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He snorted. “The one who used to have that terrible mustache.”

“Mikey?”

“Mikey.” Yuriy grimaced. “He pulled me aside like we were best friends, offered me half a million dollars, and said, ‘I know you want him dead, so let’s make this official.’”

His imitation of my cousin—the way he would squint as if unable to see and the nasal voice—was spot on. He was definitely referring to Mikey.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take the money.”

He shrugged. “I considered it. Then I realized you’d haunt me just to complain about that undignified method of your death.”

“True.”

“That mustache was a bigger crime,” he said.

I chuckled. “Ah, so that’s why his body came back to me with ‘You’re welcome’ carved into his chest. I always wondered for what pleasure I owed you.”

Yuriy’s laughter was soft. His eyes crinkled, the sweet curve of his lips hooking my attention. The lights flirting with his hair left me feeling jealous. I barely stopped myself from pulling the scrunchie from his hair and letting the tresses down.

“Your turn.” He pointed his spoon at me. “Tell me a time you tried to kill me.”

I sipped my drink. “Only times you know about? Or the ones you never caught?”

His eyes glinted. “The ones I don’t know about.”

“Well, there was the warehouse explosion four years ago.”

He raised a brow. “Son of a bitch. You set that off?”

“Yes.”

“I walked out of that with only one shoe.”

“I noticed.”

“So you like to inflict pain and watch me suffer?” He leaned in close. “Why do I find that hot?”

“I don’t know, but I can always book you a shrink.”

We smiled at each other over our drinks, and something in the space between us eased. Like this was normal. Like we’d always been destined to sit across from each other like this, teasing about murder while fairy lights sparkled overhead.

Yuriy turned his gaze to the tree in the corner, expression softening. “Your family’s going to lose their minds,” he said quietly.

“At us?”

“Mm.”

“They already lose their minds about everything,” I said, lightening the mood. He wasn’t wrong. When we reached that bridge, it would be tough to cross. “This will just give them something productive to focus on.”

He snorted again.

“And your people?” I asked.

“Oh, they’ll riot.” He said it dryly but without bitterness, just sardonic honesty. “But when have they never rioted against me? I’ll let a few heads roll, and they’ll fall back into line.”

“Yuriy, you have to be careful.” I reached for his hand, focusing on the tattoo at the side of his index finger. Dates I knew coincided with his parents’ deaths. “You can’t solve every problem with more violence. I almost lost my mind when I found you last night.”

“I don’t know any other way, Stanislav. You think if I casually walk into one of our family meetings and say, ‘hey, in closing, I’m in love with Stanislav Zhukovsky,’ they’ll RSVP for our wedding?”