“No.” I stand and stretch, working out the kinks in my neck. “I want to eat in the dining room like a normal person.”
“You’re not a normal person anymore.”
“I know. But I can pretend for one meal.”
Dinner is surprisingly pleasant. We talk about the contracts, about Klaus’s concerns, about expansion plans for the convenience stores. Normal conversation between two people who work together. No mention of forced marriages or dead ex-fiancés or fathers who sell their daughters.
“You’re good at this,” Alaric says over dessert.
“At what?”
“Business. Strategy. Reading people.” He takes a sip of wine. “Klaus trusted you more in one meeting than he’s trusted me in six months of negotiations.”
“I speak his language. Literally and figuratively.”
“It’s more than that. You understand what motivates people. What they need to hear.”
The compliment warms me more than the wine.
“Thank you. And thank you for throwing my father out. For letting me work instead of treating me like I’m made of glass.”
“You’re not made of glass.”
“No. But I’m not made of steel either.”
“Steel bends,” he says quietly. “Glass shatters. You’ve bent but never broken, no matter how much pressure they put on you.”
The words hit deeper than they should. I look down at my dessert, afraid of what he might see in my eyes.
That’s when Benedetto appears in the doorway, his face grim. “Boss, we have a problem.”
Alaric’s entire demeanor shifts. “What kind of problem?”
“It involves Russians and a lot of guns.”
My blood goes cold. Russians. Like the ones who kidnapped and tortured me.
“How many?” Alaric asks.
“Fifteen men were spotted at three different locations. Hotels, safe houses, known meeting spots.” Benedetto’s voice is all business. “They’re not trying to hide. They want us to know they’re here.”
“Petrov’s brothers?”
“Has to be. Word is they’re not happy about Viktor’s death.”
I watch this exchange with growing dread. The Petrovs. The same family that chained me to that chair and beat me for hours. They’re here for revenge.
“Options?” Alaric asks.
“Fight or negotiate,” Benedetto says. “Fighting means war. Negotiating means giving them something they want.”
“What do they want?”
“Compensation for Viktor. And probably the person responsible for his death.”
Alaric’s jaw tightens. “That would be me.”
“They know. But they also know taking you means taking on the entire Moretti family. They might settle for money and territory.”
