Sasha looked at his watch and let out a sigh. “He’s late.”
“I know,” Igor replied, taking a bite of the spinach and mushroom frittata.
“Why aren’t you upset about it? You gave him a chance to prove himself—he followed through—and now he’s late. Is this some sort of power play? To prove he’ll come when he wants and that he won’t be summoned?”
Igor paused thoughtfully. “Maybe.” He lifted his espresso cup to his lips and finished the shot. It hadn’t been sitting more than a minute and it had already turned bitter. Espresso had a very short life.
Sasha glanced at him, his high cheekbones fused with pink. “How can you be so calm about this? What am I missing?”
Igor was spared from answering by the arrival of Vlad. He stalked silently through the empty restaurant, black sunglasses shielding his eyes. He took them off, rested them on the table, and then pulled out his chair.
“My sincerest apologies about being late,” Vlad said. His tone and stance were dutifully contrite, but there was something he wasn’t saying.
“You couldn’t call?” Sasha demanded, letting his temper get the best of him.
Vlad raised a dark eyebrow. “Do I report to you now?”
“No,” Igor interrupted. “You report to me.”
Vlad sighed. “I know this. I thought to tell you in person what I’ve been dealing with this weekend while you were in Atlantic City.”
Igor didn’t volunteer that he’d only been in AC for a night. Igor owed no one an explanation.
“The Bosnians and Chechens are encroaching on Ukrainian territory.”
“What Ukrainian territory?” Sasha asked.
“What’s left of it,” Vlad stated, not rising to Sasha’s bait.
The two of them needed a fight in The Arena where they could settle who had the bigger khuy.
“If you want Ukrainian territory, Ukrainian force, then you need to step in. Now.” Vlad’s dark eyes searched Igor’s face. “That’s what this was about for you—all along. Mercenaries. Ukrainian mercenaries.”
Igor neither confirmed nor denied it. “Have you spoken with your people?”
“Yes. If the Bosnians and Chechens have their way, there won’t be anything left of the Ukrainian mob in New York.”
“The Ukrainian mob won’t exist as they know it if I lead,” Igor pointed out. “They’ll swear fealty to me.”
“Yes. But in exchange, you promise them safety, prosperity, and a chance. We don’t have that now. We don’t have a direction. We’re soldiers without a leader.”
Igor waited, churning over the words in his mind. “We will destroy the Bosnians and Chechens.”
“In exchange for?” Vlad pressed. The man wasn’t stupid. He might’ve been a soldier who preferred missions to leadership, but he wasn’t stupid.
“In exchange for removing Olaf Dolinsky as the head of the Russian mafia.”
It was the first time Igor had spoken out loud to someone other than Sasha about the end result he wanted to achieve.
Vlad held out his hand and Igor clasped it. The two men shook.
Business, for the moment, concluded, the three of them sat back and enjoyed their breakfast.
“I suppose congratulations are in order, yes?” Vlad stated.
“Premature, don’t you think?” Igor asked. “I’m not leader of anything yet.”
Vlad’s eyes dipped to the wedding band on Igor’s ring finger.
“Ah, yes. I was married over the weekend.”
“Pazdraviyayoo.”
Igor inclined his head.
Mama Marino came out of the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon, a spotless red and white checkered apron covering her ample form.
She looked at the plate in front of Vlad. “You did not finish your meal.”
“Your food is delicious, but I ate before I came.”
Mama Marino stared Vlad down, her brown eyes trained on his face.
Igor held his breath.
Mama Marino smacked the top of Vlad’s head with her wooden spoon. He cursed violently in Ukrainian. She smacked him again.
“I have only two rules: you finish whatever I place in front of you, and no cursing. Not in any language.”
Wincing, Vlad rubbed his head, but nodded, looking like a chastised choirboy. “My deepest apologies. I will clean my plate.”
“It’s lunch time,” she stated. “I’ll bring you more food.”
Vlad waited until Mama Marino had disappeared into the kitchen before leaning over the table and whispering, “She’s trying to kill me—with food.”
“It’s the best way to go,” Igor assured him.
“You could’ve warned me,” Vlad muttered.
Igor laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Mama Marino returned with three plates of branzini, sautéed escarole, and a polenta dish. She placed the food in front of the three strapping men, put her hands on her hips, and waited. Vlad picked up his fork and shoveled in a bite, smiling around a mouthful of green leaves.
Igor reached for his glass of water and took a sip.
“What’s this?” Mama Marino said, lifting Igor’s hand and examining his ring.
“I got married. Over the weekend,” Igor explained, refusing to squirm, though Mama Marino’s gaze made him want to.
“I was not invited?”
“We eloped.”
“I have not met her.”
“You will.”
“When?” she demanded. “Today.”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow then. Night.” Her brown gaze was steely.
“I have to check our schedules.”
“Tomorrow night,” she reiterated.
He sighed. “Tomorrow night.”
“Promise.”
“Promise.”
“Does she like Italian food?”
“Loves it,” Igor claimed even though he had no idea.
She pointed her finger at him. “Tomorrow night.”
He nodded.
Mama Marino retreated and Igor let out a breath. Vlad and Sasha laughed at him and Igor joined in. “No one is safe from the wrath of Mama Marino.”
“I heard that!” yelled Mama Marino’s voice through the kitchen door.