“It’s been a while,” I noted, following him into his ostentatious apartment. It looked as though famous French artists, whose names I should have known, had vomited pastel paint all over the fucking place, while the only true piece of art was Vlad himself. I wanted to gauge my eyes out for the way they looked at him, as if he was more than the man who held my life in his hands while caring so little about it beyond what it was able to provide for his pocket.

“It has,” he nodded, handing me a glass. “Should I think you’re avoiding me?” He grinned and poured Smirnoff into my cup. I must’ve pulled a face, because Vlad asked, “You’re still Russian, yes?”

“So they say,” I answered. To Americans I was too Russian, and to Russians I was too quiet.

“Na Zdorovie,” he said clanking his glass against mine.

“Na Zdorovie.” I threw the shot back and grimaced through the burn. I’d spent so much time with whiskey, I had forgotten the clear liquor packed so much punch.

“We’ll have one more as congratulations for your father and brother,” Vlad decided, preparing another round. “It’s a big time for the Mikhailovs. It seems you’re the lone holdout.”

Fuck my family. My father’s lapdog had gotten engaged to Millie mere weeks after Taros and, as expected, their corny show of commitment had put a spotlight on me. I downed the drink, suddenly thankful to have it.

“You don’t have a wife,” I pointed out tentatively.

“I have many,” Vlad assured with a wink, walking into the living room and nodding for me to sit on the seat across from his.

“The Italians have a wife and many girlfriends.”

“Do you have either?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

“I have no complaints,” I answered, pleased when I drew a laugh.

“I bet you don’t,” Vlad hummed, looking me over. “You see, Viktor, the Italians don’t have the benefit of Russian brains. Wives are entitled to your money, girlfriends are not.” Vlad’s bottom line as always. “I envy your queens,” he began, my throat tightening at the reference. “They’ll never have half their assets taken in a divorce. It’s the deviants who derive the greatest benefits, right?”

“It seems so,” I nodded, glancing around the condo acquired with cash from criminal acts.

“Speaking of your queens, Towertown’s dead.”

“I saw.”

Vlad narrowed his dark eyes. “More dead than you can imagine,” he promised. “I spoke with one of my boys in blue, and this is the beginning of the war on homosexuals. People who matter are blaming the nation’s financial problems on the liberal attitudes of the twenties, so the eccentric will be eradicated, sacrificed to the economy in hopes it will treat us better. The queer clubs are just the start.”