Roman’s hand tightens on my thigh. Warning.Don’t engage.
“My mother died in a lab accident,” I say before I can stop myself. “Chemical exposure. I wanted to understand what killed her.”
I grab the napkin between my fingers.Tear. Tear. Tiny shredded pieces gathering in my lap like snow.
“How poetic and very Russian,” Dmitri says, watching me over the rim of his wine glass. “To devote your life to the thing that destroyed you.”
“It didn’t destroy me,” I say. “It gave me data.”
“Data,” he repeats, amused. “Spoken like a true scientist. And now my cousin has you in his house, with a lab. I imagine your data will be very useful to him.”
“My work is my own,” I say. Roman’s fingers dig in. “I’m continuing my research. That’s it.”
“Hmm.” Dmitri leans slightly closer. “And what are you researching, exactly?”
I should shut up.
I should shut. The fuck.Up.
“Synthetic opioid derivatives,” I say. ”
Roman’s grip on my thigh turns brutal. “Enough,” he says, soft but sharp. “She doesn’t discuss her work at the table.”
“Of course,” Dmitri says easily. “Forgive me. I forgot we are in such sensitive company.”
Vadim laughs down the table, knife scratching against plate. “Let the girl talk,” he says. “She’s not porcelain. Anya, you mentioned incapacitating predators earlier. What was your professional opinion?”
I look straight at Vadim. “It depends on the predator,” I say. “Some need fast. Others need time to understand they’re dying.”
Silence spreads down the table like a ripple. Roman’s fingers crush my thigh. Hard. My lungs forget how to function.
Dmitri smiles, slow and delighted. “And which category would my cousin fall into, do you think?” he asks.
Roman’s chair slams back. There’s a blur of movement, and suddenly he’s on his feet, one hand fisted in Dmitri’s expensive jacket, the other under the table where I know exactly what he’s holding. I know where his finger is.
“Say that again,” Roman says, voice low and lethal. “Provoke my wife. Provokeme. Try it.”
The whole room rearranges itself around the two of them. Chechen men reach for their waistbands. Volkov men appearfrom the walls as they grew there. Glassware trembles. A server drops a bottle; red wine explodes across the marble floor like another arterial spray.
Dmitri does not stop smiling. “She’s interesting,” he says calmly, like there isn’t an actual gun pressed where I know his liver sits. “And she deserves to be more than a pretty piece of bait at your table.” His eyes flick to me, then back to Roman. “If you’re not careful, cousin, someone else will appreciate that.”
“Roman.” My voice comes out thin and scared and not nearly loud enough. “Please.”
His gaze switches to me. All that fury. All of it.
Vadim taps his fork against his glass. Once. “Enough,” he says. “No one is dying over dinner. Not tonight. Roman, sit. Dmitri, learn when to shut your mouth. We have business to discuss.”
For three seconds, Roman doesn’t move. Then he slowly releases Dmitri’s jacket, holsters the weapon under the table, and drops back into his chair. His hand finds my thigh again. The pressure is steady, punishing.
“Stay away from my wife,” he says to Dmitri, calm now in that terrifying way. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about her.”
“Of course,” Dmitri says. “Assuming she does not poison you first.”
He stands, smooths his jacket, and eventually the conversation limps back into something like normal.
My appetite is gone. My pulse is not.
When dinner finally ends, my whole body feels like I’ve been clenched for hours.
