Page 81 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Yuri studies the tray. “Americans truly consider this food?”

Cara points at him with the mustard finger. “Americans consider many things food, policy, and personality tests, which explains a lot.”

Yuri laughs.

Kirill steps around Cara to reach for a plate, looking far too pleased with himself. “Teach me properly, Miss Cara. I want to survive American women.”

His voice carries a smile. He uses her first name by accident, and Cara doesn’t flinch. She turns, half amused and half ready to explain the constitution of a hot dog. Then she sees me. Everyone follows her.

The kitchenette changes at once. Yuri lowers his plate. Lidiya looks down at the counter. Kirill straightens with the paper plate in his hand. Cara looks from them to me, and her mouth loses the smile.

I look at Kirill. “Outside.”

Kirill’s face reddens. “Antonov, I was only helping.”

“You were close enough to forget her name,” I say, stepping into the doorway.

Everyone hears the warning in it.

Kirill puts the plate down. “Yes, sir.”

Yuri keeps the sausage in his hand and forgets to eat it. Sergei steps back from the doorway, already clearing the corridor. Lidiya gathers the knife and onion bowl with careful hands.

“Everyone out,” I say.

Yuri lifts his plate a fraction, then checks my face and lowers it. “This seems unfair to the hot dog.”

“Yuri.”

He drops the plate. Lidiya slips away. Kirill goes last, red-faced and smart enough not to look back.

Cara doesn’t challenge me in front of them. She understands hierarchy and what it costs when a man is cut down in public inside a house like this. She waits until the door closes. Then she turns on me.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asks, one hand still braced on the counter.

“Keeping threats away from you.” I stay where I am, hands at my sides.

Her laugh comes out small and angry. “In my country, we usually call that a restraining order.”

“You call it whatever makes you feel free,” I say, watching her grip tighten on the counter’s edge. “In my world, a man doesn’t stand close by accident. Distance is a question. Rank is another. If no one stops him, he learns what he can take.”

Cara glances at the abandoned tray, then back at me. “This was a kitchen.”

She turns away, then turns back before she can give me the victory of her silence.

“Was the hot dog classified,” she asks, wiping mustard from her finger with a napkin, “or was it the mustard?”

“Kirill stood close,” I say, keeping my back to the door.

Cara throws the napkin onto the counter. “People stand close in kitchens. Kitchens were designed by someone who hated elbows.”

“Not to you.” The words leave before I can make them cleaner.

Cara’s face changes. The anger drains first. Then her chin lifts, and the fight comes back in full.

“You’re jealous,” she says, folding her arms.

“Yes,” I say.