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I grimace. “The son in question is currently nine years old. If they wish to do that, they’re welcome to. They’ll find him less interested in hostile takeovers and more interested in video games.”
“Sir—”
I slam my fist down on the table and the room falls silent a second time. “Let me make this very fucking clear: my nephew is not a threat. My sister-in-law is not a pawn. I will not use either one of them in this game—and I willnottake a wife. This is the last I wish to hear about it.”
I look around the table, searching for signs of dissent or disapproval. I’m met with nothing but acceptance.
I nod, satisfied. “Our goal now is simple: take down the Ivanov Bratva. Once we do, Petyr Ivanov will have nowhere to hide. Then he will finally be made to answer for my brother’s murder.”
Konstantin clears his throat. “So once the mourning period is over—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. “There will be no mourning period. We start immediately. We start now.”
4
PAIGE
Silver Eyes is watching me closely as I sit. He took the position in the corner booth with his back against the wall. I note how his eyes flick to each of the exits quickly, as if measuring the distance, calculating probabilities, planning his next moves.
Anthony used to do that exact same thing. He’d refuse to sit anywhere he couldn’t see everything happening in the room. I used to call him paranoid.
On Silver Eyes, though, it just makes me wonder what kind of dangers I’m not seeing.
My stomach growls again. “Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks on fire. “I haven’t eaten much today.”
“No wonder you were ready to devour Francesco.”
I roll my eyes. “He wasn’t in any real danger.”
A server brings over a tray with drinks. Silver Eyes sips on his gin and tonic while I reach for the glass of Coke. I only mean to take a sip, but the sweetness and the fizz are so good that I end up downing the entire glass.
Silver Eyes doesn’t look away, not even for a second. He just raises his hand and the server materializes instantly. “Another drink for my guest,” he orders.
“Right away, sir.” The man practically sprints away to carry out his orders.
I regard him suspiciously. “Are you the owner?”
“Just a faithful patron.” Setting his drink down, he folds his hands on the table in front of them and leans forward to observe me closer. His eyes seem to crank up in intensity when he does that. It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.
Those things are weapons in his hands. Or in his eye sockets, or whatever.
I’m not making much sense. Even after downing a whole pizza, I’m still hungry.
“Is there a reason you aren’t eating?” he asks. “Or do you just like to torture yourself?”
This is the part where I lie. I don’t want to sound like a victim, and God knows I’ve been the beneficiary of enough pity these last few weeks.
But somehow, I get the feeling that this man isn’t the type to feel pity for anyone.
“Cash flow is a little lacking at the moment,” I explain stupidly.
“Did you lose your job?”
I suppress a sigh. “My job, my home, my husband—you name it, I lost it.” The waiter arrives with another glass of Coke. He sets it down and vanishes once again. “Although, considering my husband was never really my husband, I suppose he doesn’t count.”
“Explain.”
I gulp. Normal people don’t talk like that. They don’t hold up fingers and have waiters haul ass to do their bidding. They don’t sayExplainto strangers and sit patiently as if anything but a complete explanation is immediately forthcoming.
