Gustav side-eyes me and stills.
His jaw flexes, and for a second, I think I’ve broken through his frosty exterior by simply holding his hand. Then, he leans close.
“Have you started your Russian language class, yet?”
“No.”
“Zhal.Bezhat— slovo-to prostoye,” he says, eyes narrowing.
“Huh?” I ask.
“I said it’s a shame.Bezhatis a simple word.”
I scrunch my nose, confused.
Gustav picks up his glass. Finishes it. Then, without warning, my husband rises from his chair, says something in Russian to Petyr in a steady tone, and the two of them walk out together.
He doesn’t look at me. He does not say he’ll be back. He does not touch me as he passes.
He just leaves.
I stare at his empty chair for a second, torn between getting up to follow and staying put. My instinct, the American part of me raised on romantic comedies and equal partnerships, screams go after him and demand an explanation.
Then I look at Keira.
Petyr is her husband, and she remains seated. Calm. Composed. Fork in hand, as if nothing is amiss. She notices my hesitation out of the corner of her eye and gives the slightest shake of her head.
Stay.
I copy her. My spine straightens, my hands return to my fork, and I pretend my heart didn’t just sink into my stomach.
A few minutes pass. People resume eating. Vodka is poured again. A low hum of conversation returns, this time heavier. The men switch into even faster Russian, maybe freed by the absence of their boss.
Then a chair scrapes.
One of the enforcers near the end of the table stands. He is massive, even compared to the others. Beefy shoulders stretching his dress shirt, neck thick, jaw hidden under a dark beard. He shrugs off his jacket with deliberate slowness and says something in Russian in a carrying voice.
The women in the room react instantly.
Chairs push back. Forks clatter against plates. Every woman rises and steps away from the table with an urgency that sends a chill through me. Keira’s reaction is so fast her fork actually drops from her hand.
I rise halfway, confused, about to follow them.
A hand clamps around my wrist.
I jerk, twisting to look at the man gripping me. Another enforcer with cold eyes and a gleam that tells me he finds all of this entertaining. He says something in Russian, tone amused.
“What are you doing?” I demand, trying to pull free. “Let go of me.”
He just laughs and tightens his fingers around my wrist. It hurts. A flush of outrage rises to my cheeks. I look to Keira. She stands near the doorway with the other wives, eyes wide, throat working.
“What is happening?” I ask her, voice sharper now. “Keira. Translate.”
Her lips part. For a moment, she looks like she might step forward. Instead, she whispers, “I am so sorry,” and her expression folds into something that guts me. Guilt. Pity. Resignation.
Ice sluices through my veins.
The giant enforcer at the head of the table loosens his belt with one measured pull. The leather hisses against the loops. The sound makes my stomach flip.
