Gennady’s smile widened. “Everything is part of your shift when you owe the right people.”
The music covered the worst of it. The booth behind me burst into laughter over a toast, and someone at the bar shouted for another round. For one second, I wanted the whole place to go quiet. I wanted every man with a drink in his hand to hear what Gennady Kask sounded like when the lights were low and no one had to pretend.
But rooms like this didn’t go quiet for women like me.
“I’ll put in your order,” I said.
He let me turn. I felt the permission in it, and it made my skin crawl more than if he’d grabbed me.
At the service station, I punched the order into the screen with fingers that wanted to shake. Tamar slid beside me with a stack of clean rocks glasses.
“Don’t go near him alone,” she said under her breath.
“I’m working beside his booth. That ship sank before it left the dock.”
“I’ll run his food.”
“He asked for me.”
“That doesn’t mean he gets you.”
I swallowed and watched the tickets spitting from the printer. “Around here, people keep confusing those two things.”
Tamar’s expression tightened. “Nadia.”
“I’m fine.”
I picked up two old-fashioneds for a table by the rail, a champagne flute for a woman in a gold dress, and three empty glasses from the server pass. I knew the route by habit. My feet moved around chairs, coat sleeves, and dropped napkins while my attention stayed fixed on the red velvet booth beside my station.
For the next hour, The Samovar Room kept swallowing me whole.
I carried drinks until my shoulder burned. I smiled at men who snapped their fingers, apologized for delays the bar created, wiped condensation rings from lacquered surfaces, and stepped over the same vodka spill twice because no one had time to mop it. The air grew hotter as the rain thickened against the windows. Coats piled over chairs. A woman near the mirrored bar laughed with her head tipped back, diamonds shaking at her ears. Somewhere behind me, Gennady’s voice rolled low and pleased.
Every time I passed his booth, he asked for something.
He sent me for more ice, cleaner glasses, another fork, and a fresh dish because one pickle had touched the caviar spoon.
He didn’t want any of it. He wanted me bending, reaching, returning. He wanted me reminded that Petya’s debt sat in that booth with him, fat and smiling and ordering by the bottle.
When I brought the vodka, Gennady watched me set it down.
“Careful,” he said. “That bottle costs more than your week.”
I kept my hand steady. “Then you’ll want me to pour slowly.”
His men laughed again.
“See?” Gennady said. “She can be sweet when she remembers who pays.”
“You pay the house,” I said. “Not me.”
He tilted his head. “Not yet.”
The word landed between the glasses.
I poured three measures, set the bottle down, and stepped away. “Enjoy.”
His hand closed around my wrist.
