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Potatoes, cabbage, and smoked sturgeon.
Solyanka, a Slavic chowder thick with smoked meats and olives.
Elk dumplings brought in by air express, direct from St. Petersburg.
A half-dozen shots of vodka and toasts to our health, to friendship, to success—to women.
I felt the warmth of the liquor, the food and the company seep into my bones and I finally relaxed, a real smile on my face.
"This sweet little sister of yours," George said, and I could tell from his expression—lips pursed, brow furrowed—that George was trying to broach the subject very carefully. "Do you like her?"
"Do I like her?" I frowned. "Do I like her?" I said nothing for a moment, trying
to gauge why George had asked. "I don’t know if I fucking like her. I'm fucking her. Why?"
George popped another dumpling in his mouth and chewed for a moment, the expression of concern remaining on his face. "I know you don't want me to say, but if you get too close to her," he said and gestured to me with his knife, "Victor and then Sergei will take interest in her. Once you get close to them, they want to know all your business. They want to know your weak spots. They exploit those weak spots."
"That's why you’re here," I said. "I need your advice on how to deal with the Russians."
"If you like her, let her go."
I said nothing in reply. I usually gave George a lot of license. He could say what he pleased, because I needed good advice from someone I trusted, and I trusted George without reservation, having put my life in the Russian’s hands many times in the past.
George drank some wine. "If you like her," he repeated once again, "leave her alone. In Russian vory v zakone, we do not involve our women—not ones we love. They can not become bargaining chips."
"She’s not ‘my woman.’"
"Lie to me, but tell yourself truth." He let that stand for a moment. "If you like her, let her go."
I didn't say anything. He was right, of course. I should just never see her again.
"Come on," I said and waved him off. "I can protect her."
"If you need someone in your bed, pick someone who doesn't matter to you. They will become target."
"George, I know about the risks. I know how to manage risks."
"Of course. I was just reminding." George swirled his glass of wine. "You can't find someone else while you go on your mission for revenge? Or," he said and leaned forward, nodding as he looked at me, thrusting his wine glass at me, "are you in love with her?"
I frowned. "I'm not in love."
I rubbed the delicate etching along the edge of my crystal wine glass and thought about George's question.
I decided that, no, I wasn't in love with her. I wanted her. I wanted to make her want me and offer herself to me.
That was all.
George said nothing, but he gave me a look, his eyebrows raised.
"I'm not in love," I repeated.
He shrugged. "If you really like her," he said again. "If you love her, let her go unless you are prepared to own her. Remember Powell's rule in Iraq."
"The Pottery Barn Rule," I said, frowning. I knew where George was going and I didn't like it.
"Exactly. If you break, you own. If you put her in danger, if you break her life," he said and sat back, "you own her. If you don't like? If she is just pretty fuck, then so what? Collateral damage. Who gives fuck if they take her, torture her, kill her?” George glanced at me, his eyes hooded. “And they will, if they ever want to punish you, blackmail you."
"I know that." I didn't like the way this conversation was turning. Tension rose in my body, and I felt a need to throw something, kick something.
