Page 112 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

She comes closer and adjusts the coat at my shoulder.

Mikhail leans back. “Can you bring dessert?”

Kathryn sighs. “Priorities are genetic, apparently.”

I kiss his forehead. “I’ll try.”

Downstairs, the dining hall glows with warm light, tall flowers, silver, glass, and enough polished manners to hide a murder under the dessert course. Violence looks older here, almost respectable.

Maksim stands near the head of the table in a dark suit, calm enough to make powerful men nervous. Elena is beside him in deep green, her hair smooth, her smile graceful, her eyes taking inventory.

Dmitri waits near one of the tall windows.

Black suit. White shirt. No tie. Close shave, clean angles, mean and hungry in a way that strikes every nerve in my body. Tonight, he looks built for danger and dressed for restraint, which is terrible news for my common sense.

His eyes move over my dress, then come back to my face. Desire, tension, and one quick flash of doubt cross over his handsome face. Then he walks toward me in measured steps.

“You don’t have to attend,” Dmitri says, stopping close enough for me to catch cologne, cigarette, and winter on his coat.

I lift my chin. “This is the only road I see.”

His hand moves once at his side. “Roads can be blocked.”

“Not this one,” I say, looking toward the table. “Patrick connected me, Mikhail, and New Harbor together. I need to hear who reacts when someone says that name.”

Dmitri studies my face. “I don’t like any part of that sentence.”

“I know,” I say and step past him.

Dinner begins, and Maksim leads the table without raising his voice. Elena keeps me beside her in the conversation, introducing me as her American guest with cybersecurity experience, which makes several men smile politely and downgrade me at once.

The first half runs on expensive wine, soft voices, and harmless talk. No one bares teeth yet.

A donor complains about customs slowdowns. A shipping man blames weather, paperwork, and one deputy minister’s nephew. Someone mentions route delays, and people around him pretend they weren’t listening. Medical refrigeration comes up twice. So do relief optics, donor fatigue, and the usual dinner sport of discussing politics without using a single dangerous name.

Lena Markovic speaks with bright concern, her tidy dinner folder of approved notes near her plate. She looks sincere, but looks can mean nothing.

Dmitri remains along the wall behind the donor side, speaking rarely to Abramov, watching everyone. I can feel his attention whenever my fork moves, which annoys me.

Mostly.

Lena Markovic opens the dinner packet beside her plate. The paper looks ordinary here. Nadezhda letterhead. Berezka printing mark. Clean charity language.

Then her thumb stops near the inside flap.

She reads one small line twice.

New Harbor Medical Aid. The name isn’t printed like a sponsor. It’s tucked under a supply note, harmless enough for anyone else to miss. My stomach tightens.

Two seats down, a shipping donor stops cutting his fish.

Arkady Velenko lifts his napkin before the pause can spread. “Medical-aid tags get reused all the time,” he says lightly. “No need to make every supply note sound secret.”

Elena hears it.

Dmitri’s eyes move from Lena to Velenko to the shipping donor. His hand shifts near his jacket, then drops as a waiter passes with wine.

Maksim moves the conversation on with a mild comment about winter funding.