Chapter One
My left heel stuck to a vodka spill under booth six as I leaned in with a tray of martinis. I set the glasses down and kept my smile in place, because the bar was eight tickets behind and a man near the rail waved a black AmEx like a flare.
The amber lights over the velvet booths turned rain on the front windows into crooked gold lines. Beyond the glass, headlights smeared across the wet street. Inside The Samovar Room, the air was hot and close. Steam rolled from the samovar, the fryer snapped in the kitchen, and the place rang with Russian, English, clinking ice, and voices climbing over the music.
“Still waiting on the Beluga,” the man at booth six said.
“I’m checking with the bar now,” I said, and drew the tray away as a woman at the next table waved.
My calves burned. My feet had gone numb an hour ago. Sweat dampened the dark hair pinned at my nape, and a pull tightened low in my spine every time I bent.
At the service station, I slid the tray onto the counter. Tamar Reznik caught my elbow before I could squeeze past. Her dark braid had slipped over one shoulder; the smile she used for tables was gone.
“Gennady Kask just walked in with two men,” she said.
My fingers curled around the tray edge.
I turned toward the front.
Gennady stood near the host stand in a gray suit that shone under his open overcoat, rain beading on the dark wool. Twomen stood behind him with wet shoulders and hard faces. Heavy rings flashed on his thick fingers. He didn’t wait to be greeted. He pointed toward the reserved booth beside my station, the one the floor manager kept empty no matter how many paying customers complained.
Of course he did.
The floor manager reached for menus and led them over.
I stacked three cocktail napkins on my tray and crossed to the booth.
Gennady settled against the red velvet and gave me a slow head-to-toe scan.
“Nadia knows how I like to be served,” he said.
The men with him laughed before I could answer.
I put one napkin in front of him, then one in front of each man. My tray stayed tucked against my hip. The booth smelled like wet wool, expensive cologne, and the sour bite of vodka already on someone’s breath.
“What can I get for the table?” I asked.
Gennady smiled without warmth. His teeth were too white under the amber light.
“For the table?” he said. “So formal tonight. You make me feel like a stranger.”
“You have the same menu as everyone else.”
One of his men slouched against the booth and inspected me from my heels to the neckline of my black dress. I kept my eyes on Gennady’s face. If I flinched, he would enjoy that too.
Gennady tapped one ringed finger against the menu. “Two bottles. The good vodka, not what you give tourists. Black bread. Caviar. Pickles. And you come back often.”
“I’ll put that in.”
“Not too fast.” He reached toward the edge of my tray, not touching my hand, only close enough to make me feel the heat ofhim. “Service is personal here. Isn’t that what your manager tells you?”
“My manager tells me to keep tables from waiting.”
“Then don’t make me wait.” He looked me over again, slow and ugly. “Petya makes me wait. You make me wait. I’m starting to think your family doesn’t understand manners.”
My throat tightened. I lifted the tray half an inch, enough to break the space between his fingers and mine.
“My brother’s business isn’t part of my shift,” I said.
