Page 91 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

She turns to face me directly, and her eyes lock on mine. “He’ll explain it to me if he thinks I’m ready to listen.”

No one moves.

My hand closes around the glass hard enough to make it creak. “No.”

Elena places her hand over mine. “You haven’t heard the plan.”

“I heard enough.” I move her hand away.

“He wants to be admired,” she says, and this time she smiles. “He wants to be understood. He always loved it when I told him he’d built something brilliant.”

Nina’s pen stops, and Leonid looks at Elena with open respect.

“Brilliant,” he mutters.

Elena slides Sergei’s letter across the table and taps the line about the skin of the structure. “Arrange a meeting with my father. If he thinks I came back to listen, I can make him explain the rest.”

27

ELENA

Maksim chooses the cafe near Patriarch’s Ponds, with dark wood, brass lamps, green leather booths, and windows tall enough to show the street without giving the street much back. The sign outside looks harmless. The two men posted near the kitchen door do not.

“This place belongs to a friend?” I ask as the convoy slows.

Maksim adjusts one cuff. “Close enough.”

“That means yes, and no one asks questions.”

“That means you’re learning.”

He wears a black wool coat over a dark suit, his shirt open at the throat, no tie, no wasted detail. He looks dark, controlled, and brutally handsome in a way that makes every man near him suddenly look overdressed or underbuilt.

I’m in a dark green dress with long sleeves, a high collar, and seams that hold me in place. My hair is pulled into a low knot, my black silk scarf sits close at my throat, the tinted glasses cover half my face, and the only makeup I bother with is color on my mouth and a little warmth high on my cheeks.

Maksim notices the color anyway.

“You’re pale,” he says.

“And you’re repetitive.”

His mouth almost moves. “Stay close.”

“I know.”

“No, Elena.” His hand closes around mine before the door opens. “Close.”

The cafe has already been emptied of regular customers. A barista wipes the same spot behind the counter without looking at us, and a waiter in a white jacket leads me to the back corner. Maksim’s men take the entrance, kitchen, and hallway near the restrooms.

Maksim sits two tables away from me. Far enough for Sergei to pretend this is private. Close enough to end it.

A waiter brings water, black tea, lemon, rye toast, smoked salmon, and a plate of pastries I don’t touch. Maksim gets coffee he doesn’t drink. I hold my tea glass because my hands need work.

Then Sergei walks in alone.

His charcoal cashmere coat sits open over a buttoned dark blue suit, and a red tie lies tight at his throat. His silver hair is perfectly trimmed, and his reading glasses rest in his breast pocket because Sergei likes his threats clean, legal, and signed.

He removes his gloves one finger at a time, wearing the bored courtesy of a man who still believes every man waits for his next word.