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The evening continued in this way, and I was reminded of how things usually were, being a pretty doll on Dario’s arm. People talked to me, but only to be polite. When I excused myself from my husband’s side, I used the opportunity to do work of my own.

I’d spotted Bill Wellington at the bar talking, of all people, to Maksim Aslanov, and I made my way to his side.

“I won’t,” Maksim was saying in a dark, low aside. “Do not ask me again.”

“But, Maks.” Bill snagged his arm, ignoring the Russian’s dark look. “I need this, and you know I’m capable of bringing even more to you.”

Maksim’s dark-blue eyes snapped to me over Bill’s shoulder, and even though I was angled away and speaking to the bartender about my order, he seemed to sense I was alert to their conversation.

“Now is not the time or place,” he muttered. “Now take your hand off me and make yourself disappear.”

Bill hesitated before scurrying away so fast, his glass of amber liquor spilled over his hand.

“I’m sorry if he left a grease stain,” Maksim said as he moved slightly into the space Bill had occupied between us.

I looked up at him with gently raised brows, because I didn’t want to come across as insincere. It was clear he thought I’d heard their conversation.

He gestured to the bar top. “He’s an oily motherfucker. It would be a shame if he stained that lovely dress.”

I didn’t have to force the delighted laugh that worked up my throat.

Eyeing him sideways, I smiled. “I didn’t know Russians could be so charming.”

“You obviously haven’t had enough exposure,” he countered over the raised rim of his crystal tumbler before taking a sip.

He was older than Dario’s forty-two. No one knew his exact age because he had immigrated on false papers as a young adult, but I would have put him in his early fifties. He was gorgeous, too, in his own way. His distinctly Slavic bone structure was striking, coupled with his dark eyes and pale-gold hair, and his large frame was rangy instead of bulky like my husband’s.

They made interesting foils, dark and light.

I wondered if their personalities did too.

This was my first time interacting with the Pakhan, as either the Oracle or Fiammetta, and I found the opportunity to know more too good to pass up.

“Maksim,” he introduced casually, holding out a long-fingered hand. I was curious if he played the piano.

“Fia,” I echoed, shaking his hand firmly before turning to accept my amaretto sour from the bartender.

“Ah,” he exclaimed with mock surprise. “Dario Ferretti’s better half.”

I cocked my head. Of course, he had known the moment he saw me who I was just as I had known him. It said something about him that he did. Most men didn’t deign to remember the wives of their adversaries.

“I’m not sure he would call me that,” I said ruefully. “But I am his wife, yes.”

He swirled the contents of his glass as he studied me. “Yes, I had heard it wasn’t a love match.”

“Is it ever in our world?” I grinned wryly.

“Sometimes,” he admitted gruffly. “Though it rarely ends well.”

“I take it you are unmarried,” I teased.

“Happily,” he agreed. “And you?”

“You know I’m married.”

“But are you happy?” he asked, with real intent, as if he cared about some strange woman at a bar.

About one of his criminal rivals’ wives.