My stomach drops. The man who wants to kill me is on the other side of the wall.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you,” Vitaly says.
A muffled sound follows. Not a shout. Not a struggle. A soft pop and then a heavy slide. A body meets carpet. The silence after is the wrong kind. Fyodor is dead. Has to be.
Yuri startles at a tremor only babies feel. He unlatches to protest and then latches again when I murmur his name. Xander kicks and grumbles. I cue the bottle back into his mouth and pat his leg with my knuckles.
I do not cry. I cannot. And I cannot let them cry either.
Vitaly will hear.
The door next door opens. Footsteps cross carpet. The door closes.
I wait three more slow breaths because fear begs me to freeze. Then I tuck myself away, fix my dress, and ease Yuri into the stroller. I settle Xander next to him. I check the straps with hands that want to shake. The buckles click. I open my door and step into the hall.
The corridor is empty. The air has that hollow feel a hallway gets after something heavy leaves it. I press my palm to the door of the room next door. It gives.
The room is a twin of mine. Same couch. Same lamp. Different air. Fyodor lies on the rug by the chair. One hand is close to his throat. His eyes are open. A red hole near his heart has ruined his suit. Keeping one hand on the stroller, I take one step in andone step back. I do not touch him. I do not call for help. I look once more to make sure my brain is telling the truth. It is.
Two words flash in my mind.
The goblet.
I move. Not a run. If I run, I could trigger a panic.
A quick, controlled walk that looks like a happy bride rejoining her guests with her children. Marcus steps into my path two corners later. His eyes go to my face. He does not ask out loud. He turns and matches my pace. Tanner leaves his post by the window and falls in behind us. Two more from Roman’s team drift to cover the far end of the hall. A rival’s bodyguard watches us pass and lifts his chin at Marcus. Marcus does not return it.
Roman stands with a man whose laugh is too loud. A server approaches the dais with the wedding goblet on a small tray because someone insisted on tradition. It catches the light. The room anticipates a toast. My lungs seize.
I keep my face arranged for photographs. I smile prettily at anyone who looks my way, and at anyone who coos toward my sleeping sons. I touch a woman’s elbow in passing and thank her for coming. I nod at a man who wants to be seen near me. I never take my eyes off Roman.
I reach him as the server dips the tray. I place my hand on Roman’s wrist like a wife asking for a word. He looks down at my fingers, and then at our sons, and then at my face. His brows relax by a fraction that only I would see.
“Everything all right?” he asks for the benefit of the men near us.
“Yes, of course,” I say in the same tone. I lean in so my lips are near his ear. I keep my smile in place. I whisper only what heneeds. “Do not drink. The goblet is poisoned. The dose is already on the cup.”
His pulse jumps once under my fingers. He does not look at the tray. He does not look at the doors. He keeps his face smooth and his posture easy.
“One more photograph before we toast.” He turns to the server with a pleasant nod. “Set the cup aside. My wife and I will use water.”
The server stutters. He recovers. He slides the tray back. Marcus has already stepped up to intercept. Tanner is a shadow in motion, peeling away to handle the piece I cannot watch. The band plays on. Guests keep talking. No one notices that the center of the room just shifted.
Roman lifts a plain glass and raises it to the room. “To our guests,” he says. “To quiet nights and long, happy marriages.” We toast, and so does everyone else, none the wiser.
We pose for one shot and then I use my hand on Roman’s sleeve to steer us three steps away from the table. It looks like affection. It is strategy.
He keeps his voice low under the hum. “How did you know?”
I don’t want to say it, but I must. “When I was in the sitting room, I overheard a conversation between Fyodor and Vitaly, discussing poisoning us with the goblet.”
He arches a brow at that.
“They were next door. Fyodor…served his purpose to Vitaly by getting the poison into the cup, and Vitaly shot him. His body is still in the room. I got here as fast as I could.”
“You did well,” he says. He does not change expression. He looks past me at nothing in particular. He nods toward a man as if he agrees with a story he did not hear. His hand covers mine for one second, then lifts. “Stay with me.”
“I will.” I tip my chin like I am agreeing to try another canapé. I keep my smile steady for the guests who are watching my mouth. I know how to act normal when the world tips. I learned that a long time ago.
