Emerson peeked over the back of his chair, the mirth in his gaze a mirror image of his mother’s.

On the bright side, their amusement had done much to ease his trepidation. Now that he’d had the benefit of having them in his life, he wouldn’t trade them for anything. “You’re meddlers. Both of you.”

Their laughter followed him out into the darkening evening. The rich bite of his pakhan’s cigar already hung on the night air, mixed with the crisp scent of freshly mowed grass and soft touch of magnolias.

Not waiting for direction, Kir pulled the padded patio chair next to Sergei out from under the glass-topped table and settled in. Since Sergei had moved into the restored historic home in the heart of New Orleans’s Garden District, Kir had spent many evenings with Roman and Sergei just like this. Quietly enjoying the night, the stars if the clouds allowed it and the soft reflection of the heavens on the majestic pool’s reflection.

Sergei drew from his cigar then leisurely expelled the smoke overhead.

Quiet settled between them.

Under normal circumstances, Kir would have either enjoyed it, or filled it with business observations from the day. As it was, he was clueless on how to proceed.

Dipping his head toward the leather cigar case on the table, Sergei made the decision for him. “Help yourself.”

It felt wrong. Too casual and familiar of an action for a topic that felt quite formal riding between them. “I’ll pass tonight. Spaseeba.”

Sergei smirked at that, though his peaceful focus on the pool beyond never wavered. “Tension rides your shoulders and you’ve never once sat so straight in that chair.” He swiveled his head toward Kir, a trace of mischief moving behind his dark eyes. “You can relax, moy brat. There is no gun pressed behind your head, nor have you done anything to earn my anger.”

The muscles in his belly eased a fraction, but he kept his posture upright and respectful. “I should have asked your permission before I included an outsider in one of our affairs.”

With a chuckle, Sergei resumed his perusal of the manicured landscape. “It’s a Father’s Day dinner. Hardly anything where I expect we’ll discuss real business. And if she belongs to you, then you need no permission to bring her.”

“She doesn’t belong to me.”

The comment earned Kir a quick look and a raised eyebrow from Sergei. He decided to let it go, though, and took another drag from his cigar. “Cassie McClintock. Sounds a bit like a gun-toting barmaid from an old western movie.” He exhaled hard and reclined farther into his chair as though preparing for a good tale. “Tell me about her.”

Kir cleared his throat. “You already know what she looks like from the stories she did on Alfonsi—tall, graceful, blonde. A model’s figure, similar to Darya’s. Her personality is bright, her intellect quick. She has keen observation skills I can’t help but respect, and she has a tirelessness about her. I sometimes wonder where she gets her energy.”