Page 6 of Silent Ties

But it was small time. Father shared a genuine friendship with him, not because Marcs was in the big leagues like us.

“Why?” I ask.

The mustache above Dima’s lip dips as he frowns. He’s not a man of many words, so the shadow on his face does most of the talking.

“Who?” Elijah asks, the word clipped.

“A guy called the Ghost,” our uncle replies.

My older brother rolls his eyes. “So now we’re in a comic book?”

Dad doesn’t agree or disagree. “Not the first time a vigilante has come along taking out those they believe should pay for their crimes. But this one is leaving a rather curious trail.”

“The Ghost isn’t a vigilante.” He’s been popping up the past few months. “He’s a hitman.”

“Who put out a hit for Marcs?” Dad asks. Surprisingly, Marcs didn’t have a lot of enemies. He wasthatguy. The loveable, friendly money launder. Dad toys with the tumbler of whiskey in front of him. “There’s a pattern here. This Ghost is haunting the city. Some are legitimate kills, going through the proper channels. But he’s toying the line.”

Dima would normally take him out. But he remains calm in his chair, his shoulders sunken not because he’s sad. His posture’s always shit.

“I want you to set up a meeting,” my father orders.

“With the Ghost?” Elijah asks.

“Go to Ren.”

No wonder he didn’t try to get Roma to stick around. We don’t vocally grumble, but the rolled eyes give our feelings away.

“Go to Ren,” Dad orders again.

“Because that’s always gone well,” Elijah says.

“Do it.” Dad pats his pockets, looking at his brother. Dima pulls out cigars.

“Congratulations, nephew,” he says while handing one to me.

Dad stands up, pulling his jacket back on. “Quit hiding or your mother will start bitching about photos.”

The original Zimin brothers stroll out and I slump in my chair. I don’t know what’s worse—needing to pose forwedding photos like I give a fuck or having to sort out a visit to Ren.

“You know what to do?” Elijah asks.

“We’ll have to go to Fujimori’s.” It’s where all her business is conducted.

He lights the cigar, a puff of smoke releasing into the air. “No, brother. About your wife.”

I know I’m at my wedding, but we don’t have to rehash the fact that I’m married every few minutes.

A smirk curls on his lips. “Fuck her into submission, brother.”

CHAPTER 3

Russet

“That’s going to look so good on Instagram.”

I’m momentarily blinded when a flash goes off. Whatever picture they think they’re getting will most certainly not look good on social media. But a second later my shoulders relax when I realize the teen with the cell phone is snapping photos of some intricate dessert displayed against a wall full of blooming flowers.

Say what you want about the Russian mafia, but they do not skimp on the details.

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