Page 164 of Nemesis

The dining room has an odd design. One side of the room has a wall covered with rare paintings and ornate masks. The other side is tempered glass from floor to ceiling. It’s idiotic for a normal person, let alone one who has so many reasons to get shot daily. I can’t decide if the choice to leave himself so exposed is a taunt or a threat.

“Annika.”

I glance over, meeting a flat gaze.

“I know you’ve been raised by heathens, but it’s customary to greet your host at the very least.” He grins around a sip of wine. “Especially when he’s paying for your wedding.”

“I was merely admiring your home,” I say. My legs itch, but I try not to fidget.

“And the verdict?”

“It’s lovely.” I fold my hands in my lap. “Open.”

The men at the other end of the table murmur, but they must be speaking in Russian because I can’t decode a single word from their lips.

A pleased look passes over Popov’s face. “Yes, I’m quite partial to the sun. Maybe if you’d arrived on time, you could have seen it in its prime. The chandelier was created by Michael DeLavo for this very room, and it lights up so spectacularly under the setting sun.”

“A shame, indeed. I apologize for my tardiness.”

A servant appears at my side with a bottle of wine and starts pouring me a glass. Everyone tracks the movement with tense observation. Jesus. Fetch me my bathing toaster, Jeeves.

“You told me she’d be a brunette, like her mother,” Boris says, stabbing his fork through a slab of meat. The metal screeches against his china plate.

“Yes, well, she would be, if she hadn’t messed with her hair. Not to worry, color is easily fixed. Thank God she didn’t shove one of those cattle piercings through her nose…”

Silverware clatters to the table, and the priest looks up with disapproval.

“Sorry, Father,” Popov says with a wave.

He nods, returning to his meal.

I stop my eyes from rolling back. We’re here for a kidnapping and a forced marriage. I think God will overlook his name said in vain.

“The Popov women have always required a firm hand. I’m not surprised that she grew so wild on her own⁠—”

“Is that what fixed my mother?” I ask, tilting my head. “A firm hand?”

“Behave,” Boris grinds into my ear.

Popov smiles, swallowing his unchewed bite. “Your mother was a sad case. She was never happy with the lavish life I gave her. Always went on and on about ambition and freedom, so naturally, I gave her a job. All she had to do was reside in my enemy’s compound and report back to help her family. Unfortunately, she went mad at your father’s side. There was too much pressure. Suddenly, the simple life of luxury I had originally provided her was looking far more appealing than ambition.” He shakes his head, slicing open another slab of meat. “But it was too late. We won’t make the same mistakes with you, dear.”

More servers enter with platters of food, scooping the contents onto the guests’ plates. No one so much as glances up.

“What was too late?”

He blinks. “Hm?”

I lift my glass to my lips, but I don’t take a sip. “When my mother returned to you. What was too late?”

His mask chips, but performance prevails. “You’re right, you know. My home is bright and open. I think Della was under the impression that the world would be as safe beyond the glass.”

My cup rattles as the base meets the table.

The conversation pivots into the topic of priceless antiques in a disjointed combination of English and Russian. I pretend to pick at my plate, watching the clock from the corner of my eye.

Mom probably developed homicidal impulses after a single year with this monster. I wonder what he would say if he knew the pretty bartering card he raised had taken a steak knife to the bricks in the back of his beloved house. Does it vex him, still not knowing how his daughter managed to escape this prison?

The grandfather clock in the sitting room chimes out.