The phone stopped ringing, but then started up again a few seconds later. Livy lifted her head, took several deep breaths, and answered.

“Yeah?” Livy’s mouth set in a hard line. Strange. It wasn’t like she smiled much, but her mouth was usually quite relaxed . . . wait. Why did he know that? How often was he staring at this woman’s mouth? “Yeah. She’s there. Yeah, I did leave her alone. She’s not a child.” Livy paused, dark eyes narrowing. “Because the little twat is not my problem,” she snapped into the phone.

Livy winced and the yelling from the other end of the phone reached Vic. Most of it at this point was in Mandarin, but Vic could tell by the tone and what he knew of the language—which was enough to successfully get around China when necessary—that Livy was getting her ass reamed . . . by her mother.

“You are a spoiled child! Undeserving of the Yang or Kowalski name if you can’t do one thing for your family!”

“Melly is—”

“Your cousin! And an important part of this family! You are so selfish!”

“Fine! I’ll—”

“No, no! I wouldn’t think of asking the princess to lower herself to help her family. I would never dare to tread on her oh-so-important artistic life! I sent your cousins over to watch out for Melly. And they went. Because they understand family! Unlike you!”

Livy sighed and said in English, “Whatever, Ma.”

There was a long pause. Dangerously long. Then Vic heard her mother scream, “I no longer have a daughter! My daughter’s dead to me!”

But at the hysterical words, Livy only crossed her eyes. Vic sensed this was not the first time those two sentences had been hurled at her.

The screaming on the other end stopped and Livy lowered the phone. Vic assumed her mother had hung up.

“I have to say, I didn’t understand the words,” Shen observed, “but the tone I recognize from when my grandmother and mother go at it.”

Bringing eggs and milk over to the island, Ira asked Shen, “You don’t know Mandarin?”

“As I’ve been telling you since I was in college with your brother . . . I am sixth-generation Chinese American. The most Mandarin I know is from the Chinese restaurant down the street. So you can keep your Russian racism to yourself.”

“Excuse me,” Ira snapped back. “That was not Russian racism. That was good ol’ American racism, thank you very much. And we’re damn proud of it.”

“It took her years to hone,” Vic muttered.

“Sure did!” She grinned. “I’m gettin’ pretty good at it, too.”

Ira placed the eggs and milk on the counter, but quickly noticed her brother’s frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Is any of that fresh?” Because Vic hadn’t bought groceries in months.

“I brought them last night,” Livy admitted.

Stunned, Vic gazed at Livy. “You did?”

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while. I wanted to make sure I had enough to eat.”

Vic studied Livy for a moment.

“What?” she pushed, when he didn’t say anything.

“You never crash for more than a night. You’re really avoiding this cousin of yours, aren’t you?” he guessed.

“I get around her . . . and all hell breaks loose. She’s crazy. I don’t mean cute, endearing crazy or even annoying, pain-in-the-ass crazy. She’s just nuts.”

“Is that why your mother is insisting she stay with you? So you can take care of her?”

Livy snorted. “Hell, no. My mother hates Melly,” Livy said flatly. “The whole family hates Melly.”

Eggs forgotten, Ira walked around the island and rested her butt on it, arms crossed over her chest. “They do?”

Livy dropped her phone on the table, which explained why her phone wasn’t in a sexy or cutesy case like most women had for their smartphones, but was in some sturdy rubber that could take a real beating. Because she probably beat the hell out of the thing.

“Melly,” she began, “is . . .” Livy thought a moment before announcing, “Crazy. I don’t mean shifter crazy. I mean motherfucking crazy. She was in jail . . . no.” Livy shook her head. “She was just paroled from prison. No one in the damn family wants to deal with her, but we all do.”

Vic said, “I don’t understand . . . if your family can’t stand her . . . why is your mother forcing you to take care of her?”

“Because . . . she’s got skills. And my family will always exploit skills. No matter how annoying you may be.”

“Skills? What skills?”

“Well . . . Melly can look at a painting, like a Monet or a Renoir or a Bernardo Zenale—’cause she really liked him—for, like, two hours—and in three days give you a perfect replica. Aged perfectly and everything. There are at least two of her Monets, and a François Clouet in the Louvre.” She paused. “But you don’t know that because we could all go to jail, yada yada yada, blah blah blah.”

The silence after that was long and painful, until Vic’s sister pushed the plate of nearly finished dessert across the table to Livy and asked, “Cake?”

Livy stood. “Thanks for breakfast,” she told Ira after she’d finished eating. “It was good.”

“It was bacon,” Ira joked. “Who can ever go wrong with bacon?”