Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Well?"

Masen closes the door and crosses the room, targeting one of the luxe quilted leather chairs angled in front of Aronov's desk. His stride is long, brisker than usual, and as he moves past me, another spark of fury sweeps across his face. It's gone just as fast, however, and by the time he drops into the chair and kicks his ankle over the opposite knee, he's nothing but cool, impassive disinterest.

Releasing me with a final lingering press of his lips to my inner wrist, Aronov moves to stand behind his desk. Carved out of some kind of exotic, serpentine wood, the thing's massive, designed to impress and intimidate. As he leans forward and flattens a palm against its thick, swirly slab of a top, shadows dance in the hollows of his cheeks, cast by the overhead pendants. It's a subtle yet startling effect that Aronov wields like a hammer.

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated by the rap of my heels as I walk over to the chair opposite Masen.

"Well?" Aronov asks again. While his tone remains light, it's forced, and there's simmering anger buried just below the surface. "Do you have answers for me or not?"

Masen's jewel gaze slides over to me. "Pochemu ona zdes'?"

"You ask me, why she is here?" Aronov's brows arch. He pauses for a long, tense moment, and with each second, I watch that buried anger rise to the surface. It's not lost on me that he chooses to speak in English. Aronov wants me to hear this. "Because I wish her to be."

Of course, all those intimidation tactics are wasted on the man to my right. Unflappable as ever, Masen shrugs and waves at me like I'm little more than a minor inconvenience. "Do you really think this is a good idea?"

Aronov's palm smacks against the wood. "I did not ask for your opinion."

There's another long beat of silence, where the air seems to pulse across my skin, and the temperature in the room feels like it drops ten degrees.

"All right," Masen drawls, as calm as a high mountain lake. "So be it."

Seemingly satisfied, Aronov's expression finally clears, morphing into something almost pleasant as he sits and studies the younger man over steepled fingers. "Now… what did our friends at the Polizia have to say?"

"As we expected, not very much." Masen's shoulders roll in another slow, languid shrug. "They maintain it was likely one of the Families, so their inclination is to ignore it."

Aronov hums. "But you disagree."

"I do," Masen replies, and his fingertips drum a light rhythm against the leather armrest. "Andrey was in the water for several hours, but even with the bloating, it's obvious there was a struggle."

One brow cocks high. "How so?"

"Choked out first, I'm guessing by his own rifle sling, and then he was shot while on his knees." Masen points to the soft spot beneath his chin. "Upward angle. Close range. Entry wound looks like a 9mm or a similar caliber."

Frowning, Masen stares at the large, framed canvas on the wall behind Aronov's desk. It's a beautiful piece – a colorful, fanciful depiction of peasants and nobles on horseback in front of a medieval Russian town. I'm no art expert, but the little "K" in the bottom corner tells me it's an early Kandinsky, and considering this is Aronov we're talking about, I have no doubt whatsoever it's the real deal.

"From the burn patterns around the entry point," Masen adds, still eying the fortune hanging behind his boss. "I'd wager the weapon was fitted with a high-end suppressor." He flicks his hand in a dismissive gesture. "The rest of the damage was inflicted post-mortem, likely to distract the authorities and buy time."

Leaning back, Aronov glares at everything and nothing. "Are there any leads?"

Masen shakes his head. "Not yet, but whoever it was…" He hesitates. "He's clearly a professional. From the angle of the ligature marks across his windpipe and the placement of the kill shot… I'd assume right-handed. Shorter than Andrey, too." Pausing again, Masen swipes a hand through his hair. "Which is telling. Not many people could manage that kind of hit against an opponent of Andrey's size and training."

A low growl in Russian spills out of Aronov's mouth. "Do you have anything else for me?"

"It was reactionary, not planned. I'm assuming Andrey surprised him and forced his hand."

Fuck.

Playing my part, I go all wide-eyed and fidget in my chair. Aronov's response is immediate, and his stony features soften into an indulgent, reassuring smile. "Do not be concerned, dorogaya," he murmurs. "We will discover this… perpetrator, and once we do, he will be taken care of accordingly. This, I promise you."

"I hope so," I say, swallowing as I clasp my hands in my lap.

"Please, there is no reason for you to worry yourself." Aronov coos as his eyes roam my face like the obsessed psycho he is. "I will ensure that you remain perfectly safe."

