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Everyone is together and talking and being polite. Bowls of food pass from hand to hand, wine flows, and Ilya fills each pocket of silence with a steady stream of chatter.
Still, I feel the thorns poking at the underbelly of every interaction. Not painful—not yet, at least—but certainly irritating.
Misha is sitting directly opposite me, the long expanse of the table separating us like a lacquered ocean. It’s apparently customary for the hosts to sit like this, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s actually because he wants to be as far from me as possible.
This dinner is the first time I’ve seen him in a few days. Even now, he barely looks at me. When he does, it’s fleeting. His eyes are glazed over, unseeing.
I wonder if his dampened mood has anything to do with his mother moving in with us. I’ll admit, I’m excited about it.
If for no other reason than to have someone around who actually wants to talk to me.
“How are things going with the takeover?” Niki asks abruptly.
Konstantin was in the middle of explaining how he supposedly shot a bullet directly into the barrel of another man’s gun once, but he looks up with a start at Niki’s interruption.
“That is not dinner-appropriate conversation, Nikita,” Nessa warns.
“I’m bored. I thought I’d take a stab at turning the superficial chit-chat into something more interesting.” Niki turns to Misha. “Well?”
He sighs and sips his wine. “It’s going according to plan. I’ve officially taken control of Petyr’s holdings in Ivanov Industries.”
Nikita inhales sharply. “You’re serious?” She hurls her cloth napkin down the length of the table at him. “Why didn’t you tell any of us? That’s huge!”
“I didn’t tell you anything because it’s not over yet,” he explains. “Petyr needs to be fully dealt with before I’m willing to celebrate anything.”
Nikita and Nessa exchange a glance. Cyrille stares straight down at her plate like it’s the most interesting thing on the table.
“Don’t you think you’ve exacted enough revenge?” Nessa suggests. “Perhaps now is the time to take a step back and focus on your family.”
Misha puts his fork down and slides his plate away from him. “Iamfocusing on my family. This is how I’m doing it.”
His mother sighs. “It’s like you didn’t learn anything from your brother.”
The atmosphere in the dining room turns icy. There’s no ignoring the thorns anymore. They’re here and they’re sharp and they’re breaking skin.
Cyrille pats Ilya’s back tenderly. “Honey, why don’t you go grab your backpack? We’ll be leaving soon.”
“But I wanted another bread roll!”
Cyrille snatches one from the basket and shoves it into her son’s hands. “Here you are. Now, go.”
Pouting, Ilya slumps off to retrieve his backpack. As soon as he’s gone, Cyrille reaches for the wine she’s been sipping on all night and tosses it back in one gulp. Then she claps her hands on the table. “Well, this has been great. But we really should get going.”
“We haven’t had dessert yet,” Nikita butts in. “And Misha hasn’t finished telling us what his next magic act will be.”
“And I’m not about to,” Misha says harshly. “My plan is not for you to know.”
“Maksim was never so fucking rigid,” Nikita snaps.
“No? Well, I’m not fucking Maksim!” Misha slams his fist on the table and looks at every person at the table in turn. Everyone—except for me. “Excuse me. I need some fresh air. I’m sure you can show yourselves out.”
Without waiting for a response, he exits through the sliding glass doors and stalks off into the night.
The room is silent and still in his absence. Then Nikita stands up and shoves her chair in. “I guess we’re not having dessert then.”
The group files out silently. I take up the rear, escorting everyone to the door.
The first person to break the quiet is Ilya. “Goodnight, Aunt Paige,” he offers in a timid mumble.
