“And your woman doesn’t?” Ilya, the youngest of the Prakenskii brothers, demanded. “If I remember right, Judith crooks her little finger and you run so fast you burn the soles of your shoes.”
Laughter broke out at Stefan’s expense, mostly because they knew it was true. Judith was his world, and he wasn’t ashamed of admitting it. In any case, he knew each of his brothers had found the woman they were clearly devoted to. The one that had surprised him the most was Gavriil. His older brother had recently moved in with the youngest sister on the farm, Lexi, and was completely and utterly in love with her. Even to his brothers, Gavriil was a very scary man, yet around his fiancée he was gentle and even tender, two traits no one, not even his family, would ever have attributed to him.
The brothers continued toward the row of boulders. In the dark they were powerful, intimidating figures, walking across the sand with fluid grace. The wind howled around them, but they didn’t break stride, moving like a pack of deadly predators. It was impossible not to notice the confidence. They were imposing men with wide shoulders and thick chests. Mostly it was easy to see they knew how to take care of themselves.
Across the sand, the flickering of a fire flung the wall of a jutting boulder into sharp relief. The red-orange glow illuminated the homeless man sitting comfortably, his back to the curve of the rock, one hand curled around a bottle, his coat tight around him and his scarf covering the lower half of his face. At least he looked warm with the flames of the fire dancing high. He’d chosen the center boulder for his camp, leaving a few boulders on either side of him for them to choose for their private gathering.
“Do you want to tell us why you called this meeting, Gavriil?” Lev asked, keeping to the shadows, staying a distance from the man and his fire. He kept an eye on the only other living soul out in the fury of the wind. He’d been at the farm the longest and his affection for all the women who resided there ran deep. He didn’t like leaving them alone and unguarded, even for a few hours.
Lev looked out toward the crashing sea. He’d been caught in those dark waters once, the power of the waves rolling his helpless body, slamming him into a rock with such force, he’d had a concussion. Rikki Sitmore, an urchin diver and one of the amazing women residing on the farm, had saved his life. He’d fallen like a ton of bricks for her. He didn’t like to be separated from her for any length of time, but he wasn’t going to tell that to his brothers. He’d never hear the end of it, even if they were all just as bad.
Lev narrowed his gaze on the homeless man’s fist, wrapped around a bottle of Scotch. “We should move our meeting,” he suggested, his voice low. “We’re not alone.”
“You noticed the Scotch,” Gavriil said.
Lev’s eyebrow shot up. “How could I not? The man’s drinking Glenmorangie eighteen-year-old extremely rare malt Scotch. That’s not something a homeless man could afford.”
Maxim nodded his agreement. “Everything else about him fits, but that bottle has to cost at least a hundred dollars. No way can he afford that if he’s homeless.”
None of the Prakenskiis had turned their backs on the man. They were hunted. In Russia, they’d grown up in special schools, trained to be assets for their country, assassins sent to take down enemies of the state. Because they opposed his politics, their parents had been murdered by Kostya Sorbacov, a very powerful man who had been the power behind the presidency at the time.
The boys had been taken, separated and forced into the brutal training from the time they were very young. Now, years later, Sorbacov’s son, Uri, had recently decided to vie for the presidency. He couldn’t afford to have any scandal attached to his name, so all evidence of the extremely harsh atrocities associated with the schools had to be erased. That meant he was having those raised in the schools murdered. No matter that they had served their country faithfully, there was a hit out on all of them.
“Do you recognize him? Any of you?” Gavriil asked.
Stefan shook his head. “No, but he’s one of us. He’s good. Plays the part perfectly. Without the Glenmorangie, I would have bought his cover. I wouldn’t have given him a chance at us, but I would have bought it.”
“Look closer,” Gavriil encouraged.
Lev glared at him. “You know him. You knew he was here.”
Gavriil grinned. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize your own brother. I’ve invited Casimir here to have a little meeting with us, but he doesn’t have much time. He has to catch a plane tonight.”