His right hand finds my hip, and his left hand slips under my hair to cradle the back of my neck, pulling me closer against him.

The whole world seems to drop away with that kiss. I can’t feel the cold concrete beneath my feet, and I can’t hear the music pounding overhead. All I can hear is my heartbeat thundering in my ears, while I seem to float in space.

Then we break apart, and I’m in a basement again.

“Should we finish the game?” Sebastian asks me.

“No,” I shake my head. “I have to get home.”

He looks disappointed, but not sulky. He helps me gather up my dress and shoes so I can make myself decent again.

“Don’t forget your shirt,” I tell him.

“Oh,” he laughs. “Right.”

Once we’re dressed, Sebastian follows me back upstairs. He waits while I call an Uber, and even offers to ride back to my house with me.

“Just for company,” he says.

I shake my head. “My father wouldn’t like that.”

“You’ll give me your number though, won’t you?” he asks me.

I hesitate for a long moment.

I know what I’m supposed to do, but suddenly I don’t want to do it.

“Yes,” I say. “I will.”

Sebastian copies the number into his phone, looking pleased.

“Talk to you soon,” he says.

I ride back to my house, my stomach churning.

My father bought this massive stone mansion two years ago, when he came here to replace Kolya Kristoff as head of the Bratva. He never asked my brother or me if we wanted to move from Moscow to Chicago. He didn’t give a damn what we thought.

I can see the lights on all across the main floor.

He’s waiting for me.

The security gates part automatically, and I tell the driver to go all the way up to the front door. He looks slightly awed at this house.

“You live here?” he says.

“Yes,” I reply. “Unfortunately.”

I climb out of the car. Iov opens the door before I can even touch the handle. His face is bruised, and he’s hunched over slightly, like he might have broken a rib.

“You didn’t have to kick me,” he says, sourly.

“You slapped me too hard!” I say.

I push past him, impatient to get in the house. I’m exhausted and I want to go to bed.

But first I have to speak to my father.

He comes padding into the entryway, wearing his velvet slippers, his silk pajamas, and his long, belted robe. His iron-gray beard is neatly combed, as is the thick gray hair reaching down to his shoulders. He looks like a medieval king. The kind who would invade a nation without hesitation.

“How did it go?” he asks me.

“Exactly as you said,” I reply.

The tiniest of smiles pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Did you engage his interest?”

“Of course,” I say.

Now he does smile, showing his straight teeth the color of bone.

“Good,” he says. “Well done, moya doch’.”