"Huh?" comes out of me before I can stop it.
In twenty-four years on this earth, I have never once evoked that particular reaction in another human being.
They flush and start talking over each other in rapid Russian I can't follow at all. I lift my free hand next to my head. I mean no harm, I swear.
I drop back into my chair with a pout and drown my pancakes in honey. To soothe my wounded pride, I proceed to inhale said pancakes.
The older woman beside me says, in gently accented English, "They are just nervous, dear. Forgive them."
I nod around a mouthful, but as always, I can't bite my tongue. "I can't be that scary. Why would anyone be nervous around me? I just want to get to know them."
Why does that bother me so much? Honestly, no idea.
I never signed up to be their pakhanessa or whatever this is, so it shouldn't matter one bit if they like me. If anything,this could work in my favor—proof for Slava that his own people don't take to me, that we're not a match, that he should let me go back to my normal, boring, non-mob-affiliated life and find some other woman better suited to lead next to him.
Bitterness floods my mouth. I lose my appetite entirely and push the plate away.
"You are done?" the older woman asks quietly.
"Yeah. Thank you for the food, it was delicious."
She smiles and pats my cheek, and the other girls at the table stare at her with wide eyes. "Good, my dear. You're welcome."
The way she can't pronounce the letter W is endearing—she speaks at least two languages fluently, and I can barely speak my native tongue.
Should I learn Russian?
See, there's the problem right there. Slava really should've married a Russian woman, someone who wouldn't have this much trouble bonding with his people.
My stomach turns. I really shouldn't have eaten that much.
"It's not just them, pakhanessa." She leans in close, voice dropped just for me. "Go to the first floor and see for yourself, before you decide to hold a grudge over nothing."
I tilt my head, turning the suggestion over. She wants me to go check on the men? Honestly, not the worst idea—at least they won't stare at me like I climbed straight out of hell to haunt them.
"I'll do that. Thank you."
I stand to wash my own plate, but the girl beside me snatches it out of my hands before I can even reach the sink and bolts toward the kitchen with it.
"T-thank you," I mumble, baffled, glancing back at all three of them one more time before heading for the stairs.
The moment I step onto the first floor, every man who'd been eating, laughing, or cleaning a weapon a second ago goes silent. You could genuinely hear a pin drop.
"I just came to say hi," I offer, with a smile that dims slightly as a scattered, mumbled "hi" comes back at me—every single one of them staring at their boots.
I walk further in, and the crowd parts around me like I'm contagious. What is happening right now?
I wave a hand in front of one guy's face, and he flinches and looks harder at his shoes.
My presence is making armed men nervous, and it bothers me way more than I want to admit, for reasons I'd rather not sit with right now. I decide to cut my losses while I still have some dignity left.
"Have a good day," I mutter, and get a scattered chorus of Russian back that I don't catch a single word of.
Scowling, I take the elevator up toward the top floor—Slava's apartment. It's genuinely strange how much they've crammed into one building. A torture room. Living quarters. A full infirmary with actual doctors and nurses on staff. A lounge. A massive central kitchen. A room stacked with high-end computer setups, apparently because even the Bratva needs an IT department. And that's not even everything—I still haven't seen half of it.
But my presence isn't exactly welcome by anyone who isn't Slava himself.
The doors open on some floor between mine and the ground level, and the older woman from breakfast steps in.
