“Ms. Wilder,” Pavel says grandly when I introduce them. “You saved Sergei and gave us a headache to celebrate.”
She smiles politely. “I prefer to prevent mistakes, not cause them.”
Pavel laughs and offers her champagne. She declines without apology. Good. He always tests with vices first. She fails neither.
I watch how the crowd receives her. A few wives appraise her with quick glances. The men weigh her figure, then her presence. Maksim lingers at the edge of the bar, posture loose, eyes predatory. He ran docks in Odessa before he came to me with loyalty and scars. His talent for war outpaces his talent for restraint.
He drifts closer while I discuss a customs issue with two captains. “You brought a lawyer to a family night,” he sayscasually in Russian. “Is this a new fashion, Alexei, or should we be readying for a celebration?”
“Neither,” I reply without looking at him.
He gives a small snort, then lifts his chin toward Vivienne. “Pretty ornament. I thought you preferred knives to necklaces.”
“She is not an ornament.”
“What is she, then?”
“Mine to manage.”
He smirks, too sharp. “Careful, Brother. Pretty things distract.”
I turn then, slow and patient, until my eyes lock with his. “She is with me. Watch your mouth.”
The words fall soft; the warning is not. Maksim holds the look for a beat, then lifts his hands as if to show he is empty. He drifts away after that, taking his little storm with him.
Across the room Vivienne speaks with one of Pavel’s wives about a gala funding a hospital wing. She answers questions about court rhythms and never mentions the world under the floorboards. She blends where she needs to and remains apart where she must. I approve of both.
Later, Pavel insists on a toast. Crystal clinks. He thanks loyalty, prosperity, good health. The usual lies. I watch Vivienne watch us. She sees the hierarchy in the spacing, the power in where men stand, the distance that means more than words. Her eyes move from face to face, filing away small truths.
That gaze is a blade. It excites me and irritates me in equal measure.
When the party thins to a manageable hum, I nod for her to follow. We take the service elevator down past the wine cellar to the armory beneath the house. Concrete walls, low ceiling,racks of weapons. Clean, cold, clinical. She looks at the rows without speaking, then turns her attention to me.
“You’re going to explain why Maksim thinks I’m jewelry,” she says, tone even.
“He doesn’t think,” I reply. “He tests. So do I.”
“You got your answer earlier,” she says. “I amnotan ornament.”
“No, you’re not.” I open a locked cabinet and pull out a compact handgun, then a slim holster. I check the weight and rack the slide, then set both on the steel table between us. “Take it.”
She doesn’t reach for it immediately. Her eyes flick to my face, then back to the weapon. “What message am I sending if I walk upstairs with this in my purse?”
“That you remember where you stand. That you won’t be easy to steal or to threaten.”
“I thought you protected what was yours.”
I hold her stare. “I do. Take it anyway.”
She studies me for two beats, then picks up the pistol. Her hands are steady. She checks the chamber, tests the slide, keeps her finger off the trigger. Someone taught her the basics long before me. Interesting. I fit the holster into her hand next.
“Keep it high on the thigh under a dress, lower back under a coat,” I say. “Practice drawing from both. You’ll meet my trainer tomorrow at ten.”
“Mandatory?”
“Yes.”
She fits the holster around her thigh with the same neutral expression she uses when facing a judge. The strap kisses her skin; the weapon disappears under her hem when shestands. She moves once, twice, testing range. Nothing rides up. She’s a quick study.