I give him a small, appreciative smile before looking over to Masen. That one's not soft at all. No, when his eyes meet mine, he might as well be cut from granite. That mouth of his flattens into a hard, uncompromising line, and beneath the tailored fabric of his jacket, his muscles tense.

"Can you confirm it was Platt who sent this person?" Aronov asks, turning back to Masen.

Blowing out a long, slow breath, Masen grimaces. "I can't confirm anything, but it was likely CIA or US Spec Ops. Maybe MI6 or Mossad… the usuals." His fingertips resume their light drumming. "But whoever it was, he was well trained and conditioned for recon and battlefield defense. Definitely a step up from that last round of idiots the CIA sent."

Double fuck.

Aronov's eyes narrow. "So, someone like you?"

Masen's lips twitch, and a soft chuff of a laugh tumbles out. "Not exactly my style, but yeah, more than likely, we're looking for someone with a similar background."

Tilting his head back, Aronov mutters another round of curses under his breath. "Where do you think this attack occurred?"

"Not in Florence." Masen's head shakes. "That was just a stall tactic, just like those bank deposits. I'm pretty sure it had to have happened somewhere inside the compound or nearby. Andrey's car is still in the garage and looks like it hasn't been driven in a couple of weeks."

Aronov freezes, and rage drips off every word when he speaks again. "You are telling me that this someone – another fucking operative – actually came onto my property and killed my soldier?"

"That's the working theory."

"What was this motherfucker doing on my property, and how did he go undetected?"

Masen's gaze sweeps the room before landing on Aronov. Despite the undisguised violence staring back at him, he doesn't even appear to notice. "Indeterminate."

"Unacceptable!" Aronov growls, and this time, instead of his palm, his fist pounds against his desk hard enough that it rattles the softball-sized chunk of iridescent blue ore displayed on the left corner. "I do not care what you have to do, you will find this person, and you will take care of him yourself. I want him to suffer for this insult. Do you understand me?"

Masen nods. "Understood."

"And you will send Platt a message, or I will have Kaius do it."

"Fine." A muscle jumps in Masen's cheek, a barely-there tell I almost miss. "I'll take care of it."

A soft knock comes from behind us, followed by the light, sing-song lilt of Aronov's assistant. "Mi perdoni, signor Aronov. Signor Ntaberi e signor Ntaganda are waiting."

Waving her off, Aronov gives Masen a final pointed glare before tapping a small LED control panel on the right side of his desk. A soft click sounds from somewhere overhead, followed by the whisper of a high-end motor, and then a slick, razor-thin panel of glass descends from a camouflaged slot in the ceiling.

I start to stand. "I should probably go find that lounge of yours."

Aronov gives me another indulgent smile; only this one makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. "That is unnecessary," he purrs, and now I know precisely what this asshole is doing. The more I know, the more leverage he has to keep me. "This will take but a few moments."

Before I can pretend to protest, Masen cuts in, "You should know that Kaius has already threatened her."

Confusion swivels my head in Masen's direction, and there's no possible way I can hide my disbelief.

What the fuck is he doing?

But I'm not the only one who reacts. Aronov's attention whips to Masen, and another wave of knee-jerk, psycho-fast rage swamps his features. His knuckles crack, echoing in the silence. "Is that so?" he asks, spitting each syllable.

"At the Schönbrunn," Masen says. He doesn't look at me. "And I'm pretty sure he sent one of his enforcers to scare her a few days earlier."

Scare… murder… same thing.

A vein pops out on Aronov's forehead and judging by the crimson sweep across his cheeks and the bulging eyes, I swear that man's about two seconds from losing his goddamned mind. His voice drops in both volume and pitch, and his accent and inflection turn heavy. "When we are finished here, you will tell me everything. And, Edward… I do mean everything."

Masen doesn't reply, but when he steals a glance over to me, his expression darkens, and slight, barely detectable signs of frustration crawl through his entire being.

So... whatever he was after didn't work.

Interesting.

Inhaling a slow breath through his nostrils, Aronov wrangles back that smooth, oily façade. "Please." He motions to my chair and flashes me a small grin that doesn't touch his eyes. No, those still scream brutality and bloodshed. "Sit, my darling. Stay with me. I will take care of all of this, I swear it."

I give him another wide-eyed, shaky nod and obey. Mollified by whatever he sees in me, by the time Aronov taps the little LED panel once more, it's like the last twenty minutes never happened.

