Her face looks strangely sad. Pained, almost. I almost don’t catch her next words.
“He used to talk like that, too.”
She lifts her eyes and shakes her head. The sadness and pain I saw vanishes at once. Fire returns to her face.
“No one,” she says. “Never mind. Out of curiosity, exactly which band of criminal assholes do you belong to?”
I steeple my fingers. “You tell me.”
She screws up her eyebrows in concentration. “Definitely Russian,” she replies carefully, “based on the accents I heard from you and some of your men. I’m just not sure which Russian mafia family… There are a few in L.A., right?”
“There were a few in LA,” I correct her, with some satisfaction. “But not anymore.”
She thinks for a moment, then snaps her fingers. “The Kovalyov Bratva.”
“Bravo.” I applaud mockingly fo
