The blatant disrespect made me wish I could hop over the table and teach Biba some manners. Ever the businessman, Enzo didn’t even look fazed by the Russian’s slight.

“That is a matter I’m working to correct. I understand Sal entered an arrangement with you on behalf of the Lucciano family. I’m here to see what we can do to keep our end of that bargain.”

“Da, da. We have a shipment of guns that has yet to be paid for. Five hundred K.” He lifted a brow in challenge.

“It was my understanding the amount owed was two fifty.”

“There have been … complications in holding the shipment past the scheduled delivery date. The price has gone up.” His eyes sparked with amusement, and several of his soldiers behind him smirked. Every man in that room knew his excuse was bullshit—there were no complications. The Russians just wanted to milk us for every dollar they could get.

Enzo’s jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. “Alright, but I need to find a buyer. If you can give me until the end of the week, we have a deal.”

Biba gave a contemplative frown, glancing at his cohort beside him. “Da, this will work.”

Simultaneously, both groups rose from the table. Enzo reached out, extending his hand to Biba. “It’s good doing business with you, Boris.”

“Always a pleasure, my friend.” He pulled away, still holding Enzo’s gaze. “I hope you are aware, Sal’s betrayal was a slight to us as well. I have men searching for him—if we find him before you, he is ours to make a lesson of. It cannot be known that someone has screwed the bratva and walked away.” Biba’s eyes were suddenly crystal clear, a deadly promise in his harsh stare.

“I would expect nothing less. All I ask is, should you find him first, you let me know so I can call off my own search.”

The Russian’s lips pulled back in a wide grin for the first time. “Of course, then we agree. Before you go, we must toast.” One of the soldiers magically appeared with a full bottle of vodka and a stack of shot glasses. Crazy fucking Russians—not even fazed by the fact that it was ten in the morning.

Biba poured healthy portions of the clear liquid into each glass. “You’ll like this. It’s Beluga, some of the finest from Mother Russia.” He kept the bottle in one hand, then lifted his glass in the other, and we all followed suit. “To continued friendships and common goals,” he said with a crazy gleam in his eye. Sal was dead no matter who found him, but if it was the Russians, he was going to wish for death long before it came.

All of us threw back our shots, knowing it was rude in Russian culture not to down your offering in one swallow. Biba handed the bottle to his soldier, then led us out of the conference room. As I walked in line back down the hallway, I glanced inside one of the open offices and stuttered to a stop. On the floor, leaned against a row of metal filing cabinets, was a painting of three skulls.