The glass panel suspended in front of Aronov's desk opaques. The screen flashes a dark royal blue, and then a golden leopard's head flanked by an elephant tusk and a spear appears in the very center. The blazon blinks twice before being replaced by a pair of forty-somethings in jungle fatigues sitting against the backdrop of pocked gray cinderblock. Blue and red flags mark their biceps, along with blood-red epaulettes on their shoulders.

"Mr. Aronov," the one on the right says in a low, clipped baritone. He dips his shorn head in polite acknowledgment, and the angle highlights a long, jagged scar that runs from his hairline to his jaw, pale and shiny against the warm umber of his skin. "And Mr. Masen, it has been a long time."

"Mr. Ntaganda… Jacques," Aronov purrs, projecting that warm, sophisticated, cultured mask once more. But he doesn't fool me at all. I see the hunter lurking, and now, I know just how close to the surface that ruthless creature hides. "At this point, I believe we are past such formalities. Would you not agree?"

"Very well, Aro." The general's gaze drifts to me but then flits away just as quickly. Either I'm not worth noting, or he's smart enough not to provoke a man willing to firebomb an entire village in exchange for some expensive dirt.

"Excellent." Aronov's grin widens as he nods to Ntaganda and then to the second man on the left. "Mr. Ntaberi… Laurent."

Ntaberi's accent is thicker, pitched in a deep bass. "Aro," he says, motioning a misshapen hand missing three of its fingers. One eye tracks slower than the other, telling me this guy – like the other – has seen his fair share of combat. "Thank you for meeting with us today. You are a busy man."

"But of course," Aronov replies, smooth and silky, and I'm suddenly reminded of that morning in Vienna with Taeb. I wonder if Jacques and Laurent know just who they're dealing with. "I trust everything is progressing as planned?"

Careful not to draw unwanted attention, I slowly slide my left across the pocket of my skirt, like I'm smoothing out some non-existent wrinkle. On the third pass, my thumb finds the top of my cell, where Whitlock programmed in one of his little short-cuts. I tap twice, hold for two seconds, and then all I can do is hope that the mic picks up through the fabric and that the sat service penetrates the palazzo's thick stone and plaster walls.

"Indeed." Ntaganda nods once. "The Minister has submitted the appropriate requests, and we expect revocation orders for the leases to be issued by the end of next week." His dark eyes sparkle, malicious and eager. "Your latest shipment was very timely, as well as generous."

Leather creaks as Aronov leans back in his chair to study the other man through the screen. "And my mines?"

If they're offended by Aronov's use of the possessive, they don't show it. Instead, Ntaganda just smiles a row of glittering gold. "Our forces have secured all access points to the locations in the north." He hesitates, and when he wipes a hand across his forehead, I see the light sheen of sweat. Whether it's from the temperature or stress, I can't tell. "But one of your competitors has his claws in the nearby settlement. He has brought in additional security, as well, which presents some challenges."

"Challenges?" Aronov asks, far, far too lightly.

Ntaberi folds his hands on the table in front of him, but not before I catch the nervous twitch. At least this one knows he's playing with fire. "It is nothing of consequence," he cuts in before Ntaganda can counter.

Aronov chuckles. "But?"

He dry washes his hands. "They are likely to resist departing, despite the orders from Kinshasa. This may result in unfortunate… delays."

"Dolzhen li ya delat' vse?" Aronov mutters under his breath, low and aggravated, and it takes real effort not to laugh, especially when he glances over to Masen, who just shrugs, bored as ever. He tsks once, and then he looks back to the men on the screen just a little too brightly. "Let us cut straight to it. Tell me, gentlemen, what is it that you need from me to prevent such delays?"

Ntaganda's cheeks crease as he shoots us another gleaming metal grin. "A statement must be made. Something definitive."

Aronov's brows climb his forehead. "Another?"

The general's shoulders roll, lazy and feline. "It is the most expedient course of action, as you are aware."

"And the most profitable," Aronov returns, and he's not a happy camper from the mash of his lips. "For you. If I recall, your territory doubled with the last engagement."

Undeterred, Ntaganda pushes, and this time that smile looks almost feral. "You profited from the last, did you not? I lost count of how many your people kept."

My guts twist, and I almost lose my breakfast when Aronov tsks again. "Yes, and Dobroshi and Kaius are still trying to get rid of them. I do not need any more of your villagers. They are not worth the trouble to export."

Now I really want to hurl, not to mention blow this motherfucker's brains out the first chance I get. I'm all for taking out every single one of these animals as painfully as possible. When I look over at Masen, he's staring at me, and I can't even bother hiding my response.

