“Paid,” I cut in. “Eight million wired at seven this morning. Vadim confirmed. Your father is free.”
She huffs a humorless laugh. “Free to drink himself to death.”
“Not my problem,” I say. “I bought you, not his sobriety.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Da.” I sip my tea. “But I’m the bastard who kept your brother breathing and your father out of a shallow grave. Don’t forget that when you decide to test the fences.”
She doesn’t thank me. Good. I’d respect her less if she did.
“The Chechens are coming to dinner,” I tell her. “My cousin, Dmitri Volkov, a couple of lieutenants, Vadim. They’ll be polite. They’ll stare at you. Dmitri will flirt.”
“I won’t flirt back,” she snaps.
“You might,” I say. “You’re smart enough to use whatever weapons you have. But listen carefully, solnyshko—the moment he starts talking about saving you from me, you shut that shit down.”
“Why?” she challenges. “Afraid your cousin will steal your bride?”
“I’m afraid you’ll believe him,” I answer. “Dmitri doesn’t save things. If you go with him, I’ll kill you both.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
* * *
By afternoon the temporary lab is up.
My mother’s old sitting room now smells like chemicals and fresh paint, ventilation bolted over wallpaper she picked out twenty-five years ago. Benches are in. Equipment is halfinstalled. It’s enough for Anya to start making lists and telling my men what they did wrong.
Luka calls as I’m going through the evening security plan.
“Boss,” he drawls over the radio. “Your wife just tried to amputate her own hand.”
I’m on my feet before I process the words. “What happened?”
“Relax. Tiny cut. Broken beaker. She’s bleeding all over the benches and swearing at my guys in three languages. Thought you might want to see this.”
I’m already walking.
When I hit the lab door, I smell blood and ethanol. My shoulders go tight.
Anya is at the counter, pale, lips pressed together, trying to wrap gauze around her own palm one-handed. There’s a red streak across the white surface, drops spattering onto the floor.
“Stop,” I say.
“I’ve got it,” she snaps without looking at me.
“Spill control yes,” I say. “Hand no. Come here.”
She hesitates, then stalks over, jaw clenched, hand held out as she’d rather stick it in the fire than let me touch it.
The cut runs across her palm. Clean, deep enough to need attention. Blood still oozes slowly and darkly.
“Come to my study.” I curl my fingers around her wrist. “I don’t keep first aid in the lab. We’ll rectify this mistake.”
“I can walk,” she grumbles.
