Page 113 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

I wait until the table follows him.

Then I smile at Lena. “New Harbor sounds busy tonight. Do they work through Nadezhda directly, or through outside delivery partners?”

Lena looks relieved to have a simple question. “Nadezhda uses approved partners,” she says. “For tonight’s dinner, Berezka printed the packets, and Sable Crown Courier brought them in.”

The table changes without making a sound.

The shipping donor lowers his knife. Velenko looks at his glass. Lena keeps smiling, but now she is watching the packet as if it might bite her. Elena sets her fork down very gently.

Velenko gives a soft laugh. “Delivery names are dull things, Miss O’Connell. Dinner is not the place for freight lessons.”

I smile at him. “Then I’ll ask the easy version. Why is a New Harbor tag inside Lena’s packet?”

Dmitri moves one step away from the wall.

Maksim says nothing. That makes the table colder.

Velenko’s smile stays in place, but his eyes lose all charm. “You have a curious mind.”

“So people keep telling me.”

Dessert arrives with cream and sugar, and everyone pretends the room hasn’t changed.

Five minutes later, I excuse myself and step onto the dining hall terrace. Glass walls look over the inner courtyard, and heated lamps keep the space warm enough for guests who want air or smoke.

The door opens behind me.

“Miss O’Connell,” Velenko says, champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other. “American women are very bold.”

I turn slowly. “Only when Russian men answer questions no one asked.”

His smile thins. “Moscow is not Boston.”

“No,” I say, glancing once at the door past his shoulder. “Boston has better coffee.”

“New Harbor is only a name,” he says, his smile fading. “Names can be changed before good people get hurt.”

My pulse kicks once.

“Good people?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

Velenko moves nearer, old power wrapped in a dinner jacket. “You’re clever enough to know which questions are safe.”

His hand closes around my waist as if he is guiding me toward the garden view. “And pretty enough to be forgiven for asking the wrong ones.”

Every muscle in my body goes cold. Glass behind me. Terrace rail at my side. Door past his shoulder.

No clean path.

He bends, mouth near my ear. “You should let Moscow teach you decorum before someone less patient does.”

I look down at his hand, then back at his face. “Did you learn that from Morozov’s donors?”

Velenko’s fingers tighten.

The glass door opens.

“Velenko,” Dmitri says from the doorway.