Yuri Zubov was sitting at the far end of a long glass table that was adjacent to a huge swimming pool. There was a pile of what looked like barbecued ribs in front of him, plates and silverware scattered around, glasses with lipstick on them. A wavering glow from the pool illuminated Zubov’s badly pockmarked face. He always reminded Roberto of a catfish, with thick lips and a wide, droopy mouth. One of his two front teeth was gold. His right eyebrow was missing and the eyelid also drooped down, giving him the appearance of a man about to cry. He was wearing a Versace jogging suit, a thick gold chain around his neck.
Pavel set the box down at the long end of the far table.
“Valentina!” Zubov gushed, sliding his chair back and standing up.
The two mafians embraced.
“We all thought you we
