life.”
Boris didn’t respond.
I thought about a few days ago. “Don’t touch her hand again. If she needs assistance with walking, then call me.”
He turned his gaze away and stared off beyond me. “And if you’re not around?”
“I will always be around.”
Boris appeared to want to say more but remained quiet.
“Keep her safe.” I stalked off.
My men followed.
Heading down the stairs, I turned to them. “Get everyone in the war room and call the barbers. Get some more in there to clean up the space.”
I came close to whistling. The air was sweet. The weather fine. There were birds in the sky, and I felt just as high as one, soaring down the stairs in pure happiness.
Thirty minutes later, my men had returned from the war room back into my parlor. Cigar smoke filled the space. Jazz mingled with the scents of after shave lotion.
I lay tilted back in a comfortable leather chair. David, Pavel, Zahkar, Nikolay, Abram, and Maxwell relaxed in their own leather chairs as their individual barbers attended to them. Zahkar, Nikolay, and Pavel smoked the cigars. Maxwell pulled on his signature joint. And David sipped his sniffer of aged brandy. Abram chose to not enjoy any, calling them wicked addictions.
Truthfully, I had sampled some of each—the cigar, joint, and brandy. In the moment, I drowned in pure relaxation. “Open the windows. I don’t want the smoke to fill the house and bother my mouse.”
Maxwell chuckled. “We’re on the other side of the house.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I handed my brandy to the maid as she picked up other empty glasses.
Her soft voice sounded. “Would you like some more, sir?”
“No. Maxwell has ruined any more hopes of enjoying fine brandy.”
Maxwell exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What did I do?”
“I don’t know what’s in that joint, but I should not be this high at any point of any day.”
“Wow. Misha can out-smoke you.”
I eyed him. “You got Misha high. No wonder he has been acting like an idiot these past weeks.”
“Hey. I love Misha. That’s my homey. You got to give him a break.”
“I will break something for sure. Let’s hope Misha has a reasonable excuse for his fuck ups.”
Maxwell grinned. “He has an excuse, but I don’t know if they’re reasonable.”
“I’ll see. We leave for Prague in the morning.”
“Prague?” David sipped his Brandy. “I enjoy being at your side, Kazimir. There have been no boring moment yet.”
Pavel puffed on his cigar. “Is that why you brought in the barbers? I thought the celebration was mainly for the oncoming baby. Are you preparing us for the funerals too?”
“Yes.”
Pavel frowned. “Why not call in my hairstylist too? You know I won’t let these maniacs near my hair with those scissors.”
“Pavel. Pavel. Just get a shave. We’re celebrating.” I closed my eyes and let the barber cover my face in a warm, wet cloth. The heat soothed my face. A minty scent radiated from it.
Yes. This is what I needed.
Zahkar’s voice filled the air. “And what will we do about the French?”
Emily won’t let me do anything right now.
“Forget the French,” Abram spoke up. “There is chaos in Italy.”
Pavel responded, “We are smoking and drinking, my friends. Now is not the time to talk about war and chaos.”
Nicolay added, “I believe the brotherhood can wait until after the funeral, as is our way.”
“Now is not the time to talk about it?” Annoyance hit Zahkar’s voice. “Then, when should we talk about it?”
“When we are not smoking and drinking.” Pavel chuckled.
Max interjected, “I’m going to the strip club tonight. Who’s joining me?”
“I’ll be there.” David volunteered. “I miss Moscow’s gentleman’s club.”
I grinned under the warm cloth and relaxed.
The barber’s assistant took one of my hand that dangled over the armchair. A second later, he cut and snipped at my nails, doing his best to manicure my fingers. Once my hands were soaked and styled in the manliest of ways, the barber would remove the towel, lather my face in a soft silky cream, and shave with a skill like no other.
Maxwell’s barber spoke in broken English. “What do. . .cut. . .for. . .you, sir?”
“Hey, man. I don’t know, if you can do a fade. In fact, no worries, man. I don’t trust everybody on my head.”
The barber tried again, “Would you. . .like a razor?”
“No, thank you. You can’t put a razor on this skin like that. Have my jaw bumped up for the ladies.” Maxwell laughed. “Maybe, your guy can hook up my nails. I’ve never had a manicure before.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Have we