At least he has the decency to mirror it.

Porcelain clinks against metal as one of Aronov's black and white starched staff wheels in a small linen-covered cart topped with plates of delicate pastries. An antique gilt and ornately enameled samovar sits in the center, ringed by elegant, matching cups. Without a word, quick and efficient, the attractive, brunette twenty-something pours the tea, serving Aronov, then me, and then finally Masen, who just scowls at the dark, fragrant liquid and leaves it on the side table untouched. Following Aronov's lead, I dunk a small cube of sugar into my cup and watch Masen over the rim through the curling ribbons of gray-white steam.

"What the–" I mouth.

A sharp jerk of his chin cuts me off.

Aronov and the two generals continue their discussion for the next ten minutes. While they dance around saying the words outright, there's no doubt whatsoever what they're planning, and with each passing second, my fingers wind around the fabric of my dress, cinching tighter and tighter.

Aronov finally drains his tea. "What is your timing?"

Ntaganda swipes another line of sweat off his head, and it's quiet enough that I hear the rasp of his close-shaven hair. "When can you supply the air support and thermobaric weapons?"

The look Aronov gives the other man reeks of impatience and condescension. "They will be available when needed. Sasha will have his people coordinate with yours."

"Very well. We shall organize at once. My people are eager."

"I am sure they are." Humming, Aronov slides his teacup to the edge of his desk and then folds his hands neatly in front of him. He gives Ntaganda a small smile, but it's ice-cold, and I have a feeling I know what's coming next.

"Jacques," he says slowly, enunciating the other man's name like an epithet. "I have been exceedingly patient with you." Aronov's eyes darken, and his skin stretches taut across his cheekbones. "But I want my fucking mines, and I grow tired of waiting. Do we have an understanding?"

Ntaberi swallows and answers before a stone-faced Ntaganda can argue. "Yes, Mr. Aronov. We understand perfectly."

"Do not disappoint me, or the very generous support I provide for your… cause will cease. And I will find another faction who can deliver." Aronov sends the two men another bone-chilling smile. "I do not think your minders in the capital would be pleased."

As much as I want to stick around for Aronov's call with Retzos, as soon as the conversation with the Congolese generals ends, I put on my best fake, civilian mask and make my polite excuses, saying that I'd like to freshen up and see this private lounge of his. It's evident that now that he's had a taste, Aronov isn't keen on letting me out of his sight, but after a proprietary squeeze of my hip and another nauseating brush of his lips against mine, he lets me go. As his assistant comes in to escort me out, his eyes track my every move, like a hawk homing in and toying with its prey. With every step, that sinking in my gut intensifies.

Right before the door closes, I hear him say to Masen, "Tak ty rasskazhesh' mne o Kayuse."

Damn it.

Damn it to hell.

I'll say it again, why the fuck did Masen mention that asshole Kaius?

Moments later, Gianna leaves me in yet another objectively stunning room. Like his office, Aronov's private lounge is the height of corporate, professional luxury, with priceless Greek and Roman artifacts dotting the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Italian leather sofas and chairs sit on top of colorful Persian rugs. Bright, vibrant paintings – all Russian masters – hang from the plaster walls. A bank of thin LED screens occupies another, monitoring a half dozen markets across the globe.

Skirting the pair of sofas in the center, I target one of the large windows on the eastern side. I pull back the heavy drapes, like I want to look out onto the city, and use the action as a cover to check the room. Seeing no one, I pull out my phone and quickly tap in my code. I don't bother with pleasantries nor even the semblance of subterfuge.

There's no time for that, not when they're planning on firebombing another village full of innocents.

Please tell me you caught all that shit.

Whitlock comes back instantly.

TheTravelingCowboy: Loud and clear

You're looking for a Jacques Ntaganda and a Laurent Ntaberi. Warlords of some kind. Don't know which side they're on, but they have high-level backers embedded in the government

Can you freeze assets?

TheTravelingCowboy: Already on it.

Saw a map in Aronov's office. Based on that and what we heard, assume their militia is positioned in the northern Katanga region. Have the NSA turn the sats and find them

TheTravelingCowboy: Got it. What else?

Tell Platt. Tell her she needs to take them out fucking yesterday, or we're going to have another massacre on our hands

TheTravelingCowboy: Done

TheTravelingCowboy: What about the others?

