“We’re in this together. Come on, don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
I lean in and kiss her, wishing we were still back in the hotel in bed. “Never.”
I get out of the car. My guards flank me to the door, but they’re denied entry. Only Dragons get the privilege of an armed escort. The men at the door check me for weapons and move to pat down Nika, but I stop them before they can touch her.
“You’re going to run your hands along my wife’s body in front of me? You really think you could survive an insult like that?”
The men exchange a look. Their leader shakes his head. “No offense meant, sir, but I have strict orders from Dragon Serre?—“
“It’s fine, Gabriel.” Nika rolls her eyes and submits herself to checking.
But in deference or politeness, her pat-down is perfunctory.
Inside the building is cool. A striking woman in a black tuxedo guides us into the foyer, across a gorgeous central staircase, and toward a side room. “They’re waiting in the grand hall,” she murmurs, her French accent thick and muddy. “Dragon Serre is expecting you both.”
Nika slips her hand into mine as a large intricate wooden door is pushed open and we’re ushered through.
I’m not sure what I expected. Some kind of raised dais behind which the four dragons would sit in judgement, maybe? A guillotine waiting for my pretty neck? Instead, it’s a massive ballroom, the edges carpeted, the center with a wooden dance floor. One wall is covered in mirrors. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs from lovely teal-and-white paneling. Everything is Art Deco in style, redone sometime in the lastcentury, though also old. I can smell the age in this place, musky and dull with a sharp undertone of rot.
There’s a table set up on the dance floor. It’s long, white tablecloth, covered in magnificent floral centerpieces. I recognize Massimo sitting toward the head and Zohran across from him. Lorcan Brun, the Irish Dragon, is beside Massimo, talking quietly with a grin on his handsome and weathered face, while Prosper Serre is at the head of the table, since this is his main powerbase. The Frenchman is in his late thirties, in surprisingly good shape, wearing an impeccable black suit. He’s the picture of pious taste and refinement, while there’s a sharp edge to Lorcan that’s hard to ignore.
And at the other end of the table, sitting on the same side as Zohran, is Artyom.
He stares at me with unrestrained hatred. His face is pale and gaunt, and it looks like he lost some weight. He’s favoring one side. I resist the urge to smirk in his face, the bastard. I hope he’s suffering immensely.
“Welcome, welcome, our final guests have arrived.” Dragon Serre stands, spreading his hands in greeting.
The others watch. Massimo nods. Zohran’s sneer is plastered on his face. Lorcan tips a glass and drinks with a wink. The vibe in the room is tense and painful, like an unspoken threat’s lurking at the edges.
There are two empty places. I steer Nika toward them and seat her to my left, beside the Dragon Brun. I sit across from Artyom, ignoring his glares, as wait staff pours wine and begins to serve the first course.
“How are you finding Paris, miss?” Lorcan asks Nika politely. His Irish brogue is vague but still present.
“It’s lovely. I’ve never been outside of L.A. before.”
“I find it overrated.” Brun grins viciously at the Frenchman. “You hear that, Serre? Paris is nothing compared to Dublin.”
“Only if you prefer depression to opulence.” Serre looks bored and I get the sense this is an argument they’ve had before.
Lorcan laughs loudly, which makes Nika wince. It’s like someone’s cackling during a funeral. Artyom eats and drinks stiffly, occasionally looking up at me, a strange triumphant smirk creeping into his expression. I barely touch what I’m served, and only drink what’s polite. Most of dinner is spent watching the Dragons, trying to get a sense for them.
I don’t know much about Serre or Brun. The Frenchman is notoriously cold and reserved. He’s from old money, or at least that’s the rumor. Meanwhile, Brun’s the opposite: he grew up on the streets of Dublin, ran drugs, money, and guns for the Irish Republican Army, and killed his way into his current criminal empire. Serre’s cold and dispassionate; Brun burns like a comet.
They hold my fate in their fucking hands and I hate them for it.
After the main course of duck and filet is served and cleared, Zohran stands, his chair legs grinding on the floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous room. “Alright, gentlemen, I have been patient enough and went through this farce out of obligation to our illustrious host—“ He nods at Serre who merely gazes back, giving away nothing in his expression. “However, it’s time we put an end to this ugly business and moved on.”
"Something I can fuckin’ agree with,” Brun says heartily. “You lot know how much I hate coming to Frenchie’s home turf.”
“The city’s a little filthier with you around, that’s true,” Serre murmurs, sounding almost apologetic for it.
“We’re here to fill the final seat.” Zohran looks around the table. Massimo still remains silent and watches intently. “There are two potential suitors, and we all know who we’re going to choose. My vote’s for Artyom.”
“Mine as well.” Prosper Serre glances at me coldly.
“Hate to do this to such a lovely lady such as yourself—“ Brun says, grimacing. “But I smell which way the wind’s blowing.”
Zohran grunts, triumph stretching his old, craggy face. He gestures at Massimo. “And you, Cardone? Are you going to sit this one out?”
