“Yeah. One day.”
We stare at each other, an understanding solidifying between us, and a conspiratorial smirk lifts up the corner of his lips.
“I’m glad we met.” Maksim raises his whiskey. “To new friends.”
I clink my glass against his. “To new friends.”
The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat. Around us, the other players have broken into small groups, their chatter filling the room.
But one person is missing.
Placing the empty glass on the bar, I give Maksim a nod. “I’ll be right back.”
Mick’s washing his hands when I walk into the bathroom. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, locking onto my reflection like a hawk tracking its target.
I walk toward him with slow, measured steps, enjoying the way all color seeps out of his face.
He turns off the tap. “Hey, Nero. All good? I didn’t mean to offe—”
“I’m not here to chat,” I growl.
I drag him to the toilet, shove his head into the bowl, and flush until he nearly drowns.
The satisfaction I get is even sweeter than winning that hand.
CHAPTER 20
BLAKE
“Andrey Arkadiev’s wife had no idea how to use the fish knife, so she went in and took the bones out withher fingers. She saw how shocked I was and asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t believe it. I had to say something though, so I went, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen someone eat it like that before.’You should have seen how red she turned!”
The women around the table cackle, and I eye the formal setting in front of me with unease. Four knives, five forks, two spoons. Vita went over table manners in one of our lessons, but the topic didn’t seem all that important at the time.
Now, I wish I’d done a better job committing every word she said to memory.
I squint at the smallest fork. Nope. No idea what that’s for.
If Ekaterina is hunting for more stories of social faux pas to add to her repertoire, I’m sure I’ll give her plenty of material to laugh about before this dinner is over.
Maksim’s wife sits across from me, enveloped in a cloud of pink chiffon that matches the champagne-hued wallpaper of this gilded, extravagant private dining room tucked away in the back of a one-star Michelin restaurant.
I feel woefully underdressed in the silk wrap dress I chose for the occasion.
There are four other women around our table. They all said hello to me when I first arrived and have been largely ignoring me since. Based on their accents, all of them are Russian, and I’d bet all of them have husbands in the Bratva.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from this dinner, but so far, it’s been uneventful. Kind of boring, to be honest. They’ve been gossiping about people in their circles for the past fifteen minutes and laughing at jokes with punch lines I don’t understand.
Why did Ekaterina invite me to this?
She appears to be the leader of this group, but as she delves into lengthy monologues, I notice a few women exchanging mocking glances. I can’t help but wonder if they all know her husband has lost the boss’s favor.
As Ekaterina begins yet another story about someone’s wife, I check my phone for an update from Nero.
Nothing.
He’s at the poker game with Maksim, while I’m here with the wives.
We never said we’d keep each other in the loop tonight, and I’m seriously regretting that oversight.
