Because I brought her.
That should be enough. But of course it isn’t.
Another man; Demyan, a stupid son of a bitch who thinks being one of my best enforcers makes him invincible—snorts.
“S kakikh por ty privodish’ svoikh shlyukh na vstrechi?”
Since when do you bring your whores to meetings?
My vision tunnels.
Before the echo of the wordshlyukhfinishes bouncing off the walls, my hand is already moving.
I don’t think—I react.
I reach to my right, snatch Vaska’s knife straight out of his hand. He doesn’t even have time to blink.
The blade whistles once through the air and I slam it down into Demyan’s hand, pinning it flat to the table.
The wood cracks.
He screams.
Blood fans out in a sharp, bright line across the grain.
I finally look at him.
Then at the others.
“Ona ne shlyukha.”
She’s not a whore.
The room goes dead silent. Every man sits a little straighter. Every set of eyes drops away from the bar.
Good.
I leave the knife in his hand; press down on the hilt once, just enough to make him choke on his breath, then straighten.
“Any other questions…” My gaze sweeps the room, cold and slow. “…or can we finish this shit meeting?”
No one answers.
No one dares look at her again.
Ayla sits perfectly still on the barstool, but from here, I can see the slight rise of her shoulders as she breathes in, steadying herself.
She’s watching me.
And for the first time in a long fucking time, I don’t like being seen.
***
The townhouse feels too quiet. Too clean.
Too domestic.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I busy my hands with food. Steak. Potatoes. Bread. Something to keep her fed and keep me from pacing.
