Page 86 of Fate and Family

Ian shrugs. “Dunno. He forgave me for the whole not-speaking-English thing. Whatever this is, I’m sure it’ll pass.”

I grunt in reply, checking my watch. “You two better get going.”

They step out of Uri’s room, smoothing their clothes and flashing identical smiles. It’s rare to have a win-column moment like this, and I’m glad they’re getting it.

Once they leave, I start cleaning the kitchen—putting away dishes, wiping counters, mopping the floor. All the things I used to pay someone to do now feel like second nature. I’m shoving a load of laundry into the machine when Donny lets himself in.

“Bro, your security is fucking awful,” he announces.

I guess it is. Between the lack of crime and absence of the ever-present looming threat of death, I’ve been lulled into a false sense of safety.

Donny drops onto the couch in swishy track pants and a tank top. Does he own anything with sleeves? His wardrobe is strictly tank tops and funeral suits. Nothing in between.

“How’s watching other people fuck for a living going?” he asks, flipping through channels.

“I do paperwork and manage the staff.”

While that’s true, working at The Playground has desensitized me to a lot of things. Pain brings pleasure. The blurbetween reality and role-playing messes with my head. It makes me think about Katya and how much I miss her. A few more months, that’s what she told me.

In quiet moments, I imagine taking her on a real date. Or how Uri would react to seeing her again. I worry about Ian. Does he even remember her? Maybe the scars on his arms will trigger a memory or two.

Donny props his feet on the coffee table.

“Put your feet down,” I snap.

“What, you worried I’m gonna ruin your Ikea table?”

“I built it myself, so fuck you, be respectful.”

“You got any beer?”

“Go look for yourself, you needy little bitch.” I punch his shoulder, and he huffs. That’s the thing about Donny—he takes shit as well as he gives it.

A pounding at the door stops us cold, and I stretch out my arm for the gun secured under the coffee table.

“Mr. Koslov, open the door!”

Koslov? I haven’t used that name since Russia. Alana changed it to Johnson when she brought us to the States.

“Try the door,” someone says outside.

The knob wiggles. Donny didn’t lock it. My security really is shit.

“Mr. Koslov, we are entering your residence. We’re with the Majesty Task Force.”

Sweat breaks out on my back as the door swings open. Three men in suits enter.

“Mr. Koslov, we need you to come with us.”

Donny draws his gun. “Fuck you. He’s not going anywhere.”

The youngest agent, blond and wiry, glances at Donny. “Mr. Donatello Marciano, you’re welcome to come.”

Donatello? Really? The smart ninja turtle?

“Dude, no one calls me that. Ever,” Donny growls. His growl has all the menace of a puppy trying to be intimidating.

“Do you know where your sister is?”

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