The realization should concern me. Should trigger alarms about divided loyalties and complicated dynamics. Instead, it feels inevitable. Like we've been moving toward this moment since Victoria walked down that aisle in white lace and defiance.
Ramiz approaches with the confidence of a man on his own territory. He settles into the chair across from Zakhar and me, his smile too wide and too sharp.
"You interfered in my business, Severyn," he says, voice carrying false friendliness that doesn't reach his eyes. "When you married the girl."
"How is my marriage your business?" I ask, keeping my tone level. Conversational. The calm before violence.
"Arthur Ainsley owed me a debt." Ramiz swirls whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid catch light. "By marrying his daughter, you tied my hands. No one dares move against the Pakhan's wife's father. You knew that when you made your arrangement. Very clever. Very inconvenient for me."
He leans forward slightly, smile sharpening into a blade.
"But you should ask yourself, Maksim. Can you protect everyone all the time?"
The threat is veiled but unmistakable.
My hand tightens on the whiskey glass. The crystal warms under my grip, and I imagine it shattering. Imagine using the shards on the man sitting across from me with that poisonous smile.
I open my mouth to respond when the door to the den opens.
Victoria walks in.
Every conversation in the room stops. Every head turns.
She's a vision in emerald silk, the dress clinging to curves that make my mouth go dry despite the fury burning in my chest. Her dark hair falls over one bare shoulder, and her expression carries that particular combination of boredom and command that she's mastered.
Alexei moves first, instinct taking over. He straightens from the pool table, takes a step toward her.
But she's already moving.
I watch her plaster on a smile I recognize as completely fake. She strides across the room with confidence that looks effortless, heading directly toward me.
When she reaches my chair, she doesn't stop.
She sits on my lap.
The contact is immediate and overwhelming. Her body settles against mine, warm and soft and impossibly present. My pulse accelerates. Every nerve ending lights up. Every instinct that was screaming for violence redirects into awareness equally primitive and far more complicated.
She takes the whiskey glass from my hand with elegant fingers. Brings it to her lips. Takes a long sip that makes her throat work and her eyes water slightly.
Victoria doesn't drink. I know this. Have watched her carry the same champagne flute through entire events without taking a single sip.
Which means this is a message.
She pouts, the expression artfully constructed, and trails her fingers across my chest over my shirt. The touch burns through fabric.
"Daddy," she says, voice carrying a whine that's pure performance. "I'm bored. When can we go home? When we get home I’m going to—"
She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her perfume cutting through cigar smoke and male aggression.
"It's a trap," she whispers, so quiet only I can hear. "You're in danger. We need to leave. Now."
The words hit like ice water down my spine.
I scan the room with new eyes, registering positions I should have noticed before. Ramiz's men aren't scattered randomly. They're positioned strategically. Blocking exits. Creating zones of control. The casual gathering is actually tactical placement.
We walked into an ambush dressed as hospitality.
My gaze finds Zakhar first. Then Alexei. A single look passes between us, the communication of men who've survived together long enough to speak without words.
