Page 33 of Silent Ties

I wander in, the place busy with tourists and readers alike. I go down each aisle, idly staring without processing what’s in front of me. Occasionally, I’ll finger a book and part of me wonders why Sergei knows more about Max than I do.

Dear Daisy,I write in my head. I’ve thought about trying to slip her a letter, but I’m not sure how or what would happen if it got confiscated. But I write them constantly, my own private conversations with my best friend.I’m married to a man that fucks me a lot. I know you’d say it’s better than being married to a man that doesn’t fuck a lot. And then you’d probably tease me about being a nasty girl. But do you remember Will from eighth grade and how I spent weeks trying to figure out how to get him to talk to me? Daisy, how do I get my husband totalk to me?

Do I want Max to talk to me?

Yes. I think the answer is yes.

Max went into this marriage knowing it was a political union. Maybe he never cared about building a partnership orgetting to know me. I can’t quite imagine Lev and Yelena spending time in deep conversations. I don’t know if Yelena is capable of it.

I’ve come to a section of cookbooks. Celebrity chefs smile on some of the covers. I stop at one with a three-tiered cake, my mouth watering at the picture.

I love sugar, but I’m not a baker.

I’m almost out of the section when I turn on my heel and march right back to the cookbook. I flip it open, reading the table of contents. Cakes, cakes, and more cakes. There are a few cookie recipes thrown in and a parfait.

Go ahead, Yelena. Mock and fat shame me all you want but this isn’t the early 2000s. I’m not going to sit there and take it. I’m going to make every damn recipe in this book. And I’m going to make the biggest fucking mess possible and make Olga clean it up.

I practically stomp to the cashier, flinging it at the poor woman.

“You have any allergies, Sergei?” I ask, slipping my wallet out of my coat pocket.

He keeps his face straight, his arms clasped in front of him. “No, ma’am.”

“Great.”

CHAPTER 10

Maxim

The night of my wedding, Dad gave Elijah and me a task. Set up a meeting between the Zimins and the mercenary calling himself the Ghost.

Easier said than done. Especially considering there’s only one person who could set it up for us. And she hates our fucking guts.

“Here we go.” Elijah smooths his hair back.

We’re standing outside a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. I’m not saying it’s the most sacred place in the city, but it’s sort of the most sacred place in the city.

There’s no place like Fujimori’s.

Meetings which end in shootouts aren’t uncommon in our line of work. But only when said meeting doesn’t occur at Fujimori’s.

For seventy-five years, since Abe Fujimori stepped foot in this city, it’s acted as the backdrop for countless meetings. Squabbles get resolved at Fujimori’s. Admittedly, sometimes they begin here too. But no matter what, the neutrality of the territory is upheld by every criminal organization in the city. No matter what.

There’s one person who works almost exclusively out of Fujimori’s. Ren Callahan. She’s an intermediary of sorts. Mostly she organizes hits on people. Luckily for us, not personal ones, or else Roma would be top of her list. Rather she’s a negotiator for her clients, fulfilling their requests.

She took over the business from her Aunt Macy. Aunt Macy remains as much of a legend as Abe Fujimori’s due to her expertise on certain criminal matters.

For three years, Ren has followed in Aunt Macy’s footsteps, her authority growing at an equal rate. When she calls and requests a meeting, you take it.

But when you’re a Zimin and you ask her for a meeting? She takes her sweet time getting back to you.

A wind chime above the door notifies everyone of our arrival. There’s a small hostess stand directly to the right and rows of booths with high backs giving enough privacy for delicate matters to be handled. A rectangle cut out gives a clear view of the kitchen where I see Abe’s namesake and grandson, bickering with an older man—his father.

The short woman behind the hostess stand barely looks up. If we were customers looking for a meal, she’d usher us in. But we know the place well enough that we continue to stride forward.

She’s at her preferred booth, near the kitchen, with only her table made out of a bench and two chairs on the other side. A cigarette dangles from her mouth, her suit jacket impeccably tailored.

“Ren,” Elijah greets.

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