“You negotiate like a criminal.”
“I’m a criminal.”
She took the bowl. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“No,” I said. “I’m hungry, tired, and trying not to climb back into that bed until you’ve eaten.”
The spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
Color rose in her face.
“Three bites,” she said.
“Five.”
“Four.”
“Done.”
She ate four bites. Then bread. Then drank more tea than she seemed to realize while I sat at the edge of the bed and didn’t touch her unless she leaned into me first.
Eventually, she set the cup down.
“What happens tomorrow?” she asked.
“Gennady will make demands.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“He will not get them.”
“What kind of demands?”
“Money. Apology. Return of what he thinks he bought. Alliance compensation if his family decides to pretend his humiliation is a political matter instead of the result of his stupidity.”
“Return,” she repeated.
My hand tightened on my knee. “No.”
She looked at me. “You say that like the world listens.”
“It does when I say it correctly.”
“That sounds like violence.”
“It often is.”
She was quiet for a moment. “And Petya?”
“Protected. Angry. Not yet informed enough to do something foolish for the right reason.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know he walked into The Samovar Room with five hundred dollars and pride where sense should have been.”
