My irritation switches to trepidation when he pulls out a chair second from the end and gestures for me to sit.
“Exactly what rank are you in thisindustry?” I stammer out before I have the chance to stop my words.
Before Rico can answer, his father enters the room from a concealed entrance on my left. He walks with a sense of animal arrogance like Rico, but his demeanor doesn't merely invite inquisitive stares of rapacious women; it demands resolute silence. For his age, Vladimir is a fit-looking gentleman of tall height and average build. His hair is dark brown and slicked back, and his face is void of the wrinkles most men his age would have. If I could look past his cold-hearted eyes and unapproachable demeanor, I'd say he is handsome.
When Vladimir saunters deeper into the room, the attendees react similarly as they did when Rico entered. Half stare at him in awe, where the other half—the mainly female half—bow their heads. Following the vibe of the room, I tuck my chin into my neck and stray my eyes to the tabletop.
"No, Kitten," Rico growls before pinching my chin and lifting my head back to its original position. "You do not bow to him." His tone is flat and laced with anger.
Ignoring the fact I’m shivering like a bag of nerves, I lift my chin and swing my eyes to Vladimir. I’m taken aback when I discover the cold, depraved gaze running over my body isn’t from Vladimir; it's from the elegantly dressed lady standing beside him. Even with her eyes thinly slit, she has flawless facial features, plump lips, and a straight nose. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and her petite frame is draped in priceless silk and jewels. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she was early to mid-forties.
Dropping her green gaze to me, the unnamed female asks, “Pochemu shlyukha sidit za stolom?”
Although I don’t understand Russian, I can’t miss the callousness of her tone.
“If you wish to address Blaire, you need to speak in English.” Rico shifts his eyes sideways to the unnamed lady. “She doesn’t understand Russian.”
“And yet you still married her,” the dark-haired beauty retorts. “Spitting on your father’s grave before he has even stepped foot in there.”
Rico’s jaw gains a tick, but he remains tight-lipped. He reassuringly squeezes my hand before gesturing for me to sit. When he secures a white napkin onto my lap, I twist it in knots, needing something to settle the sick feeling in my stomach.
I swallow away a horrible bitterness in the back of my throat when Vladimir affixes his gaze to mine. His face is impassive, his eyes from the devil himself. He watches me for several uncomfortable moments, assessing me from the inside out. My stomach churns with both fear and grief. Fear for Rico striving to be just like him. Grief for Rico being raised by him. It must have been horrible, worse than the deepest pit of hell.
I jump when Rico unexpectedly places his hand on mine, stopping my fidgeting movements. I've twisted the napkin so tightly around my fingers, it's cutting off my blood supply.
With Rico breaking our horrifying connection, Vladimir takes a seat at the head of the table, then gestures for the dark-haired woman to sit. No words are needed to issue his request. His stern gaze is demanding enough for her to jump to his command. I only just hold in my surprised gasp when she takes the chair opposite me. I assumed she'd sit beside Vladimir considering they are husband and wife. How do I know this? They have matching wedding bands like Rico and me.
“Shlyukhasdon’t belong at this end of the table,” she snarls at me.
My eyes rocket to Rico, seeking translation. His nostrils flare as his face lines with anger, but he maintains a quiet approach. Before I have the chance to ask whatshlyukhameans, the reasoning behind the dark-haired lady being seated away from Vladimir becomes apparent. Just like our meeting last week, Nikolai swaggers into the room with both the air of authority and a snip of fear. But unlike Rico and Vladimir, the female eyes in the room don't drop to the ground when graced with his presence. I don't know if that's because they see him as more approachable than his predecessors, or because he has not yet earned their reputation. Either way, my eyes immediately dart down to the table when he issues me a cocky wink.
“Ah. My beautifulAhrenblushes too. If only you had fallen into my lap instead of Rico’s,” Nikolai jests before sitting in the chair across from Rico.
The heat on my cheeks grows as does the grip of Rico’s hand curled around my thigh. Snubbing his brother's furious glare, Nikolai smiles a smug grin as he lifts his fingers to his lips, pretending to lock his mouth. After sinking deeper into his chair, he turns his eyes to his father sitting on his left. From the untroubled look on Vladimir's face, it appears this type of bickering is nothing new for Rico and Nikolai. Or perhaps he doesn’t know how to change his deadpan expression?
With a wave of his hand through the air, Vladimir demands his staff to commence serving brunch. Unable to tolerate the evilness beaming out of numerous pairs of eyes in the room, I drop my gaze to my empty plate and concentrate on keeping my breathing patterns level.
Within minutes, my plate is loaded with a vast variety of food. Bread, sausages, eggs, Russian pancakes, and tea are plentiful. It smells delicious, but my stomach is too twisted to risk sampling any of it. So instead, I push my food around my plate with a fork while my eyes sneakily scan the room.
While sipping on a glass of sweetened tea, my eyes anchor on a familiar face entering the dining room from the other end. Erik—Rico's lawyer. The women pay him the same amount of attention as Rico, but they don't hide it beneath lowered lashes. I can understand their fascination. When he isn't cloaked in darkness, Erik is a handsome man. Not as handsome as Rico, but that would be a hard feat for any man to conquer. After taking his seat three places up from Nikolai, Erik addresses my gawking stare with a hesitant smirk before accepting a plate of food from Maya. After returning his greeting, I return my devotion to sneakily assessing the room.
Over the next forty minutes, the tension in the air never leaves, but the flow of conversation increases. Although most of the discussions are in Russian, I've noticed one word being used on repeat:shlyukha. If the sneer of their tone isn't enough of an indication it's a derogative word, the fact numerous pairs of eyes glare at me while saying it's a surefire sign.
Unable to harbor my curiosity any longer, I turn my gaze to Rico. The stubble on his jaw is unable to hide its relentless tick, and his eyes are narrowed into thin slits. Obviously, I’m not the only one who has noticed the thick stench of hostility in the room.
“What doesshlyukhamean?” I keep my tone low, ensuring no one within earshot will hear my inquiry.
Rico stiffens for the quickest second before wiping his mouth with a white napkin. “Nothing. Finish your breakfast, Kitten.”
Anger unlike anything I’ve ever felt boils my blood. He didn’t even look at me while speaking. He just dismissed me without so much as a sideways glance. Strangers’ ignorance I can tolerate, but from my husband? No, that's something I will not stand for.
Gritting my teeth, I stand from my seat and politely excuse myself from the table. I’ve reached my quota of dealing with ill-mannered men for one day.
Before I have the chance to push away from the table, my wrist is seized, and I'm yanked back into my seat. My unladylike topple ends with a bang, not just to my backside, but my pride as well.
“Sit down and eat.” Rico’s angry voice shudders through my chest.
I stare at him, dazed and confused. Although the maliciousness of his words doesn’t match the remorse beaming from his eyes, tears still well in mine. Who is this man? He's not the man I’ve awoken to the past five mornings, and he's most definitely not a man I’d marry on sight.
