“You think I shot myself in the shoulder for sympathy?”
“I think Americans are very good at creating stories that serve their purposes.”
The insult burns, but I force myself to stay calm. Getting emotional will only prove their point about American women being too weak for serious business.
“Stories,” I repeat slowly. “Like the story that your men were in that restaurant for innocent reasons?”
“My men were there for dinner.”
“With concealed weapons and coordinated positions? That’s an interesting dinner party.”
Dimitri’s smile falters slightly. “We live in dangerous times. Protection is necessary.”
“Protection from what? The salmon special?”
A few chuckles ripple around the table from the non-Russian attendees. Good. I’m winning the room.
“Mrs. Moretti,” Boris interrupts, “you speak our language, yes? Russian?”
“I do.”
“Then you understand cultural differences. In Russia, we do not send women to handle men’s business.”
“In America, we send the most qualified person regardless of gender.”
“And you believe you are qualified to negotiate with men who have killed for less than what your husband owes us?”
The threat is clear but carefully worded. He’s testing my reaction, seeing if I’ll fold under pressure or stand my ground.
“I believe I’m qualified to recognize bullshit when I hear it,” I reply calmly. “Your nephew wasn’t in that restaurant for dinner. He was there to kill my husband. The fact that he’s dead instead is unfortunate but not unexpected.”
Boris’s face darkens. “You speak carelessly about the dead.”
“I speak honestly about attempted murderers.”
“Enough,” Alaric cuts in before the verbal sparring can escalate further. “We’re here to discuss territorial boundaries, not relitigate past events.”
“Are we?” Dimitri pulls out a manila folder thick with documents. “Because I believe we’re here to discuss your son.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Dante. They’re going to discuss Dante.
“My son is dead,” Alaric states flatly.
“Is he?” Boris produces a series of photographs, spreading them across the table like playing cards. “These were taken in Sacramento last week. Portland three days ago. San Francisco yesterday.”
The photos are grainy surveillance shots, taken from a distance with telephoto lenses. They show a man with dark hair and Dante’s general build walking through hotel lobbies, eating at restaurants, and getting into cars. The face is never completely clear, but the resemblance is unmistakable.
“Could be anyone,” I say, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
“Could be,” Dimitri agrees. “But there are witnesses. Hotel staff who remember checking in someone with his name. Restaurant servers who served someone matching his description. All within the past month.”
“Impossible. We saw the crash site.”
“You saw a burned aircraft. Bodies were never recovered, yes? DNA evidence was…inconclusive.”
The words hit like physical blows. No bodies. Inconclusive DNA. What if the unthinkable is actually possible?
“What do you want?” Alaric asks.
