"You’re late," Calina says. "Papa and Mr Petrov are in the dining hall. They’re waiting."
"Let them wait," Mikhail rumbles. He doesn't even slow down, steering me past them.
Milana looks at us with worried eyes. "Is Artyom coming, brother?"
"No," Mikhail says. "Artyom is busy. You two should stay upstairs after dinner. It’s going to be a long night."
We reach the double doors of the dining hall. Mikhail stops and looks down at me. He reaches out, his fingers lingering on the skin of my neck for a second too long, adjusting my collar.
"Ready, wife?" he whispers.
"Ready," I nod.
He pushes the doors open.
The room is huge, the long mahogany table stretching out like a battlefield. At the far end, Vladimir Morozov and my father, Boris, are sitting together. They look like two kings who think they still own the world. My father looks up, his eyes cold and calculating. Vladimir just watches us with a bored look that makes my skin crawl.
"About time," my father says. His voice is a low rumble. "Sit down. We were just talking about the North Docks."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IRINA
The dining hall smells like roasted lamb, high-end vodka, and the tobacco my father has been smoking since before I was born.
Mikhail doesn’t let go of my arm as he leads me to the table. His fingers are wrapped around my bicep, his palm like a brand through the sleeve of my leather jacket. I can still feel that restless energy from the warehouse raid, his body is a solid block of heat right next to mine. I can feel his pulse under my skin, or maybe it’s mine. At this point, it’s hard to tell the difference.
Goodness, I need to get my act together.
Vladimir and my father are already eating. They don’t look up. They don't acknowledge the fact that we’ve walked in smelling like cordite and grease.
"You’re late," Vladimir says. He doesn't lift his gaze from his plate, he is focused on cutting a piece of meat neatly. "In this house, we don't start the third course twice."
"We were busy," Mikhail says as we reach the table. He doesn't sit, he just stands behind my chair, his hands coming down to rest on my shoulders. I almost lean in wanting to step into his space and breathe in his air but I quickly catch myself. "Someone left the back door open at Warehouse Seven. I thought I’d better go close it before the rats got too comfortable."
Here we go.
Vladimir’s fork scrapes against the porcelain, a sharp shrill sound that makes my teeth ache. He finally looks up. His eyes are the same deep blue as Mikhail’s, but they are flat, lacking the wild fire that makes his son so dangerous.
"Warehouse Seven is under my jurisdiction," Vladimir says, his voice a low, nasty rasp.
"Not anymore," Mikhail counters. "Artyom and I agreed.”
Vladimir’s face doesn't change, but his grip on his knife tightens. He looks at Mikhail like he’s a disappointing investment. "You’ve been in Italy too long. You’ve forgotten that the Morozov name is built on taking what is available, not what is polite."
"Moving bodies isn't business. It’s a death sentence for the alliance," Mikhail growls. His fingers dig slightly into my shoulders, and I realize he isn't even aware he’s doing it.
I finally sit down, the velvet of the chair feeling strangely cold against my legs. Across from me, Calina and Milana are sitting in stiff silence. I expect the usual glares, the "you don't belong here" stares I’ve been getting since I arrived.
But when I catch Calina's eye, she doesn't look away or sneer. She reaches for the bottle of red wine in the center of the table and pours a glass, sliding it toward me.
"You look like you need it," she says quietly.
I look at the glass, then at her. Her expression is guarded, but there is a flicker of solidarity, maybe? Or just a shared understanding of how much the men in this room suck the air out of my—our lungs.
"Thanks," I mutter, taking a long sip and its burns down my throat. The wine is dry and cold, but it does absolutely nothing to calm the shaking in my hands.
"Irina," my father says, finally looking at me. He’s nursing a glass of vodka, his eyes bloodshot and sharp. "You look a mess. Is this the image you’re trying to project for the Petrov name? Grease and tackiness?"
