The Aeroflot flight from JFK to Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport will take just over nine hours. I didn't want to draw attention to my visit, so I've decided to not to charter a private jet. It's strange hearing my mother tongue being spoken by the cabin crew and listening to the captain's announcements in Russian. A foretaste of my imminent arrival in the country of my birth, but it doesn't sit well with me. With a shudder I remember my father once said, "In Russia they kill you," words I repeated to my brother twelve years ago and echoed by Eva last week. I run a hand through my hair.

Yuri and I are traveling business; we took the last flight of the day... so we could get some shuteye... which is what we do after we've eaten dinner. Or at least Yuri does: he's snoring in the seat next to me as if he doesn't have a care in the world, but I'm carrying too many burdens from the past to drop off to sleep that easily.

I remember when I arrived in the U.S., not long after my parents and Daniel's first wife were murdered, I established myself in the Russian enclave of Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, also known as 'Little Odessa'. Using the cash that I inherited from Papa, and contacts I'd made, I set up a cigarette smuggling operation and soon became involved in helping to run an illegal gambling establishment. I got out of there just in time, following a tip-off that someone had grassed to the Feds.

That tip-off came from Roman. He warned me investigators were getting close to identifying me; he also told me that the Boss of all the Vory, our so-called godfather, wanted me to move to Fairwood and divide the turf with Vadim. I didn't argue and neither did Vadim; when the Boss of Bosses gives orders, everyone jumps to obey. Life settled down after that, more or less, until Vadim started rocking the boat and Natasha showed up.

I squirm in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I catch sight of a tall, blonde flight attendant sashaying down the aisle of the airplane. She bends and gives me 'the eye'. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

I know that look; in the past, I would have taken her up on it, asked her on a date after we'd landed, treated her to an expensive dinner then invited her back to my hotel and fucked her. "No, thanks," I say in a gruff tone.

I watch her make her way along the cabin. Tight red pencil skirt. Jacket nipped in at her trim waist. I picture how Eva would appear dressed like that; she'd be so goddamn sexy. An empty sensation spreads over me; I miss my kitten so much.

Closing my eyes, I slip back in time to that night when I visited her seven days ago, when she'd asked me to make love to her.

I'd tried to start off slow and gentle. She'd writhed on the sofa as I licked her. But I didn't just lick her, I devoured her. I pushed two fingers inside her pussy while my teeth nipped at her clit. My tongue had speared deep and I'd murmured, "You're mine, Kiska. No one will take you away from me, so help me God."

She'd come apart, her swollen cunt clenching against my mouth, her hands pulling my hair as she'd cried out my name. I'd slid up her luscious body, breathing in her green apple scent and slotting my hips into hers to bury myself balls deep. Then I'd silenced her gasp with a possessive kiss.

We'd rocked in harmony, faster and harder as our bodies demanded more. We couldn't get enough of each other. Our fingers had grasped, teeth had bitten, and we'd clamped our hands over each other's mouth to silence our moans.

We were completely in tune.

Two halves of one whole.

I'd whispered how much I loved her, how beautiful she was; my eyes had locked on hers and I'd thrust into her over and over, battering the entrance to her womb. On and on, I'd fucked her. On and on, she'd bucked underneath me, digging her nails into my shoulders and mewling like the kitten she is. For the first time ever, we'd climaxed in absolute unison; we'd stilled our rasping breaths with passionate kisses and had declared undying love.

Undying love.

It was and is everything.

Yesterday. Today. And tomorrow.

So. Help. Me. God.

My eyebrows draw together, and I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. Everything hinges on what will happen when I meet Roman. I've hatched a plan in my head, but I have no clue if it will work.

I rub my hand over my dress shirt, tracing the scar in the middle of my chest. I don't like uncertainty. In fact, I fucking hate it.

Our flight arrives on schedule; we go through immigration, pick up our suitcases and trundle them past bored-looking customs officials. The arrivals hall at Sheremetyevo International Airport is busy, but I spot a dark-haired man standing to the side holding up a card with my surname written in bold. Sokolov is a common enough name, but I presume he's the driver Roman said he'd send. My fingers twitch. Yuri and I were unable to fly with our guns, of course, and I'm experiencing withdrawal symptoms from my Glock.

Jesus, fuck, am I walking into the lion's den here? Unabashed, unprepared and unarmed. I almost want to turn around and board the next plane back home.

Except, I'm here to do a job.

To clear the path for a future for Kir, Eva and myself.

I'll see it through.

"I'm Gleb Sokolov," I say to the dark-haired man. "Who sent you?"

He confirms he's been sent by Roman Aulov. We follow him to the parking lot and get into a black BMW. It's already dark in Russia, owing to the time difference and the fact that it's early November. And colder than it was in New Jersey; I'm glad to have my thick overcoat. A dismal gray sky covers the landscape, matched by the grayness of the Soviet-era buildings we pass on our way into the city center. People are cycling on the sidewalks like thirty years ago, but it's a different Moscow to the one I remember. The Muscovites are dressed better and seem more affluent.

Yuri and I are silent throughout the ride, except for the occasional comments as we point out familiar landmarks. We don't know if the driver understands English, and we're certainly not going to discuss anything in front of him in Russian.

Presently, we're dropped off at the Kempinski 5* Hotel, just over the river from the Kremlin. We'll have the view, but we won't be doing any sightseeing; I've booked us on the flight back to JFK tomorrow night; this is just a flying visit. Literally.

At the front desk, the receptionist hands me a brown envelope. I open it and pull out a cell phone.

What the fuck?

The ringtone sounds immediately, and I hold it to my ear. "Welcome home," I recognize Roman's voice by its distinctive rasp from an overindulgence in Laika cigarettes. "Mikhail Vladimirovich would like you and Yuri to meet him this evening. I'll be there as well. He'll send a car to pick you up at seven."

Mikhail Vladimirovich Balandin, the Boss of Bosses.

My pulse rattles in my throat.