I want eyes on Dobroshi and Koshmarin. Markovsky, especially, if you can get someone close enough to his compound near Moscow. Call Eli and see who he's got. If you have to, send Spooky and McCarty after that one

TheTravelingCowboy: Retzos?

Yes, please

TheTravelingCowboy: Doable. Intel has him hiding on his yacht off Mykonos. He's not exactly inconspicuous

I grin at Whitlock's dry, sarcastic commentary. When I go to type out a response, he's beat me to it.

TheTravelingCowboy: Pretty sure I know what that next call is going to be about too

Hopefully, something good for once

TheTravelingCowboy: At Interpol's behest, Rotterdam Port Authority just arrested a dozen Customs officials on bribery charges, among others. A certain vessel hailing from Gwadar is due to arrive at port tomorrow

Fuck, yes. Good job

My grin stretches wider because Aronov will lose his shit when we take that boat.

TheTravelingCowboy: You need an out?

TheTravelingCowboy: Say the word, and we'll pull you and R

I take a long, slow breath, replaying the last three hours.

No, not yet

I need to find Cullen

TheTravelingCowboy: I don't like this, Swan

Me neither, but it is what it is

TheTravelingCowboy: Fine, now turn your phone off. I'll do a quick wipe

About the time I shove my phone back into my pocket, my internal radar peals like a gong. I spin just in time to catch Masen silently closing the door behind him. Betraying nothing, his eyes travel my face before narrowing as they dip down to my hip, where my palm instinctively flattens over the phone beneath the fabric. He doesn't say a word, however. He just frowns, shoves his hands in his pockets, and then slowly meanders his way across the room, stopping only when he reaches my side.

Neither of us speaks for a long, still moment. Instead, we just watch the red-tile roofs of the Florence skyline. So close, when he shifts, the fine wool of his jacket ghosts across the bare skin of my forearm, and when I breathe in, I taste hints of a warm, masculine aftershave cut by fresh winter air. With each passing second, my heart rate slows to a steady hammer as I debate just how long it would take me to pluck one of the 9mm's sitting against his ribs.

Still focused somewhere past the window, Masen softly asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I answer slowly, hugging my arms over my chest for effect. "I'm fine, but that was… a lot."

Masen angles toward me, ever so slightly, and when we make eye contact, that fury comes roaring back, now bright, sharp, and abruptly singing against my senses. "What the fuck are you doing?"

I scowl. "Me?" I ask. "You want to know what I'm doing? Are you shitting me?" My earlier incredulity returns, and I can't stop the bite in my tone. "I'm doing what you told me to do… Be polite. Be friendly." I parrot back his instructions from our days-ago breakfast on the terrace. "Be warm… Cozy up to him if needed."

"I didn't mean fuck him!" Masen shoves an angry hand through his hair. Sucking in a shaky breath, he tips his head back and stares at the high ceiling above. "Do you realize what he can do to you? What he will do to you if you make one wrong step?"

"Seriously?" My pissed-off scowl turns downright furious. "Then, why did you tell him about Kaius? What the hell was that?"

Masen's cheeks puff out when he exhales, and it highlights the pale gray rings under his eyes. My fingers twitch with the irrational urge to soothe away the tiredness, and that just makes me madder.

"I was trying to convince him not to expose you to any more than what you've already seen." Masen looks down at me then, and that fury bleeds out, giving way to something akin to desperation. "Look, Aro's a goddamned tyrant – a psychotic one at that – but it's clear that he's increasingly... enamored with you." He waves a random hand, motioning at me like that's all he needs to say. "I thought maybe, just fucking maybe he'd try to insulate you from all this, to keep Kaius and everyone else from having a reason to target you." His lips mash. "Obviously, it didn't work. Then again, you're not exactly helping."

Ignoring that last jab, I steal a quick glance behind us. Seeing nothing – not a hint of Gianna or Aro or anyone else – I turn and level him a flat glare. It's the kind that used to make my old teammates in The Unit duck and cover. Annoyingly, he doesn't even flinch.

"I don't buy it," I say, stepping closer, crowding him even though, despite my heels, he tops me easily. "What else were you after? That's not the only reason you told him."

Masen's Adam's apple dips below his collar as his eyes fixate on my mouth. He doesn't try to hide it, either, and the intensity and focus in his gaze make my stomach flip in a dizzying display of internal acrobatics.

"Let me guess…" My brows lift. "You're trying to drive a wedge between them... Sow a little discord."

