Page 62 of Ivory Ashes

The man is barely five feet tall, but I’m not sure he knows that. He struts in like he owns the place.

Odd choice, since I own it.

Fabio pulls out his chair and drops into it, already waving down our waitress. “Where’s Anatoly?”

“Busy.”

“Shame. I like him. He’s a good time.”

“You two have a lot in common,” Raoul drawls.

Anatoly would slug Raoul for that, but Fabio takes it as a compliment. I’m not positive it isn’t one, but Raoul likes to play his cards close to the vest.

Once Fabio has thoroughly complimented the waitress on every inch of her exposed skin and has a drink in his hand, he shifts into the commercial real estate mogul I agreed to go into business with.

“To think I was trying to get these warehouses off my hands this time last year.” Fabio snorts. “Now, they’re about to make me more money than any of my other properties. One of which is the new Brooklyn development I invested in. You heard of that?”

“Unless it’s a warehouse I can use, I don’t care.”

“It’s going to be big,” he says, plowing on ahead. “Sixteen buildings and over six thousand apartment units. My first foray into residential. But it still won’t make me as much money as this deal is going to.”

“Then let's focus on where the money is and stop wasting our time chatting about bullshit.”

Fabio smiles, but it’s dimmed compared to the previous wattage. “We’re just here to sign on the dotted line, aren’t we? The details have been figured out.”

“We were talking in hypotheticals before,” Raoul reminds him. “Now, Mikhail owns Cerberus Industries and we can set things in stone.”

Fabio circles a hand in the air like he’s bored. “The guns come in, I store them, you sell them, we all get filthy rich. Tell me where to sign.”

Fabio is annoying; there’s no getting around that. Unfortunately, he’s also in possession of a shit ton of warehouses in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx and—this is key—eager to climb the already overflowing ladder that is real estate in New York City. Fabio is the perfect blend of rich and desperate. I knew he’d dip into crime without a second thought if it meant he’d make a name for himself.

I grit my teeth and lay out the plan. “To keep our names from popping up too many places together, the money I owe you will all come directly from Cerberus and go to your trust.”

He pulls the toothpick out of his olive and runs it through his front two teeth. “You think that’s less suspicious?”

“Less suspicious than paying you hundreds of thousands of dollars per month from his personal account?” Raoul asks dryly. “Yeah, making it a business expense is less suspicious.”

“Great. Sure. Whatever. We’ll set it up.” Fabio rocks his chair back onto two legs. “I’ve worked with Cerberus in the past. They rented out some space for a few months last year. I still have the assistant’s number. I’ll call her and arrange the payments to be?—”

“No,” I snap. Raoul and Fabio both freeze. I clear my throat. “You’ll make those arrangements with me. Leave my assistant out of it.”

Fabio looks surprised, but he doesn’t argue. I’m sure he doesn’t come across many pakhans who want to handle their own bookkeeping.

Then again, he’s probably never come across the wife of a pakhan who wanted to continue working as a personal assistant. Where Viviana is concerned, he never will.

The last thing I want is people like Fabio having a direct line to Viviana. Both for plausible deniability on her part and for safety. The less the public knows about her and Dante, the better.

We shake hands, promising to be in touch soon. Fabio leaves his business card for the blonde waitress, slides his obnoxiously large sunglasses into place, and then makes his way out of the lounge.

“It’s her job,” Raoul says the moment we’re alone.

“Now, you have something to say? You’ve been quieter than usual, which is really saying something.”

“It’s her job,” he repeats. “Viviana’s. As your personal assistant, she’s supposed to?—”

“Assist me. Personally.”

“And yet you don’t want her working with Fabio?”

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