“Think you could pull off an eyepatch, Abram?” I say first in Russian, then in English so he can’t pretend he misunderstood.
Silence spreads through the room and hovers for several seconds. Then, eventually, chairs creak and glass stems clink again. Abram sits back, lips twisting into a dangerous grin he thinks is charming. Gavriil lifts his glass and tips it in my direction, as if to say:You’ve made your threat; now you better be prepared to back it up.
I always do.
Would I take a man’s eye, a member of our family’s eye, for looking at the woman I’ve known for less than three days? A woman who I’m holding hostage thanks to her traitorous brother?
Only if that man had fair warning and decided to try me anyway.
My hand stays on the back of Alina’s chair, a silent warning that saysminespoken in a language men like them actually understand. Every man at this table has seen what happens to people who cross my lines. Tonight, I redraw one around her throat and dare them to pretend they don’t see it.
We work through each course as we move through our strategy session. Short ribs fall apart under a fork. Several bottles of wine are opened, each one costing more than what most honest men make in a month as we discuss multi-million-dollar ventures.
I only half-hear most of it until a captain from Brighton Beach reports that a biker crew has been sniffing around a warehouse in Kearny. “They’re testing fences,” he says, his eyes on me.
“Then we’ll make them regret it,” I respond.
Word travels fast. The firearms Archer sold will pull idiots into our orbit, and I intend to close my hand around their throats when they get too close.
When conversation thins, Gavriil shifts his full attention to Alina. “Do you miss your brother?”
It’s an innocent question, all things considered. She doesn’t look to me before answering, “Yes.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
“Is he a good brother?” The question sounds soft. It’s not. It’s a crowbar to the ribs.
Her jaw tightens. “He tries to be.”
“Tries,” Gavriil repeats, polite poison while everyone at the table pauses mid-conversation to eavesdrop. “Trying is a word meant for hobbies, not families.” He lifts his wine glass toward me without looking. “My little brotherneverlets me down.”
He can’t ever resist inserting the demeaning word “little” whenever he refers to me, in English or Russian.
Alina gasps, and I feel her eyes on me. “You two…he’s your brother?” she whispers, stunned, maybe disappointed, as if I have any more control over blood than she does.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t change anything.”
For a second I see it in her eyes. She’s trying to figure out if blood makes me more dangerous or less.
I wish I could tell her the truth: with Gavriil, being his brother just means he knows exactly where to stab me to do the most damage.
I didn’t intentionally hide the fact from her. It’s not like I have more sway with him just because we’re related by blood, which is what she would have wrongly assumed.
Several sets of eyes flick from me to Alina to Gavriil, then drop back to their plates. His words were meant as a threat. I believe she senses that as well now that the shock is wearing off. All I know is I’m going to need something stronger than wine to get through the rest of this dinner.
Between courses, I cross to the bar for vodka. On the way back to the table, a young lieutenant makes a fatal miscalculation. He’s from out of town, trying to impress someone, and his gaze lingers on Alina in that glazed, appraising way that makes men’s teeth scatter across tile.
I stop next to him without looking at him. “Pray.”
He startles, eyes flicking to me, to my knife that’s suddenly appeared in my free hand, to the space between us. His mouth opens. It’s full of apologies I don’t want to hear.
“Close your eyes and pray to God that I don’t cut one or both of your eyes out,” I tell him. He shuts them immediately. “Keep them that way unless you’re looking at your plate.”
“Yes, sir.”
