And I can’t let her go until I’ve had more.
Ah, the joys of 4:00 A.M.
You never fully get used to it, I’ve learned. No matter how many years I’ve spent getting up at the witching hour to shovel grumpy piles of dough into my oven, I almost always still long for the sweet embrace of my bed.
Not today, though.
Today, I sprang up like I’d been electrocuted. Eyes pinged open. Every nerve ending was up and at ‘em.
Because today is Bratva Christmas.
That’s what I’m calling it, at least. I doubt Kane would appreciate the title.
It’s kinda accurate, though. Technically, it’s Russian Orthodox Christmas, but since I’ll be celebrating it with the kingpin of the Brooklyn Bratva and (presumably) all his many friends and followers, I think my name works well.
Why am I up at 4:00 A.M. for a party
