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I won’t stop harassing the paramedics until they tell me the only two bodies carried out were male.
The relief that sweeps over me is more enervating than reassuring. It takes the strength out of my legs, I have to sit down.
“More of Sabrina’s work?” Jasper mutters, surveying the wreckage of the buildings.
“Why would she burn the lab? Krystiyan was already dead. And who were the men in there with her?”
Jasper shrugs.
“Assistants?” he guesses.
The explanation comes the next day when we’re summoned to the Bolshoi Theater.
This is where the High Table meets, or where they used to meet with regularity when they were at the height of their power. Now Ivan has abdicated, Abram Balakin retired, Danyl Kuznetsov is dead, and Savely Kika is in prison.
I’m not stupid enough to think that means they’re impotent now.
Animals are most vicious when wounded.
Jasper accompanies me through the long tunnels beneath the theater in which the many ballerinas scurry back and forth, skinny to the point of emaciation in their tights and battered shoes, their hair scraped up into excruciating buns atop their heads. The air smells of wax and sweat, and fresh paint from the stage sets.
Jasper is on edge, even though Yuri is meeting us here. He keeps reaching inside his jacket to touch the handle of his gun.
“Don’t do that once we’re upstairs,” I warn him.
We take the elevator to the top floor.
The private suites have a view down to the stage—not that there’s any performances this early in the afternoon. Perhaps a rehearsal. I doubt thepakhanspay attention either way. None of them are patrons of the arts, unless you count fucking the ballerinas.
Yuri Koslov is already inside the suite, spearing shrimp from a seafood tower with Foma Kushnir. Foma gives me a cold nod, which I return with even less enthusiasm. In the Petrovs’ worst and lowest moment, Foma stormed our monastery and tried to kill my father. I’d like to take that shrimp prong and put it through his eye.
Yuri’s lieutenant Rafail Wasyl sits against the window, watching the door. I don’t acknowledge him at all.
Yakim Dimka is here, and Serafim Isidor. Also Nikolai Markov.
Markov is tall and dark-haired like his daughters. We eye each other warily. My deal with Neve fell through once Ilsa and Sabrina defected. No doubt Nikolai is aware his youngest daughter stole a king’s ransom in raw materials from me. I’m curious to see what he’ll say about it.
Serafim Isidor begins the meeting. Though there’s no head of the Bratva, Serafim is the senior member of the High Table, both in age and tenure. He’s bald and barrel-chested, with a beak of a nose, cheekbones like hatchet strikes, and a mouth that turns down at the corners. Having sat with him in a sauna once, I know he’s covered in tattoos from wrist to neck beneath his starched white shirt.
Without preamble, he fixes me with his dark, beady eyes, saying, “Are you sheltering Sabrina Gallo?”
This is not what I expected. I look at all the stony faces staring back at me before replying, “No.”
“Were you aware that she destroyed Dimka’s restaurant?”
“I heard there was a fire. How do you know it was Sabrina?”
“Employees saw her leaving through the restaurant after the explosion,” Dimka says.
“Where is she now?” I demand, eagerly.
“That’s what we’re asking you,” Isidor scowls.
“Last I knew, she was with Ilsa Markov.” I throw a look at Nikolai, who has remained silent and impassive.
“Ilsa returned home,” Nikolai says. “She doesn’t know where Sabrina Gallo has gone.”
I don’t like that at all.
