My brain does what it always does when the situation is overwhelming: registers details. A scar on the bald guy’s scalp. Prison ink on the knuckles of the thin man in the cheap suit.
Roman’s hand stays at the small of my back, steering me, and I hate that it helps. I hate that the solid weight of him behind me is the only thing keeping my knees from shaking.
“Roman.” Vadim doesn’t look up from his steak when we reach the head of the table. He saw us the second we walked in. He’s just making a point. “And our new bride. How radiant you look, Anya Volkova.”
The name still sits wrong in my ears. My mouth wants to say Morozova, and my throat locks around it like it’s become contraband.
“Spasibo,” I manage.
Roman pulls my chair out. His hand brushes the back of my shoulder as I sit, and I know it’s for the audience, but it still sends a hot little spike right down my spine.
Vadim raises his glass. “To family.” No one here means the same thing when they say that word.
We’re halfway through the first course when the Chechens arrive. The room doesn’t go quiet, exactly, but the tone shifts. Everyone sharpens. Conversation narrows. Roman’s hand, which has been resting on my thigh under the table, flexes just once.
The first men in are soldiers. I can tell by the way they move—like they expect incoming fire at any second. One keeps his hand inside his jacket the entire time, fingers no doubt wrappedaround a grip. Another has a face like someone took a knife to it and didn’t bother to stitch properly afterward. His left eye is clouded and useless. He sees me with the right one and grins, slow and lazy, showing three gold teeth.
I look away. Fast. Focus on my napkin. On my fork. On literally anything else.
Then the man they orbit steps through the door. Dmitri Volkov looks like every girl’s bad idea. Blond, but not soft. Amber eyes like Vadim’s, but warmer. Young, maybe thirty. Tall, but not in a heavy way like Roman. More like a weapon—lean muscle, tailored suit, easy smile that would probably make women in normal restaurants forget what they were mad about.
He looks straight at me first.
His gaze tracks me from head to toe, and it’s not subtle. He takes in the neckline of the dress, the way the silk clings to my hips, the necklace sitting heavy against my throat. It feels like he’s using fingers instead of eyes.
Roman goes very, very still beside me.
“Roman Viktorovich,” Dmitri says, tone warm, accent softening the Russian. “We finally meet again. And this must be your famous wife.”
He comes closer.
Roman stands automatically. The chair scrapes back; his hand leaves my thigh and drops out of sight. I imagine it hovering near his gun; I don’t have to look to know.
“This is Anya,” Roman says. His voice is flat. “My wife.”
“Charming.” Dmitri offers his hand to me.
It’s stupid how much that simple gesture makes my heart speed up. Not because I’m intimidated by one man with pretty eyes, but because every single set of eyes in the room is on us now.
If I refuse the offered hand, we start a problem. If I take it, we’re already in one.
I take it. His palm is warm. Grip firm. He holds just a second too long, and his thumb drags once across my knuckles in a stroke that is absolutely intentional.
“Welcome to the family, Anya,” he says, “If you ever need saving from the big bad wolf, you know who to ask.”
I pull my hand back before I can stop myself.
Roman’s fingers clamp onto my thigh under the table again the second I sit. Hard.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
Fuck you, I think, which apparently my body translates to clench harder around his hand, great idea.
Dinner is a slow-motion car crash. The Chechens eat like they’re still in some mountain village with no witnesses. Meat ripped with hands, bones cracked, wine gulped. One of them yanks a server in by the wrist and buries his face in her hair, inhaling. She doesn’t flinch. That calm is not natural; it’s learned. No one stops him. This is normal here.
I cut my steak into small, equal pieces because I need something I can control. Dmitri sits directly on my other side. His cologne is citrus and smoke, lighter than Roman’s, but it still curls into my nose and sits there.
“So, Anya.” His Russian is smooth, obviously educated. “I hear you’re a toxicologist. That is not a hobby one stumbles into.”
