These men don’t look like donors or bankers. Their suits are immaculate, but they carry themselves like soldiers. Dozens of them, all entering the place like they own it. I recognize the way they scan the room, similar to the way Andrei does, looking for the exits and if anything appears out of the ordinary.
I know who these men are: Bratva.
My chest tightens and suddenly I feel very visible. I’m acutely aware that these men aren’t like the other people I’ve been meeting—they’re killers.
Roman senses my discomfort immediately, like he always does. But he doesn’t say anything.He just looks at me. And that’s exactly what I need.
It’s the same careful, steady look he gives to Sasha when the boy seems a little overwhelmed. The power of his gaze seems to make time stop, to make everything go away except for the two of us.
My breath steadies. My spine straightens. I remember where I am.
The men gather nearby, sorting into different groups.
“Different Bratvas,” Roman explains, as if reading my mind. “Don’t worry, they’ll play nice tonight. They know the consequences if they don’t.” He gazes at the men, then glances at me. “I need to say a few words, and I would like you to be at my side when I do.”
“Okay.”
Roman moves toward the men, their eyes locking onto him—and me—instantly. I notice the other guests stiffen, seeming to know who these men are and what they represent.
The space seems to rearrange itself around Roman. The crowd parts, the rest of the guests understanding that whatever is about to happen is not for them. They shuffle away, taking their conversations to other parts of the room.
Roman is relaxed. Unhurried. And unmistakably the center of gravity. Only he could stand in the middle of a crowd of killers and be so damn composed.
“Gentlemen.” He doesn’t speak loudly. His deep voice is resonant enough to carry through. “I’m glad to see all of you,” he begins. “Truly. Your presence tonight and your generosity does not go unnoticed. This charity matters to me. It matters to many children in this city. It matters to my son. And I respect those who understand the value of giving something back when the world has blessed him or her with so much.”
A few smiles. A few nods. I can’t help but grin at his ability to butter these guys up.
Roman lets a beat pass before adding, almost conversationally, “It is odd to think that if everything in my company proceeds as planned, this time next year I’ll be a stranger to you all.”
The energy shifts, though not in a bad way. I can practically feel the relief. There’s a subtle loosening of shoulders, faint exhales from men who have been competing against Roman for years. Him stepping aside doesn’t threaten them; it gives them opportunity.
Roman knows it. And that’s what tonight is about, I realize. He’s giving them the gift of knowing he’s leaving their world behind.
His hand returns to the small of my back once more. “This,” he says, turning slightly toward me, “is Amalie Denning.”
Every pair of eyes in the circle turn to me. It takes all the strength I have not to shrink.
“My woman,” he finishes.
The words land clean and sharp.
I bite my lower lip because it’s the only thing I can do. Especially when I remember I’m carrying an enormous secret.
“But I didn’t invite you here tonight to monologue. Enjoy the evening, the future is looking bright. I assume you all cannot wait for it to get started.”
There are nods and murmurs from the men. Roman guides me through the crowd and over to the bar.
“I believe this calls for a toast,” he says as the bartender approaches. “Please, two Dom Per?—”
My hand shoots to his wrist. He turns, eyebrows arching, questioning. “Yes?”
“I want to stay clear-headed tonight, if you don’t mind.”
He nods without argument. “Two tonics with lime.”
Within seconds, the bartender is passing the drinks to us. I take mine, the chill of the glass grounding me.
“You didn’t warn me.”
