He stops a few feet away. His gray eyes drag across my body, my flushed face, my reddened cheek, the broken plates near my knees. His gaze returns to mine, sharp enough to cut.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost mild, but threaded with disdain.
“I didnotwant an American wife. Mother chose you.”
The words punch the air from my chest. My mouth parts, unable to process the blow.
He steps closer.
“Too unrefined,” he continues. “Raised to believe her opinion matters. Always speaking. Always inserting herself. Foolish enough to touch another man. A prisoner, no less.”
I flinch. “Gustav, that’s not fair. I didn’t mean—”
He claps his hands, loud enough to echo off the walls. “And there it is. That mouth. That need to argue back. HowfuckingAmerican.”
The men murmur in agreement. A few chuckle. My throat tightens as hot tears push to the surface. I shake my head, mouthing,I’m sorry. I want to beg. I want to defend myself. I also want to disappear.
Gustav steps directly in front of me. The table’s edge presses into the backs of my thighs. I feel tiny compared to him. Breakable.
He lifts one large hand and traces the welt on my cheek with a featherlight stroke. My breath catches. Not because it hurts, but because the gentleness is somehow worse.
He glares at the enforcers. “Who did this?”
The belt wielding man stiffens and immediately bows his head. “Boss, me. The lesson—”
Gustav’s arm moves faster than sight. The dagger he hurls slams into the wall beside the man’s skull, so close the blade bites a strand of his hair. The man jerks sideways, eyes wide.
Gustav roars, “I said no one touches my wife!” His voice rattles the glasses on the table. “Scare her, yes. Break her Westernized spirit, yes. But mark her? Harm her? You dare?”
My heart slams against my ribs. He is furious. He draws a gun from his waistband with a tic in his cheek that signals the madness is crowding him.
I reach out on instinct and grab his forearm.
“Gustav. Stop. Please.” My voice shakes, but I don’t let go. “He shouldn’t have hit me, but... killing him is not an eye for an eye—”
Which is true, and a sacred rule of mafia law.
He rounds on me so fast the blood drains from my face. His eyes burn with shock and anger, as if my interference is a deeper betrayal than the lash.
“You question me?Again.” His voice is low, dangerous, and disgusted.
All eyes swing to me. The room holds its breath.
He turns his head slightly, says something sharp and rapid in Russian. I recognize none of it, except the tone. It is a command.
Two men step forward at once.
Before I can react, they seize me — one from each side — and bend me forward over the table. My palms slap against spilled drink. My chest and dress soak in the cold liquid. My breath stutters in my throat. They hold me down, bent over, cheek held flat on the table.
A gasp tears from me. “Gustav—”
He stands behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body against the back of my legs. His breathing is controlled, but the darkness radiating off him is unmistakable. Thick. Hungry. Wrathful.
He speaks in English this time, every word precise.
“You will not correct me. You will not interfere when I give punishment. You will not tell me when to kill or when to spare.” A pause. His fingers stroke the round curve of my hip, deceptively soft. “You think you know this world, moyá mishka. You do not.”
I blink rapid tears, hands clutching the tablecloth.
