’t sit at the head of the table and carry every name that comes with it. That seat is yours. I’m good where I stand.”

I look at him for a moment. Those electric eyes. But yet a man so steady. No hunger for my chair. That is why he has lasted.

“Good,” I say.

Steven appears at my shoulder like he has been waiting for a pause. He always does.

“Gentlemen,” Steven says. “A new vodka. Imported this week. Straight from Russia. It comes highly recommended. I thought you might want the first taste before I put it on the list.”

I watch as he sets down two cold glasses and a bottle with a label I recognize. Not the cheap fire they pour for tourists. The real thing.

I nod.

Steven pours.

I take the glass, turn it once, and drink. It hits clean. Cold. Sharp.

I set the glass down… “Leave the bottle.”

“Yes, Mr. Pakev,” Steven says. “I mean, Dmitri.”

“You’re learning,” I say, the vodka’s reassuring burn in my mouth.

Steven retreats. Mackensie pours the next one himself. We drink. The bar hums around us. Quiet conversation Ice clinking in glasses. A laugh from a table that does not know how close it sits to men who have buried people for less than a bad joke.

I finish another shot.

The warmth sits in my chest and does not soften anything that matters. And that is when I see him.

Not full on.

Just the edge of movement in the lobby glass.

Elias.

He crosses the marble like he belongs here and like he is already looking for the next door he should not open. The boy looks delectable…

Work trousers, tight around the ass. A shirt that is trying to be modest and failing as it shows off the boy’s slender but athletic frame. Hair shining under the perfectly pitched lights. That same mouth.

He does not look toward the bar. He heads for the staircase.