He grimaces, but when he answers, his focus turns inward, and his voice comes out low and gravelly. "Something like that."

"Why?" My fingertips find the hard wall of his abdomen, and this time, it's more like a soft plea when I ask. "Just tell me why."

Masen stares down at me and damn near steals my breath. He hesitates, and in that split-second of indecision, I see someone else looking back at me. It's someone younger, someone less shadowed, less jaded and dark. "I need him to trust me, just a little while longer."

I peer down at my fingers, where they're wound into the thin, satiny fabric of his shirt, before looking at him once more. "Who's Platt?"

The rigid line of his jaw rolls right before his expression shutters. "No one you need to know."

Fine, I can play this game.

Tugging on his shirt, I lift on my toes until my mouth hovers no more than an inch from his, and I smell sweet peppermint on his breath. "Does it have anything to do with why you were sneaking around last night?"

Masen stills, and in that brief moment of silence, the bare inch of air between us sparks in recognition of the danger I've set loose. His jaw ticks again before he replies, so softly that I don't know if I hear the words so much as feel them. "Careful, Bella."

"Careful, my ass," I say. "You owe me some explanations."

"I don't owe you shit."

"I think you do."

Masen closes his eyes, and when they finally open again, his irises gleam like emerald fire. Without warning, his hand slides up my throat to frame my face, and as his long fingers gently trace the outline of my lips, he whispers, "I hate the idea of him touching you. When I walked in, it took everything I had not to react."

"Why's that?" I whisper back, gripping his wrist to hold him there.

Something in between a laugh and a huff tumbles out. "You know why."

When I smile, it's against his lips. "Tell me anyway."

"Fine, I can't stop thinking about you." Masen drops his forehead against mine, resigned and tired, like he's admitting some great defeat.

"Good." My smile widens as I plant soft, barely-there kisses at the corners of his mouth and slip my hands underneath his holsters, running my fingertips along his ribs. He's so incredibly warm, and the muscles there flex and release, shuddering with each pass like it's been ages since he's been touched with any kind of affection. "It's a mutual affliction then."

"You're going to get me killed," he says, maybe to me, maybe to himself, as he pushes me against the glass behind us. With a low, strangled groan, his mouth descends on mine, stealing every bit of my sanity, so much so that I almost miss it when he murmurs, "And I can't afford to die just yet."

I don't respond to that. Instead, I just silence him with my mouth, at least for now.

But when we get back to the compound, I think it's about time for us to have ourselves a little conversation.

.

.

.

Notes:

Jacques' (James) last name, Ntaganda, was lifted from a Congolese military general / warlord, known as The Terminator. He participated in various conflicts in DRC, Rwanda, and Uganda and controlled access to some regional mining operations. He was convicted in 2019 for war crimes, including rape, murder, recruitment of child soldiers, and sexual slavery of civilians.

Laurent's last name, Ntaberi, was lifted from a Congolese warlord, also known as Sheka. He operated in the restive Kivu region. He was also convicted in 2020 of crimes against humanity, including mass rape, murder, slavery, and recruitment of child soldiers.

Russian (transliterated):

Dorogaya: recall, this is a term of endearment, roughly meaning darling or sweetheart

Dolzhen li ya delat' vse: Must I do everything?

Tak ty rasskazhesh' mne o Kayuse: So, you will tell me about Kaius

Italian:

Mi perdoni, signor Aronov. Signor Ntaberi e signor Ntaganda…: Forgive me, Mr. Aronov. Mr. Ntaberi and Mr. Ntaganda…"

Glossary:

Kandinsky: Wassily Kandinsky was a Russian-born pioneer of abstraction in Western art. He was born in Moscow and spent much of his early life in Odessa (now Ukraine). He spent his years between Russia, Germany, and France, studying, teaching, and painting. His early works were more traditional, influenced by Monet, Matisse, etc., but as he progressed as an artist, his works grew far more abstract and avant-garde.

Katanga: province in the Democratic Republic of Congo, known for mining

Samovar: this is an urn-like vessel, typically made of metal, with a spigot at its base that is used especially in Russia to boil water for tea. They're also used in other Slavic nations and Central Asian countries, such as Iran. Some are very fancy and can fetch a pretty penny.

Thermobaric weapon: an explosive that uses oxygen from the surrounding air to generate a high-temperature explosion. The blast wave produced can last significantly longer than that of a conventional condensed explosive.