Page 101 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“Probably not.”

That earns me a look and, to my surprise, a quiet laugh.

At the bottom of the stairs, the room opens low and narrow, all dark wood, small tables, and amber light. A trio is setting up on a stage: piano, bass, and trumpet.

Tamara looks around, curious. “Do you own this?”

“No.”

“Does Igor?”

“No.”

“Mikhail?”

“Mikhail thinks jazz is what happens when instruments refuse supervision.”

Despite herself, she smiles.

A hostess leads us to a table against the wall. Just two chairs, a candle, and enough shadow to let a person be quiet without being watched. One of my men remains upstairs. Another has the street. The third sits alone near the stage, close enough to see us, not close enough to hear.

Tamara notices. Of course she does. “Only two?”

“Three.”

“Where’s the third?”

I tip my head toward the man near the stage.

Her mouth twitches. “Subtle.”

“For us, yes.”

The waiter arrives. Tamara orders a glass of red wine after looking at the list for less than ten seconds. I order water.

She looks at me. “You don’t drink?”

“Not much.”

“Because of the heroin?”

The question is direct. I prefer that.

“Yes.”

She nods, no pity, no awkwardness. Just another fact placed carefully among the others.

“Do you mind if I do?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yes.”

“Should I believe you?”

“Probably not.”