Her smile never falters as she takes the spoon herself and serves Petyr, then Gustav, then the other senior men, following some invisible hierarchy I do not know.
She returns the spoon to me last, murmuring quietly in English, “Wives serve their own table in order of standing. You start with your husband, then the most senior, then the others.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, cheeks burning.
“Better to learn here than when dining with other bratvas,” she replies softly, still smiling as if we are discussing the weather.
I serve Gustav some dish I don’t recognize, trying not to shake. His knuckles brush the edge of the plate as I set it down. He does not say thank you. He does not look at me. He just picks up his fork and continues talking to Petyr like I am a ghost sitting beside him.
The boy on the cross flickers through my mind like a flash of lightning. The way I held the cup to his cracked lips. How I palmed his cheek. The way Gustav looked at me afterward, hurt and fury twisted, it still haunts me.
I try to remind myself that he saved me from the river and rival mob. That he liked me once, or at least said he did.
Right now, he looks like the kind of man who hates me.
An Irishman, perhaps a guest, speaks in English, discussing a shipment route through Long Beach docks. So-Cal. That’s my world. Port delays, union dramas, the way customs works in California. Dad knows well.
It slips out before I can catch it.
“You should avoid the west terminal,” I say, leaning slightly toward Gustav. “Inspections have increased there. The east side has faster clearance, especially if you—”
The table goes quiet.
The man who mentioned Long Beach stares at me slowly, then at my husband.
Keira inhales sharply through her nose. Her nails press into my thigh under the table. That little pinch tells me everything:
Mistake three.
I have stepped into business. In front of the men. For them, I guess I might as well have taken Gustav’s seat.
I recover, forcing a small smile. “Sorry. Habit. My father handled ports in the States, so I heard too much dinner talk growing up. I’ll stay out of it.”
The captain chuckles, somewhat amused, but the tension does not fully loosen. The wives’ gazes flick between Gustav and me. Watching. Measuring.
Keira leans over as the men resume their conversation.
“Never correct or suggest business in front of them,” she whispers low. “If you see danger, you tell Gustav later. Alone. Let him decide what to do.”
I swallow, nodding. “Okay. Thank you.”
But what I really want to say is: “Thank you for setting back women a hundred years.”
This sucks, but Keira is trying to help. Maybe I misjudged her. Maybe she is dangerous and manipulative, but right now, she is also the only woman in this room keeping me from being corrected by Gustav, which would be much worse.
Gratitude loosens my chest.
Okay, Peighton. Nothing has worked. Maybe touching him will.
If he won’t speak to me, then I’ll force the connection another way.
Under the table, I reach for Gustav’s hand, hoping to bridge the gap between us. My fingers thread with his.
I hold my breath.
Chapter 19
Peighton
