Viktor laughed.
Juana passed Saint another gift created by Liliana—a framed oil painting of Jonah the Cat.
“To remember him by,” she said dryly. “Seeing as he doesn’t live here anymore.”
Though small, the painting was deliberately grotesque. Saint loved it, I could tell, a tiny smile breaking through the weariness in his face from howlongthis day had turned out to be. Which meant I would be looking at it for the rest of my life, even if he chose to keep it in his van.
There are worse ways to die.
And many worse ways to live.
Saint put the painting on the mantel. He stared at it a moment before his gaze pivoted to the front door in the same moment Lida raised her head.
I had drunk enough vodka that my brain was slow—tooslow to realise the security systems we relied on to keep our family safe had failed.
Or they had been disabled.
A knock sounded at the front door. I poised to spring, but Lida moved first, rushing the door with enough tail-wagging enthusiasm to draw my gaze to Saint instead. And what I saw there stayed me.
“You promised.” The whisper was for me.
To Viktor he said in perfect Russian, “It’s for you. Merry Christmas.”
26
CAM
I wasn’t as surprised as the others to see Jakov Kalashnik-Sidorov on my doorstep. Not because I’d known he was coming. More that I fucking knew how bad he and Viktor had missed each other.
Jakov didn’t come in right away, their reunion private. I gave them the sanctuary of my garden, turned off the outside lights, and gave them space, fixing Jakov a plate of food while Ranger peered over my shoulder.
“Needs more sprouts.”
“He likes them?”
“Who cares? I just need Rubi to stop trying to stuff them in my ears.”
I was drunk enough to find that funny. Too funny.
More beer.
Bad idea, but Saint had stolen all the good ones, including keeping Alexei occupied enough that he hadn’t tried to murder Viktor’s brother on sight.
Yet.
My humour hit a roadblock. Did I trust Alexei with my life? With Saint’s?
Without fucking question.
Did I trust him not to whack someone on Christmas Day?
Eh. Probably not. And he had good reason—to him at least—to want to hurt Jakov.
Not hurt him.
Kill him.
Jesusfuck, Saint was a braver man than me.