I thought about my sister-in-law, the one Lyanov wanted to marry when she turned eighteen, and I shook my head.
Whether he wanted to ‘dissolve our friendship,’ as Luciu had phrased it, or not, I got the feeling Lyanov wanted a wife who’d authenticate him as leader.
As the last Bratva princess in Manhattan, Victoria Ivanov would do that in spades.
"Stepanov is the Russian purchasing Red from you," I told him.
"Never heard of him."
"Me either until this week," I drawled. "Now I know what size shoe he is and which type of vodka he prefers."
"Is that information pertinent?"
"Know your enemy," I said with a shrug.
Da hadn’t agreed with my obsessive need to nitpick. Regardless, this was my time, not his, and I could rule how ever the fuck I wanted to.
Da thought everything was for gain. Every slice of information was something that could be leveraged.
Knowing Stepanov’s shoe size wouldn’t help me long-term, but being aware that he had a bunion, that he required hand-tailoring, that he specifically visited a certain shoemaker in Manhattan to purchase his hand-tooled leather shoes…
Thatwas helpful.
"Be aware that I don’t disagree. Knowing the minutiae can help when attempting to dissect an enemy, but I’m hoping you learned more than whether he prefers his vodka plain or flavored."
His words tripped me into silence. Not because he was right or wrong, not because he’d angered me, but because here I was, about to break bread with a Sicilian all while discussing business.
Here we were, our women, best friends, gossiping in the background, one of them about to share the news that she was going to become a mom again.
It was likely that Savannah would be this child’s godmother…
Times were changing.
This wasn’t the nineties.
Hadn't Savannah told me that the night this whole shitshow with MacMurray started?
I reached for my orange juice, but before I could take another sip, Luciu’s housekeeper appeared with tiny cups loaded down with the good stuff.
Caffeine, sugar, and an infrequent whiskey were about as much of a fix as I was allowed nowadays, so I took mine expensive and strong—and where coffee was concerned, as sweet as Savvie’s pussy.
"Thank you," I told her as she placed the cup in front of me on a saucer.
She dipped her chin, muttered something at me, delivered Luciu’s coffee to him, then disappeared.
He eyed me. "The sugar is there."
"I can see it." I arched a brow at him as I dumped a couple teaspoons of sugar into the muddy drink, querying dryly, "Minutiae?"
His smile was shark-like. "As I said, it helps to know this information about people. However, in my instance, it is inbred."
"Why?"
"My mother is a British aristocrat. Teaching her children to be good hosts was important to her."
I knew his mother was alive still so the past tense wasn't about her in particular. "It isn’t anymore?"
"Many things changed when my father died."