"See?" he shouts. "She can't even serve coffee properly! This is who you protect? Who you choose?"
"She doesn't belong here!"
"Your father would be disgusted!"
The words hit me like a punch. I snatch napkins, pressing them desperately against the stain, as if that could erase theaccident. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I… I didn’t mean—please, I’m so sorry?—”
The silver-haired man pushes my hands away, face purple with rage. The room erupts around me, men shouting in Russian and English, all of it directed at me, about me, because of me.
I keep apologizing, keep trying to clean up the mess, but I'm only making it worse, spreading the stain, proving their point with every frantic movement.
This is it. This is the moment I prove them all right. The moment Ivan realizes they're right, that I'm more trouble than I'm worth, that keeping me means risking everything for someone who can't even serve coffee without fucking it up.
And the worst part? They're not wrong.
19
IVAN
Boris is screaming, coffee soaking through his suit, face that shade of purple that means a man's about to say something he'll regret. The other men are shouting too, voices overlapping in Russian and English, the room erupting.
But I don't flinch.
Before I can process what I'm feeling, I realize I'm smiling. Just slightly. But enough that I catch it. I bite it back, jaw locking. Doesn’t matter how fast I corrected it. The smile existed. And anyone who saw would know what it meant.
Is this how I think of Boris now? As entertainment? As some carnival act putting on a show for my amusement?
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
Lila is apologizing, frantic and mortified, pressing napkins against the stain like that'll somehow undo it. Her hands shake. Her voice breaks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to?—"
I study her face. The flush spreads down her neck as she avoids everyone’s eyes. Either she's the best actress I've ever seen, or she's actually devastated by what happened.
Boris looks at me, coffee dripping from his lap, humiliationwritten across every line of his weathered face. "See?" He gestures at her, at the mess, at everything. "She’s unfit for our world!"
The other men join in, a chorus of agreement. Voices rise. All of them are saying variations of the same thing—she doesn't belong, she's out of her depth, she's a liability.
They're right to be angry, technically. She interrupted our meeting and made a mess of things. All reasonable complaints. The kind of complaints my father would have agreed with.
But my father isn't here anymore.
Boris takes it further.
"Made a demonstration of how much of a stupid bitch she is."
The words hit a raw spot in my chest, tightening and burning until the feeling spreads like poison.
"Useless American whore who can't even?—"
My hand forms a fist at my side. I try to breathe through it, to think logically. To quell the rage threatening to break free.
Boris is a friend of my father.Wasa friend of my father. I've known him since I was a child, since I was ten years old. He is the traditional patriarch any Pakhan should aspire to be—strong, disciplined, respected by everyone. He taught me how to shoot. Showed me how to interrogate without leaving marks. Was there at my father's funeral, stone-faced and solid while I tried not to fall apart.
So why are his words making me this angry? Why does hearing him call her a bitch make me want to rip his throat out?
"—probably spreads her legs for anyone with a suit and a fat wallet, probably had half of Chicago between those thighs before you found her serving coffee like the worthless?—"
The fury builds. I can feel it in my jaw, my shoulders, the way my vision narrows to just Boris and his running mouth. My pulse pounds in my ears. My breathing gets shallow.
