Again I smile. Micah was born in Russia but lived in England for much of his young adult life. He hobnobbed with the lesser-known royalty before moving his operations to the States. So now he’s a bizarre combination of the two cultures. He prefers vodka, but he sips rather than gulps. He’s a key figure in the Russian Mafia, but he’s so polite when you’re talking to him that you almost forget about all the men he’s buried. Some would say that the men he killed were also bad guys, but still, to use Micah’s words, “It’s a fucking messy bit of business.”

“Now we’ll toast.” Micah raises his glass and I follow suit. “What are we drinking to?” I ask.

“To your new job, Sweet, what else?”

My smile wavers as I bring the drink to my lips.

“You did get the job, didn’t you? I made sure my people gave you very good references.”

“Yes,” I say uncertainly. “I got the job. Thank you for your help with that.”

“Bellona,” he says, sounding out the word with a touch of distaste. “What kind of name is that? It sounds like a piece of lunch meat.”

I shrink a little in my seat. “It’s the name of a Roman goddess. I just like it is all.”

“Bellona,” Micah says again, shaking his head. “When you told me that you needed false references—some cooked-up proof that you worked for that lousy Realtor—you neglected to tell me you were applying to be Travis Gable’s personal assistant.”

“Would that have made a difference?” I ask lightly, picking up the menu. “Do you know him?”

“Simple question, complicated answer.” Micah leans back in his chair, his eyes skipping toward the door and then back again. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for a PA job. I assumed you’d be going for something better. Hell, I could have set you up with something a lot better.”

“I don’t think I have the skills needed for your particular line of work.”

Micah’s brow creases for a second and then he breaks out laughing. It’s such a warm laugh, I find myself tempted to relax . . . but I know better.

“You must try the ravioli,” he says, waving his hand toward my menu. “It’s fucking fantastic.”

I put the menu down, happy to let him pick my entrée. He raises his hand in the air and the waitress jumps into action, almost knocking over another guest as she hurries over to take our order.

“I wasn’t suggesting you work for me,” he says once we’re alone again. “I owe your mother a debt. I’m not gonna repay it by getting her daughter mixed up in a bunch of nefarious bullshit.”