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“Always white,” she declares. “Fuck red wine.”
Unsure how to respond to this heresy, the waiter lets out a nervous chuckle, then turns to me. “And you, sir?”
“The same.”
I don’t share Sabrina’s prejudice against red wine, but I want to drink what she’s drinking.
The silence that follows the waiter’s departure could be awkward. Not for me—I’ve never felt awkward in my life—but perhaps for Sabrina.
She leans back in her chair, arm slung over the back rungs, legs apart, though not quite enough to show her underwear—deliberately irreverent. I assume she wore her uniform to show me how little effort she’s putting into this meeting.
If she were polite, she would ask after my uncle.
Instead, she asks, “What’s going on in Moscow?”
“You’ll have to be more specific. It’s a big city.”
Sabrina lets out an impatient snort. “Ivan Petrov has moved his holdings to America. Your father took control of St. Petersburg. I’m wondering who’s going to fill the vacuum in Moscow? Especially now that Danyl Kuznetsov is dead.”
My hand twitches under the table—with excitement, not irritation.
“It sounds like you know more about it than I do.”
“The fuck I do.” Sabrina narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like me playing games.
The Petrovs have kept St. Petersburg as our stronghold for the last twenty years. Still, keeping a foothold in Moscow is essential, as it’s the seat of the High Table. My father sent me there to secure our place. I intend to do much more than that.
“MaybeI’lltake Moscow,” I say idly.
“How much of it?”
“All of it.”
Sabrina bites the edge of her lip, grinning.
“What about the Markovs?”
Now it’s me who raises an eyebrow. The Markovs own the largest territory in Moscow. Nikolai Markov has only daughters. The High Table will not readily accept a female heir, with only with her sister as lieutenant. Nor will the otherPakhans.Neve Markov will be lucky to last a year.
The arrival of the wine interrupts us.
Sabrina seizes her glass, taking an eager draught before I can propose a toast.
“Pa-yé-kha-lee,” I say drily, holding up my wine.
Sabrina clinks hers against mine so robustly that she almost cracks the glass.
“Pa-yé-kha-lee,” she imitates with surprisingly good inflection.
I take a sip.
“B’lyad!”I scoff. “It’s pure sugar!”
“I like my wine to taste like cotton candy,” Sabrina laughs.
It’s sweet, but on second taste, not cloying. Actually, clear and refreshing, with a tart pop and slight carbonation. Sabrina grins as I drink a little more.
“You like it,” she says.
