She doesn’t speak again until we step into the elevator. “Who are we having dinner with?” she asks.
“Who do you think?”
“Gavriil.”
I hate the way his name sounds in her mouth.
“And other men who answer to him,” I add.
“Then why drag me along?” she asks.
“Because he said so.”
When the elevator doors slide shut, Alina glances up at our reflection. Her breath catches.
We look damn good together. I could get used to having her on my arm for dinners. Too easily. But by tomorrow, she’ll be back where she belongs. Away from this life. Because Alina sure as fuck doesn’t belong in our vicious world.
In the garage, my men move the cars into position strategically, like choreography built from blood and routine. I open the door and let Alina climb in first, preparing for a night I already fucking hate.
10
Dominik
The restaurant smellsof seared meat and oak smoke. We own the place, but I still catalog the waiters’ stances and the camera angles out of habit.
Heads turn as we enter the private dining room, conversations stalling mid-sentence. It’s rare for a woman to attend these meetings. Rarer still with captains from Chicago and Boston at the table.
Gavriil holds court from the head of the long table wearing a suit that fits him like authority. He watches us approach like a king assessing which subject he’ll manipulate first.
When he looks at Alina, he sees only a pretty, harmless woman with enough defiance to break for sport. But I see the match in her hand, and the gasoline our world is spilling at her feet. She’s more dangerous than she looks. After all, Helen of Troy leveled armies without ever lifting a blade.
I guide Alina to the center of the table, placing her at my right, where aPakhanseats his second.
Once I take my place, my hand settles on the back of Alina’s chair. A casual gesture that feels anything but.
“Bratishka.” Gavriil’s gaze drags slowly to Alina, deliberate and probing. “I’m so glad you brought our guest.”
“I brought my guest,” I correct, undermining his authority in front of everyone.
A thin, dangerous wisp of amusement touches his mouth. “Your guest. For now.”
To my annoyance, he keeps his eyes on Alina, who stares at him blankly. I don’t miss the way her fists are clenched in her lap, though.
“Don’t you just look stunning,” Gavriil murmurs. “I knew that dress would suit you.”
“I hate high-neck pieces,” Alina says flatly, and I draw in a sharp breath.
Gavriil’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, but the kind that precedes cruelty. “Maybe I should’ve had you wear the other outfit I picked out for you.”
Alina narrows her eyes at him, while I resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him for the vile thoughts that I know are in his head. I barely manage to remain seated, but Gavriil finally looks away from her.
After that exchange, it takes a moment for the room to remember how to breathe, let alone talk. Trade routes, a customs inspector who needs a reminder of who pays for his mistress’s house, which docks get which crates on which nights. Alina sits still, the picture of compliance, and I feel the tension carried in her spine through the back of her chair. She doesn’t know why she’s here, and she can’t stop glancing at the door. On the other side four of my men wait, as well as two at the back entrance.
Abram, the Chicago boss, bull-necked with mischief in his eyes, leans across the table with a smile he shouldn’t risk. “Are you new to the city, sweetheart?”
Alina flicks a glance at me. I give her a single nod. She answers with something harmless. “No. I’ve lived here for years.”
Abram opens his mouth, no doubt to ask how she ended up here tonight, at this table of criminals, but his gaze drops to where it shouldn’t, and my voice cuts through all the murmurs without raising my voice.
