The women left the kitchen.
Micah stuffed another ball of muzz into his mouth, and the buffalo-milk mozzarella embraced his molars like an Italian nonna’s hug. Knowing Arthur’s refined tastes, it was probably straight from Naples. And yet knowing Arthur’s bent toward personal responsibility and climate change, Micah bet Arthur had bought it for his wife.
Arthur turned back to Micah, looking him straight in the eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Micah scowled at him. “What the fuck am I doing with what?”
“The Sokolovs have a price on your head and your codswallop friends, and they are based in Monaco. They haven’t taken you out because their organization was in disarray after Matryona Sokolov went to prison and Kir was killed. Their priorities were restructuring rather than chasing you around Europe and the States. But they did restructure. They’ve made inroads in the US and Europe, although the Chekhovskaya swept in and took over Monaco and its environs. Are you trying to remind them that you exist?”
Micah shrugged. “They probably don’t even remember me.”
Arthur shook his head. “Believing that will get you both killed.”
“Kylie’s sister and her mother are all she has left. She won’t stop looking for them.”
“You call her Kylie instead of Chiarina, do you?”
“Her name is Kylie now. She has an official US passport to prove it. If her family is still alive, we have to see this through. She’s not going to be able to live with herself if we don’t.”
“And you don’t think your family’s murders have anything to do with your decision?”
“What the hell do you know about that?” Micah demanded, and his New York accent thickened in his mouth. “You don’t have the right to go poking your nose into what happened to them.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think I would recruit you without knowing exactly who you were?”
“You’ve known all this time?” Micah grated out.
“It’s never been important before. I recruited you because you’re good at what you do, and what you do is the job description of what I do. All the best spies are con artists.”
Micah stepped toward Arthur, panic and rage twisting his fingers into fists. “I’m not a con artist. I’ve been straight for years. Shine Industries is a well-reputed organization that has never done a shady deal. I haven’t had to talk anyone into anything in years because it’s a solid business.”
Arthur didn’t flinch. His disinterested smile didn’t even jitter. “Keep your voice down, Marcu. Kylie will hear you. And you are one of the most persuasive men I’ve ever met, with the possible exception of His Serene Highness Maxence of Monaco. Max brings people around with his preternatural charisma, though. You talk people into doing what you want.” Arthur’s cold smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Which is exactly why you’re my best boy.”
Ah, the British, with their subtle references to the British version of a school class president at upper-class boarding schools that set you exactly in your place, which was as their lackey, but a good one. Prized above all others, as a matter of fact.
Arthur tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, exactly when did this operation turn from hitting back at the organized crime syndicates trying to tear down civilization to you becoming an errand boy for that girl in my guest bedroom?”
And the British certainly knew how to sucker punch but turn it into a question to make it seem so pleasant. “It’s not.”
Arthur turned and gestured with an orange section. “Of course. Let’s have a scotch and discuss how you’re going to enter Monaco without getting yourself and that pretty little girl horribly murdered for your trouble, and what you’re going to do for me in the process.”