“Hello there, Sweet!” he booms in his unusual accent.

I flash him a nervous smile. “It’s been a while, Micah.”

“Too long,” he agrees. “I was just in your neighborhood and figured I’d see if you’d like to grab a bite. What do you say?”

He knows the answer is yes. No one ever says no to Micah Romenov.

And yet I almost like this guy. He’s been a kind of friend to me, partly because he’s always been able to compartmentalize his brutality and has never used it against me.

And if he ever decides to withdraw his friendship . . . if his opinion of me ever becomes less favorable . . . well, I might not be around long enough to change my opinion of him.

“Do I have time to go upstairs and change?” I ask.

“Of course, of course.” Micah laughs. “I’ll be down here making some calls. I just thought we’d take some time to catch up is all.”

“Catch up about what?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible.

“Lots of things, Sweet. Life, family . . . and your new job. Oh, are you still okay with me calling you Sweet? Or do you prefer people call you Bellona these days?”

“Sweet is fine,” I say, pulling nervously on my fingers. “I’ll only be a minute.”

For the second time today I think of the little gun in my desk. Of course, if Micah ever turned on me, such a small piece of metal wouldn’t be enough to protect me.

Less than forty minutes later we’re walking into a chic Tribeca restaurant. It’s hard not to feel a little overwhelmed by the place. The ceiling is comprised of a series of arcs. Everything in the room is sumptuous: even the upholstered chairs with their padded armrests and curved backs have a regal quality to them.

But then, perhaps all of that is appropriate, since the man I’m with is kinda like a king . . . or at least a dictator.

The hostess recognizes him right away and we’re seated within a minute. Our table’s right up against the wall, just the way he likes it. We’re both served vodka martinis before I even have a chance to unfold my napkin. The waitress stands by as Micah raises his glass, holding it with all the subtle grace and practice of an old-moneyed country-club boy. You can barely see the tips of his tattoos peeking out from underneath his long sleeves. He takes a sip and then nods his approval to the waitress, who swiftly leaves us.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I should have started with a toast. But it’s my habit to taste the martini first. If it’s not crafted well, I send the shit back.”