Boris’ jaw tightens, but he nods briefly as the smirking Albanians file out of the room.
“Mne zhal',I’m sorry Lucya,” he says. “Are you all right?”
“Spasibo, thank you for stepping in. I’m surprised your father still allows them entrance.”
“Not for much longer,” he says darkly, opening the door to the kitchen for me. “I’ll send Tomas out to help you with their meal.”
Tomas is the biggest sous chef in the kitchen and very handy with a knife. “Thank you again,” I sigh. “Hopefully, they’ll getbored and head back out to wreak havoc and sow discord on the streets of Boston.”
“Anywhere but here,” he agrees.
The meals Ghazaryan and his slimy henchmen ordered come up distressingly fast, and Tomas helps me load the two trays, holding one above his head. “Why don’t you organize the dishes on the tray stand and I’ll take the plates over to their table.”
This isn’t the first time Boris has had to send a burly sous chef out with a waitress, but I feel guilty that he disrupted the kitchen for me.
I should be better at handling idiots like these. I froze up like a coward when Ghazaryan grabbed me. Arina never lets handsy diners get this far. She would have been off that ape’s lap and making them all laugh by juggling the vodka glasses, or something. I have to be tougher than this.
The nightclub side is busy for a Thursday night, house music pulsing through the speakers, and the bar is three-deep in people trying to grab a drink. The Albanians are holding court in the VIP section, though I doubt those cheap bastards can afford the higher club membership. Whoever they’re meeting must have the VIP platinum card.
Tomas groans slightly as we head up the steep steps to the lounge. It’s designed for a view of the entire club, with comfortable leather furniture and showy crystal chandeliers that shouldn’t look right but do. There’s a private bar, and the man there nods to me. “I’ll set up a couple of stands for you.”
“Spasibo, thank you,” I say, looking around. The lounge is empty, aside from us and the five Albanians already leering at me.
“Girl!” Fisnik shouts. “Move your ass, we’re hungry.”
“Puta polla,fucking dick,” Tomas mutters.
“You have no idea,” I agree.
Pasting on a frozen smile as we approach the table, I notice one of the seats is empty, the glass in front of it half-empty. “Will your guest be ordering from the kitchen?”
“He won’t be staying,” Fisnik says, “you just focus on my needs.” His creepy sidekicks laugh like he’s said the most hilarious thing. One of them kicks out at Tomas when he tries to put their plate down.
“Get your fucking hands off my food!”
“Only the girl can serve us,” Fisnik sneers. “Get your ass back to the kitchen.”
Tomas’ grip on the next plate is tightening and I groan silently. If he dumps it over that slimebag, they’ll probably shoot him.
“Hey Tomas, I’ve got it,” I whisper, “don’t worry. The bartender’s here in case things get worse.”
“Define worse,” he hissed, glaring at the Albanians. Grudgingly leaving me, he heads back down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Two more plates to put down and the tray of cold smoked salmon and marinated mushrooms. Ask them if they need another drink. That’s all.
Like a drunken, horny barnacle, Fisnik’s arm goes around my waist as I put the last dish down. “Now, you’ll feed me.” He opens his mouth wide, wiggling his eyebrows and his breath reeked of garlic, tobacco, and unwashed teeth makes me gag.
“Are we doing this or are you too busy fucking with the waitstaff?”
I know that voice. Deep enough to vibrate in your bones, raspy with the rough undertone of a Russian accent.
Struggling off Fisnik’s lap, I turn around.
He’s a giant. Tall and broad and built like a mountain. Glacier blue eyes roam over my face for a moment before returning indifferently to the Albanians.
Checking his watch, Alexi Turgenev glares impatiently. “You have three minutes to meet me outdoors or I’ll be taking my product to the Baranauskas family.”
My mouth opens. “Al…” He’s already walking away.
