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Taking a moment to study him surreptitiously as we all begin to eat, I would wager he’s in his mid-thirties. Though no white strands fleck his dark hair, I almost wonder if he doesn’t color his temples from the look of their solid black color.
He’s dressed like someone with substantial wealth, the fine cut of his blue suit tailored to perfection. And he speaks like a man who comes from money, his words well put-together, his tone eloquent.
By anyone’s standards, he would be considered handsome in the tall, dark, distinguished sense. But even as he engages my father in polite conversation, asking for details about his upcoming campaign, I can’t help the block of ice that settles in my stomach.
“Ben tells me you might be looking for investors to support your run for governor,” Mikhail says lightly before guiding a small bite of chicken between his lips.
Dad clears his throat self-importantly. “Yes, I think I’ve done good work as New York’s attorney general and believe I could make a big difference for the state as governor.”
“I’ve been keeping up on your policies, and I couldn’t agree more,” Mikhail says. “And in case Ben hasn’t mentioned it, I’m a bit of an investor myself. I’ve mostly dabbled in restaurants, investing in the ones I believe offer New York a unique experience. But recently, I’ve developed more of an interest in politics.”
“Yes, Ben mentioned something of that,” Dad acknowledges, giving Ben an approving nod.
I glance toward my brother, curious about how he feels when they keep talking about him like he’s not even in the room. To my astonishment, Ben seems almost nervous, his fingers clutching his silverware a little more firmly than usual. His eyes shift between Mikhail and Dad as though willing the conversation to go well.
And that ice in my stomach hardens.
Ben’s never shown an interest in Dad’s political career before. He’s always poked fun at it, if anything. So this sudden shift must be about Mikhail and wanting to make a good impression on him.
Intrigued by the unfamiliar dynamic at our dinner table, I turn my attention back toward Mikhail Sidorov once more.
“I find your policies on law enforcement and gun violence very relevant to events that have been taking place lately. I believe cracking down on those responsible would help the safety of our streets immensely. In fact, just the other day, one of my employees was held at gunpoint and robbed while attempting to deliver a shipment not far from here.”
“Really?” Dad asks, horror in his voice. “Are they alright?”
Mikhail shakes his head, his face falling. “Unfortunately, he and several other men delivering the shipment were all killed when they tried to stop the robbery. So much senseless violence and crime, and much of it seems to stem from those mafia families that act little better than street thugs.”
Blood drains from my face as his words strike home, and I drop my silverware onto my plate as my appetite suddenly vanishes. Efrem’s word of warning about the Zhivoder Bratva and Ben’s new friends rings clearly in my head, and I wonder if Mikhail might not be involved with them somehow.
All eyes turn to me, and I blush as I realize my outburst of emotion was loud enough to call attention to me.
“Sorry. I, um… I just don’t feel comfortable talking about death and violence at the dinner table,” I fumble, dropping my eyes to my plate as Mikhail scrutinizes me.
“Of course,” he says with exaggerated graciousness. “I apologize. It was entirely inappropriate of me to bring it up in the first place.”
The table falls silent as I swallow hard, trying to rein in my tumult of emotions. Ben nudges me with his elbow, and when I glance sideways at him, he tips his head subtly, reminding me that I haven’t accepted Mikhail’s apology.
Stomach souring, I turn to meet the businessman’s dark, unwavering gaze and force a smile. “No need to apologize. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sadness turns down the corners of his mouth, but again, the emotion doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Thank you.” Then, after the appropriate amount of respectful silence, he shifts gears. “So, tell me, Dani, what is it that you enjoy?”
“She’s a photographer,” Ben answers for me, his tone indulgent as he meets my eyes.
I glare at him as if he’s given up my darkest of secrets, but I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“She’s actually quite good,” he adds, turning to face Mikhail.
My grin widens as warmth floods me at my brother’s compliment. And when I turn to look at Mikhail as well, I find his cold eyes watching me once more. A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me as if I’ve plunged head-first into an ice bath.
I can’t quite put a finger on what disturbs me so deeply about Ben’s older friend, but I don’t like the way he looks at me. It’s cold and calculating, and at the same time, a dark desire flickers in the black depths of his gaze.
The conversation gradually shifts back to politics, and I’m mercifully allowed to step out of the spotlight. I focus intently on my dinner, only half listening to the enthusiastic exchange between Mikhail and my dad.
Mother chimes in every now and again with some flattering compliment to one of Mikhail’s thriving restaurants or the wonderful impact he seems to be having on Ben. I bristle when she hints that perhaps Mikhail could help transform me as well.
That draws the first laugh from the emotionless businessman I’ve heard, and the oily, polished sound sends a shiver down my spine. I look up at the chilling sound, goosebumps bursting across my arms despite my oversized sweater dress that covers them. And when I meet his eyes, they burn into mine with growing anticipation.
The end of the night could not come soon enough. And when dinner’s finally done, I follow my parents reluctantly back into the entry to walk my brother and his guest to the door.
