A cold spike of adrenaline rushes through my veins, but I push it down.
"Let them try," I say.
He searches my face. I feel him register the change in me. He sees the steel that wasn't there yesterday. The wife who is ready to stand beside him in the blood and the dirt.
"Good," he whispers and checks his watch. "Because they’re here."
The elevator chimes. The heavy doors slide open, and four men step out.
They’re older, dressed in dated expensive suits, carrying themselves with the arrogant gait of men who haven't heard the word 'no' in decades.
The Bratva High Council.
The man in the lead must be Sokolov. He’s short, thick set like a bulldog, with silver hair and eyes. He leans on a cane that looks more like a weapon than a support.
Behind him are three other men. They look at the room, and then at Konstantin.
"Konstantin," Sokolov rumbles, ignoring me completely.
"Sokolov," Konstantin nods. No bow. No handshake. He stands his ground. "Welcome to my home."
"Your home?" Sokolov sneers, looking around with disdain. "It’s cold. Glass and steel. No soul. But..." His eyes finally slide to me,"...you have decorated well."
The insult lands like a slap. I’m a decoration. A pretty thing to look at while the men talk.
"Gentlemen," Konstantin says, his voice hard. "May I present my wife. Helena Morozov."
Sokolov doesn't smile. He stares at me, his gaze stripping me down to my value.
"Blackwood's daughter," Sokolov corrects. "We heard the news. A quick marriage. Impulsive."
"Necessary," Konstantin says smoothly. "Dinner is served."
We move to the dining room.
I sit at the opposite end of the table from Konstantin. The four Elders sit between us like a jury.
Dinner is a battlefield disguised as a meal.
The staff serves the first course, a cold beet soup. No one eats.
The air is thick with unsaid accusations. The only sound is Sokolov’s spoon scraping the bowl.
Sokolov breaks the silence.
"The port is busy tonight," he says. "I saw the cranes moving. TheLady Anastasiais at the dock."
"She’s loaded and ready," Konstantin replies. "Twenty units of mining machinery. The perfect cover."
"Is it?" Sokolov asks. He wipes his mouth and turns his chair toward me.
"Because I hear rumors. I hear the Italians are moving into the south. Feds sniffing around the north gate."
He pauses, eyes drilling into me.
"And I hear the Director of Operations," he sneers, "is the daughter of the man who invited the Italians into our city."
The table goes silent.
