Roman’s mouth finds my jaw. He is careful with the line of my scar even now. He knows I do not need that anymore. He gives it anyway. The crowd watches without staring. This is theater. Everyone is an extra until a spotlight hits. He kisses me like a man who does not think he could die tonight. He does it to sell a picture. He also does it because he wants to.
I let him. I sell it back.
If the knife is in the chair, I will feel it when I reach down. If it is not, Vitaly lied for sport. If it is not, he planned to kill everyone all along.
That thought eliminates all the others. I have to find the knife. I have to know he put it there. If he didn’t…if he planned to kill my family regardless of what I agreed to…
No. I can’t think like that. Not now. Not when this is so close to being over. I have one job. I am supposed to make Roman feel private in public. I am supposed to smile until the walls rise. I am supposed to reach under and close my hand on a handle and make the world ripple. I am supposed to do all of this without giving away that I am counting my own breaths so I do not pass out.
I put my lips to Roman’s ear and say the only thing I can say without lying. “You look good.”
“You look like the reason this place exists.” It would be a line if it came from any other man’s lips. But he means it, and that is worse.
Every compliment, every kiss—it’s all poison to my conscience.
He lifts his hand, and the room changes posture. People turn their bodies toward us by a degree. That is all it takes. They want to be seen being seen. He makes a small motion. Two men move a velvet rope and slide a low table away from the steps. No one approaches the stage unless invited. People like to think it is fear. It is design. He built this room to teach people how to behave in it.
My eyes catch a flash of white near the upper rail. Not a shirt. A bandage. The head above it has hair cut close. The posture is a story I know too well. I do not let my face change. I do not move my head. I keep my mouth on Roman’s and my hand on his tie and I let the corner of my vision do the rest. The man turns and the bandage vanishes. It could be a trick of light. It could be nothing.
It could be everything.
Vitaly would have a reason to wear a dressing. He would have earned it this week—too many fights, too many chances for someone to get a leg up on him. He’s never been afraid to get hurt. According to him, scars make a pakhan look more fearsome, so he welcomes them. It’s why he lets anyone get close enough to hurt him.
Underworld marketing.
My chest tightens. I loosen it by force. Roman’s hand slides under my hair and cups the back of my neck. He is still selling the picture. He is also checking my pulse. He can feel when I stiffen. I relax against him before he can read it as panic. I mouth his throat and think about nothing for two counts. Then reality rushes in again.
I try to put myself in Roman’s mind. He says he will kill his son. He says he has no choice. I believe him because I have seen his beliefs turn into action without a pause. I also know he is a father.
I try to imagine lifting my hand against my own child. My brain stops. It is like trying to breathe under ice. The body pauses and then thrashes. I cannot do it. I know I cannot. I would die for them. I could never harm them. The thought makes my stomach turn.
The thought of Roman not doing it makes my stomach turn worse.
“Slow,” I whisper into his skin. “Take your time.”
He hears the words I say and the ones I do not. He slows. His hand firms on my hip. He knows exactly how to make four minutes feel like twenty. He knows how to make a son who thinks he is smarter get impatient.
The slower we move, the longer this takes. The longer this takes, the more likely Vitaly will act out.
We fool around. I keep it within the bounds of what I can live with in front of all these eyes. Each kiss is guilt and love and sex in one bite. I put my mouth near his ear and talk without words. I move my fingers down his tie and stop where it is decent and then move back up. He slides his hand under the hem of my dress and rests it high on my thigh and leaves it there. The room reads the rest.
I am grateful for the light. The light protects me from my own fear. Darkness would swallow me whole right now. And privacy would be the death of Roman.
I think about the hidden knife. Tucked and waiting. It has to be there. There is no alternative. Something simple that would not be spotted in a sweep if the sweep was for what men expect. Vitaly likes to think he is a magician. He’s a boy with a trick he learned from watching other men.
I slide my palm down the outside of the arm as if I need to steady myself. My fingers drift under by a hair. Wood. Metal. Nothing else. Not yet.
Where the fuck is the knife?
A waiter glides up the left side of the stage with two glasses. He keeps his eyes down. He does not look at me. He sets the glasses on the small table by the step and vanishes. The drinks will not be touched. We are not here to drink.
I force myself to look away from the rail where I think I saw white. I scan the floor again. Two men by a St. Andrew’s cross. One looks up too often. One never looks up. That pair is nothing.
A trio by the bar leaning in. The woman in the lace mask returns with her man and ties him to a low piece of furniture I cannot see from here. They are here to forget the outside world. They are not my problem.
A couple waves at the throne and waits for their wave to be returned. Roman does not oblige. He nods once. They look relieved. They will talk about that nod for a week.
I breathe and slow my own pulse. I try to thread a needle. If I draw this out too long, Roman will decide to raise the walls because that is how this play goes. He will do it for theater and to bait a killer.
