Page 42 of Bratva Sacrifice

I manage to locate, beneath the tangle of strings, a bathing suit that doesn’t look like I’ll be tits-out if I so much as sneeze. It’s not modest by any stretch of the imagination, but at least I don’t think I’ll lose it on a dive.

This late at night, the house is mostly deserted. Anatoli might be roaming around somewhere, but the staff that are present during the day live off-site. And whatever mafia underlings who might come and go during the day aren’t welcome at night unless they’ve been invited.

So it’s probably just me. And Alexei, wherever he is.

No one brought me dinner tonight, probably because I was in the bath for so long. But the kitchen staff is likely long gone, so I might just have to make do with whatever snacks are in the pool bar. Maybe a jar of maraschino cherries.

I head down the stairs. It’s quiet and calm as I descend into the foyer. I turn left, heading beneath the stairs to pass by the dining room on the way to the lounge—the closest room with an exit to the outside.

I don’t make it past the dining room before I hear Alexei say, “Katya.”

I pause. The pool is calling to me, but I also smell…food. Something briny, salty, savory. My stomach clenches with hunger. Suddenly that jar of maraschino cherries doesn’t sound all that enticing.

Alexei is sitting alone at the head of the long dining table. He’s not wearing a shirt; just that silver medallion around his neck and his tattoos. There’s an array of dishes spread all over the table before him. A chilled bottle of vodka placed near his elbow.

“Come eat,” he says, like he knows I haven’t had dinner.

Probably he does. But the pool can wait. My stomach can’t.

“What is all this?” I ask as I enter the room. It’s not really dinner. More like an array of snacks. Pickles, wedges of cheese, a massive tin of caviar. And an assortment of other things I can’t identify.

“Zakuski,” he says. “Snacks. Usually eaten with vodka.”

Kind of like a Russian antipasto, I guess. But at least there’s enough of everything that probably ten people could make a full meal out of it.

Alexei reaches across the table as I approach, snatching up a tiny pancake-looking piece of bread. He slaps a dollop of some sort of cream onto it, then reaches for a mother-of-pearl spoon and dabs on a generous amount of caviar. He holds this concoction out to me, and I nip it out of his fingers.

I don’t know if I’m just too hungry, or if it really is that good. The sour cream is cold and mild; the caviar is nutty, buttery, and tastes faintly of the sea.

Alexei pours himself a fresh glass of chilled vodka. “Turn,” he says. “I want to see if I have to spank you.”

“Fuck all the way off,” I snip, and sink into a chair. I really am too hungry to deal with his bullshit at the moment. I pick up a fork and spear a tiny pickle from a plate of them. It’s too good. Salty, sour. The briny, vinegar tang follows the caviar well. I follow it up with a chunk of mystery meat—and immediately spit it out into my palm. “What is that?”

“Pickled herring.” Alexei chuckles as I drop the half-chewed bit of herring back onto the plate. He pours again, into another shot glass, which he slides across the table toward me. “Drink. Zakuski is meant to be enjoyed with vodka.”

My nose wrinkles in distaste. “I don’t like vodka.”

“You do not like your shit American vodka,” he corrects, and he reaches for another little pancake, filling it again with sour cream, caviar, and this time a little sprinkle of what looks like tiny bits of crumbled egg white and thinly-sliced scallions. “You drink vodka all at once,” he says as he hands over the pancake, “and then you eat blini.”

The glass is cold in my fingers, condensation already collecting on the outside. I’ve never taken a shot before, but the rare mixed drinks I’ve had where vodka was the liquor of choice have been mostly unpalatable. I can always taste the vodka above the sweetness of the mixer.

Papa would be horrified at the thought of me sitting here in only a bikini, with a glass of vodka in my hand.

And that clinches it. I brace myself, lift the glass, and throw it back. The liquor hits my tongue, flooding my mouth. It’s so cold that my tongue numbs immediately. I don’t even taste it as I swallow it back, but the cold vies with the burn of the liquor down my throat, and it’s…a strangely pleasant feeling. Odd, but pleasant.

As my tongue loses its numbness, I briefly taste the astringency of the vodka, but even that fades quickly as I pop the blini into my mouth and the sour cream and caviar instantly flood my tongue.

“You see? Russian vodka is best,” Alexei says, and he retrieves my glass to pour again while I scan the table to determine which of the various dishes I’ll try next.

The little open-faced finger sandwiches look like a good choice. They’re topped with something that looks almost, but not quite, like tuna salad. The bread is dark, probably rye or pumpernickel. I pick up a piece and pop it into my mouth.

Alexei laughs again as I spit it out. “Forshmak,” he says. “Also herring.” I skewer him with a glare, knowing he let me choose it just from the enjoyment he derived from watching me spit it out again. He reached across the table and drags a plate in my direction. “This one, you like.”

I’m suspicious that there might be more herring hiding within, but it looks like it’s just mushrooms flecked with thin, almost translucent slices of onion and sprinkled liberally with fresh dill. I stab my fork into one and eat. Also pickled, but the flavor is milder, softer. The mushroom is springy and tender, the onion crisp and sour, the dill fresh and fragrant.

The second shot goes down even smoother. I know what to expect now, and the cold vodka burns a path straight to my stomach. The next bite—from a tiny wedge of sharp-tasting cheese—tastes even better. Like my palate is cleansed at the conclusion of each shot, and everything that comes after is cleaner, crisper.

The vodka makes everything taste incredible. There’s garlicky pickled bell peppers with a delicious crunch. A soft cheese spread slathered across pungent rye bread. Sour cherries with a richer, deeper flavor than the sweet maraschinos I had planned to eat from the jar at the pool.