Viktoria,” Violet said. “Or … privyet, right?”
Viktoria looked like she almost wanted to crack a smile but managed to hold it back. “That would be right, but your American accent makes your Russian terrible.”
Violet did smile, still refusing to let the woman bother her. She wasn’t sure what in the hell Viktoria’s problem with her was, but it wasn’t something Violet had done to her. The two didn’t know each other from a fucking hole in the ground. Whatever Viktoria’s issue was, she would need to handle it on her own.
It was her problem, not Violet’s.
“I could have said it my way,” Violet said quietly.
Viktoria didn’t look all that impressed. “Oh?”
“Sì. Ciao. Come stai?”
“I—”
“I believe she said hello and asked how you were,” Konstantin interrupted his sister, strolling into the kitchen like nothing was amiss. Tossing Violet a smile, he asked, “Yes?”
“Actually, yeah,” Violet replied. “How did you know?”
“Standard greeting.” Konstantin went straight to the fridge, opening it up and bending down to dig inside. “Anyone who travels should at least learn a few simple, easy phrases to get by in a foreign place.”
“You’ve been to Italy?”
Konstantin straightened, bottle of water in one hand, a jar of something else in his other. “No.”
“But you just said—”
“Best to be able to talk to your enemy, too,” he said, smiling in that cold way of his.
Viktoria laughed at that, her gaze cutting to Violet as if she had missed some unspoken joke.
Konstantin dropped the jar to the countertop, the loud clank silencing Viktoria’s laughter instantly. “But,” he drawled, his stare never leaving his sister, “we have no enemies here, yes?”
“You could have said you were playing the babysitter today,” Viktoria said.
“It was a last minute thing, sestra.”
Then just as quickly as the conversation had begun in English, the two siblings switched to Russian, effectively leaving Violet confused and out of the loop.
It wasn’t the first time it had happened since she arrived in Chicago.
Somehow, she doubted it would be the last time.
However, it didn't irritate her any less.
Finally, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’d said to his sister, Konstantin returned to English, directing his next sentence to Violet. “You want a snack or something before we go?”
“What kind of snack?”
He pointed at the jar, saying, “Pickles are good.”
What?
Violet blinked. “Pickles?”
Serious as ever, Konstantin didn’t seem bothered by Violet’s confusion. “Pickles are a staple—a must. You want one or not?”
“I’m good,” she settled on saying.
Viktoria shook her head as she took a pickle her brother offered. “You can’t even dress her up as a Russian.”
What?
“You need to come out,” Kolya was saying to Rus as he tugged on a pair of leather gloves. “Maya would love to have you.”
Parked down the block from 416 Meadow Lane, Kaz weighed the odds as he strapped on the bulletproof vest Rus had handed to him moments before. While Christian Carracci’s odds weren’t great against the three of them, Kaz still didn’t expect the man to go without a fight.
In the life they led, any man who reacted too slowly wouldn’t survive.
“We can do this one of two ways,” Kaz said, his eyes still on the house. “I can knock—”
“It’s four in the fucking morning,” Kolya interjected. “You know, what’s he going to do? Come to the door and say hello?”
Grinding his teeth for patience, Kaz added, “He wouldn’t expect us to knock. At the very least, it’ll mean less noise.”
Kolya shook his head as though that wasn’t what he wanted. “And the other option?
“Or Rus goes around back, and we take the front.”
“Finally, you’re making sense.”
Paying him no mind, Kaz was the first out of the car, his Glock at the ready as he started down the street. Though cars lined the street, it was an older neighborhood, one where all but few were in their homes at this hour. That made for very few witnesses if they were careful enough.
And Kaz was nothing if not careful.
Rus disappeared around a corner. Kolya was at Kaz’s back as they slipped past the fence surrounding the property and onto the porch. The interior was nearly as dark as the street save for the lone lamp in what looked like the living room—from what Kaz could make out through the curtains.
Gesturing to the door with a tilt of his head, Kaz looked at Kolya and said, “By all means.”
Kolya pulled out the small kit he always carried in his back pocket, carefully maneuvering the tools into place as he began working on the locks of the door. It was a