They both tense. Ready.
I shift Victoria gently off my lap, rising to my feet with controlled grace. She stands beside me, and I can feel the tremor in her body that she's hiding beneath perfect posture.
"Ramiz," I say, keeping my voice pleasant. "Thank you for your hospitality. But we need to leave now. My wife has made me a proposal I can't refuse."
His smile sharpens further. Becomes a weapon.
"So soon?" He sets down his whiskey glass with deliberate care, the crystal ringing against wood. "We haven't had a chance to really talk. About the future. About arrangements. About howthings will work now that you've inserted yourself into my sphere of influence."
The menace underneath the polite words is unmistakable.
I take Victoria's hand. Her fingers are cold despite the warmth of the room, and they curl around mine with desperate strength.
"Another time," I say, already moving toward the door.
Zakhar and Alexei fall into formation. Protective. Prepared.
We're halfway to the exit when two of Ramiz's men shift position. Block the doorway with bodies that promise violence.
I stop. Turn slowly. Victoria's hand is still in mine, and I feel her pulse racing against my palm.
"Do we have a problem?" I ask, voice dropping into cold precision.
The room goes still. Every man frozen in place, waiting to see which way this fractures.
Ramiz stands. Adjusts his suit jacket. His smile is poison wrapped in silk.
"No problem at all, Severyn." The pause stretches too long. "We'll talk. Soon."
The promise in those words is clear. This isn't over. This is postponed.
He makes a small gesture. His men step aside.
We move through the doorway into the hallway beyond, and I don't let myself believe we're safe yet. Don't let my guard drop or my grip on Victoria's hand loosen.
The music from the party pulses through the walls. We head toward the front entrance, toward escape and the SUVs waiting beyond.
A man steps into our path.
Tall. Around my age. Dark hair and darker eyes that carry intelligence mixed with danger.
"I wouldn't recommend the front exit," he says, voice calm. Too calm for the situation. "It might be... crowded. Better to choose an alternative route."
The implication is clear. Whatever Ramiz planned, it's waiting at the front door.
"Who are you?" Zakhar asks, his hand moving subtly toward the concealed knife.
"Luan Krasniqi," the man says. "Ramiz's son."
The admission should make him an enemy. Should make this another trap.
But his expression suggests otherwise.
"Why are you helping us?" I ask, skepticism sharp in every word.
Luan's gaze shifts to Victoria. Holds there for a moment. Then returns to me.
"Let's just say I understand what it's like to have a shitty father," he says. "Your men are waiting at the east gate. I've already sent word. Follow me."
