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“I can’t be the future on my own,” I speak softly but firmly. “Nikolai must play his part.”
“Of course.” His brown eyes twinkle when he looks at me. “Let’s not keep the others waiting.”
My gaze scans the interior of this breathtaking mansion, and I’m stunned by the collection of rare artworks on the wall. Centuries-old paintings that no doubt belong in a museum but somehow have found their way into a private collection. I put my eyes back into my head and hope I haven’t made myself look like an amateur by gawking. I look at Nikolai, who has barely lifted his gaze to the artwork on the walls.
A guard opens a door for us, and I’m allowed to enter first. I keep my composure as I eye the two men seated at a big carved table in what must be a dining room. They stand as I enter. The man at the head of the table is older and thinner, and his white hair barely covers his scalp.
Just as Nikolai said, Radomil Sorokin doesn’t smile like Popov, and his steel blue eyes pierce into me, seeking my depths for weakness.You won’t find any today, old man.
The other man with dark hair pulled back to show a distinct scar is Dmitri Chuikov. He’s about the same age as Nikolai, which means he must have the same brash ego that a pakhan requires to survive. I remember them both vaguely, and I nod to them as if I could never forget.
“Zdravstvuyte.”Sorokin approaches first and bows over my outstretched hand.
“Zdravstvuyte,”I reply, noting the looks of subtle surprise, but I don’t waste time gloating about how well Dominika has taught me to speak a few words of Russian.
Dmitri repeats Sorokin’s polite gesture, adding a pat to Nikolai’s shoulders. Carefully, I take my seat. Once I’m seated, the rest of them sit down as well. I know I’m being included, but I’m also aware that it’s not Nikolai who is being scrutinized.
It’s me. Right now, my loyalty will be questioned.
As I gaze at the three men across from me, I’m reminded of another time when three men interrogated me.
That was a different Eden,I remind myself.
A round loaf of bread is brought out atop an embroidered cloth, and there’s a hole in the middle filled with salt. Each man rips a piece and scoops a generous heap before taking a bite. The plate is then passed to me, and I mirror their action.
“Salt and bread is a tradition,” Dmitry explains to me as I chew. “A gesture of goodwill.”
“Perhaps we should discuss business over a meal.” Popov smiles. “The steak is good here, and it would be rude of Radomil Ivanovich not to share.”
“I’m sure Nikolai Gennadyevich is not here for steak,” Dmitri replies as Sorokin scowls at the expense.
“Yebats’,” Sorokin sighs. “I suppose you still want the wagyu, Anatoli Pavlovich?”
Popov laughter means a definiteyes. I don’t dare tell them the smell of meat has been hell on my stomach since my pregnancy. With the exception of a few bites here and there, I’ve almost given meat up. But accepting their hospitality is more than good manners. If I have to eat a whole cow to win these men over, then I’ll make sure to finish every bite.
An impromptu meal is served, and thankfully, there’s a choice of what to eat, including a generous salad with no meat.
Nikolai barely touches the food on his plate as he launches into why we are here. He looks relaxed as he speaks, and the serious topic sounds as commonplace as discussing the weather.
“I’m requesting no interference from the other Bratvas in my affairs in the city,” Nikolai states clearly. “I’m aware that we have already infringed upon other’s territories.” He nods toward Dimitri. “But the Starukhins’ future plans will resolve this infringement quickly.”
Sorokin eyes me. “You trust your future wife a great deal, Nikolai Gennadyevich, to discuss such delicate matters openly in front of her.”
“I chose Eden to be my wife for many reasons …”
“Is that right?” Sorokin stares at me but not in a way that men have in the past. He’s trying to guess if I am worth fighting over. If I’m worthy of being the Bratva’s Helen of Troy. He throws down the gauntlet, and I pick it up.
“Nikolai asked me to marry him with a ring, not a shotgun,” I reply in an even tone. “We have agreed our marriage will be an advantage, and it’s based on a solid partnership.”
“Partnership.” Sorokin steeples his fingers. “Yet, your father abandoned us, Eden Zakharovna.” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “He chose your mother’s Italian Mafia over his own. What makes you different?”
“I am not my father.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “My loyalties lie with the Bratva, with my husband, and I am committed to finding a way to end this feud for good. I want what he wants.”
“Could you kill him?” Dmitri’s cool voice interrupts the brewing argument. He watches me with an unblinking gaze and waits for an answer. The air in the room vibrates with tension, but I refuse to let it throw me.
“To save my baby and to save Nikolai. Yes.”
I don’t know if I would do it, but anger spoke for me. I’ve come to accept that I’m a part of Nikolai, which means being a part of the Starukhin Bratva.
