Page 62 of Her Courage

But I couldn't relax. Not completely.

Not when Patrice was free.

My gaze swept the restaurant again. A couple near the kitchen door. Business lunch, judging by their tablet and scattered papers. An older man at the bar, nursing what looked like scotch. Alone.

Then I spotted them.

Two men. Mid-thirties. Suits that didn't quite fit properly—off the rack, trying to look professional but failing. They sat three tables away, too focused on our group. One kept glancing at his phone, typing rapidly.

The other watched Lottie.

My hand tightened on my water glass.

"Andrei?" Lottie's voice pulled at me, soft and concerned. "You okay?"

I forced my attention back to her, painting on a smile that felt wrong. "Fine, kroshka."

But I wasn't fine. Every instinct I'd honed over years of surviving in the Bratva screamed danger.

The waiter approached—young, nervous, too eager. He set our drinks down with shaking hands, stumbling over his words as he explained the specials.

Something was wrong.

I watched as he moved away from our table, heading straight for the two men I'd been tracking. They spoke in low voices. The waiter nodded, glancing back at us before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, he carried fresh drinks for our table.

Drinks we hadn't ordered.

"Compliments of the house," he stammered, setting down four glasses of wine. "Our manager wanted to apologize for the wait."

What wait? We'd been seated immediately.

"We didn't order these," Kaleb said, his tone pleasant but firm.

"I know, sir, but⁠—"

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping back. Lottie's hand shot out to grab my wrist.

"Andrei, what's wrong?" Her eyes were wide, confused.

"Don't drink that," I said quietly, my gaze locked on the two men who'd suddenly become very interested in their phones. "Any of it."

"What?" Colby looked between me and the glasses. "Why not?"

Before I could explain, the waiter reappeared—but this time his hands were empty and his expression had shifted. Gone was the nervous eagerness. Now he looked calculating.

He moved toward our table with purpose.

I stepped between him and Lottie in one fluid movement.

"Stay back," I growled, my accent thickening.

The entire restaurant seemed to still. The waiter froze, his eyes widening as he registered the threat in my posture.

"I was just—the manager wanted⁠—"

"The manager didn't send those drinks," I said flatly. "They did." I jerked my head toward the two men, who were now rising from their table.