My father’s gaze tracks between us when we return. Cold calculation settles over his features as he realizes exactly why I’m here.
I take my seat, and the hand drags on.
Twenty minutes later, Abram grunts and rolls up his sleeves. “Fucking sauna in here.”
Evelina’s beside Abram, bottle in hand, leaning in to refill his glass when she inhales sharply and lets out a strangled noise.
The bottle slips from her grip. Vodka splashes across Abram’s lap before glass hits the floor.
She’s frozen, staring at something on Abram’s forearm like it’s a coiled viper.
“What the fuck!” Abram jumps up from his seat, vodka soaking the front of his pants.
“I’m so sorry,” she pleads. “I don’t know what happened. That was so unprofessional?—“
She grabs napkins, fingers shaking so hard she can barely hold them.
“Goddamn right it’s unprofessional!” Abram’s face mottles purple. “You stupid girl. Do you know how much this suit costs?”
“It’s only vodka, but I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the cleaning.”
“You’ll pay?” He sneers. “With what ... your server wages?”
White-hot rage floods my veins. “That’s enough,” I snap at Abram, stepping between him and Evelina. I turn toward her. “Get some air. Someone else will finish your shift.”
“What? No, it’s fine?—“
“Go.” It’s not a request. I need her out of this room before I do something she can’t unsee.
She turns and runs for the door.
The second she leaves, all my murderous focus snaps to Abram. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing!” He swipes at his pants with a stack of crumpled napkins. “You were there. She dumped a drink on me!”
“She was fine until she stood beside you. Then something spooked her.” I move closer, using my height to intimidate. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Kirill.” My father’s voice, sharp with warning. “Back off.”
I ignore him. “Did you touch her? Grab her ass?—”
“I didn’t touch her!” he spits, a vein throbbing in his temple. “You were right there, Kirill! I didn’t do shit!”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not?—”
My hand dives into the ice bucket, fingers closing around the metal pick. In one smooth motion, I grab Abram’s right hand and slam it flat against the felt.
It drives through his palm and into the wood beneath with a wet crunch.
Abram’s scream is high-pitched and animal. He yanks his hand back, but the pick holds him in place, pinning him like an insect to a board. Blood pools around the wound and soaks into the green felt, spreading in a dark stain that swallows the ace of spades.
My father surges to his feet. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Grigori reaches for his holster, but my father waves him off.
