“That’s what they called it?” Roy said.

“Just like you’re in the information business.”

Roy nodded, picked up a fry. “I prefer professional tourist.”

York winced, the wound in his back still a deep, persistent throb. He might even be running a fever.

He’d changed clothes at the cheap hotel just a few blocks from here, re-taped his wound—it looked pretty red, fairly swollen in the mirror—added a jacket and his Ka-Bar to his belt.

Now, it dug into his side.

At least he was out of his sodden, wrecked clothing from three nights ago. Although he’d picked up his suitcase—and RJ’s for that matter—from the hotel where they’d been staying at in Catania, Sicily, he hadn’t taken time to change.

Mostly because he’d been momentarily overwhelmed with his stupidity, the memories of his words to RJ right before he’d walked away from the woman he loved.

Maybe this was exactly where he was supposed to end up—RJ ripped from him, the life he’d tried to escape clawing him back in. York had clearly been lying to himself when he thought he could leave it behind, start over.

No. He was destined to live with a shadow over his shoulder.

A man emerged from a cluster of tattooed, pierced, purple-haired youth, dancing and jumping as they listened to the band. He worked his way through them, protecting his beer.

Gregori Dumas.

York nearly didn’t recognize the former KGB interrogator-slash-defector-mafia thug. Life had added layers to Gregori’s waist, a jowl under his chin, whitened his hair. Made him softer, maybe a little more godfather in his appearance.

All he needed was a cat.

Gregori spotted York—probably had been scoping him out for hours—nodded, then took a circuitous route toward him, his gaze falling on a couple skirts on his way toward them.

“He’s here,” York said.

Roy pushed his food away. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.” He picked up a napkin. “You talk, I’ll keep an eye out for friends. But you don’t go anywhere without me.”

York frowned at him.

Roy frowned back. “RJ is alive. And I’m not going to be the one to tell her that the man she loves vanished into the Bratva.”

“I’m not going to vanish into the Bratva.” Yet. Although…

Then he got up and held out his hand to Gregori. “Zdrastvootya.”

“Voron,“ Gregori said.

His old name—the Bird. Or Raven, as they called him in Russia.

Roy had retrieved his food, kept his head down, as if not listening.

York switched to Russian. Not to keep Roy out of the loop—probably the man knew the language well enough. But it kept the conversation easy, without hiccups in translation. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Gregori grunted, then sat down at an adjoining table, facing him. “How’d you get my email address?”