Chapter 10
Dominik
The restaurant smells of seared meat and oak smoke. We own the place, but I still catalog the waiters’ stances and the camera angles out of habit.
Heads turn as we enter the private dining room, conversations stalling mid-sentence. It’s rare for a woman to attend these meetings. Rarer still with captains from Chicago and Boston at the table.
Gavriil holds court from the head of the long table wearing a suit that fits him like authority. He watches us approach like a king assessing which subject he’ll manipulate first.
When he looks at Alina, he sees only a pretty, harmless woman with enough defiance to break for sport. But I see the match in her hand, and the gasoline our world is spilling at her feet. She’s more dangerous than she looks. After all, Helen of Troy leveled armies without ever lifting a blade.
I guide Alina to the center of the table, placing her at my right, where a Pakhan seats his second.
Once I take my place, my hand settles on the back of Alina’s chair. A casual gesture that feels anything but.
“Bratishka.” Gavriil’s gaze drags slowly to Alina, deliberate and probing. “I’m so glad you brought our guest.”
“I brought my guest,” I correct, undermining his authority in front of everyone.
A thin, dangerous wisp of amusement touches his mouth. “Your guest. For now.”
To my annoyance, he keeps his eyes on Alina, who stares at him blankly. I don’t miss the way her fists are clenched in her lap, though.
“Don’t you just look stunning,” Gavriil murmurs. “I knew that dress would suit you.”
“I hate high-neck pieces,” Alina says flatly, and I draw in a sharp breath.
Gavriil’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, but the kind that precedes cruelty. “Maybe I should’ve had you wear the other outfit I picked out for you.”
Alina narrows her eyes at him, while I resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him for the vile thoughts that I know are in his head. I barely manage to remain seated, but Gavriil finally looks away from her.
After that exchange, it takes a moment for the room to remember how to breathe, let alone talk.
Trade routes, a customs inspector who needs a reminder of who pays for his mistress’s house, which docks get which crates on which nights.
Alina sits still, the picture of compliance, and I feel the tension carried in her spine through the back of her chair.
She doesn’t know why she’s here, and she can’t stop glancing at the door.
On the other side four of my men wait, as well as two at the back entrance.
Abram, the Chicago boss, bull-necked with mischief in his eyes, leans across the table with a smile he shouldn’t risk. “Are you new to the city, sweetheart?”
Alina flicks a glance at me. I give her a single nod. She answers with something harmless. “No. I’ve lived here for years.”
Abram opens his mouth, no doubt to ask how she ended up here tonight, at this table of criminals, but his gaze drops to where it shouldn’t, and my voice cuts through all the murmurs without raising my voice.
“Think you could pull off an eyepatch, Abram?” I say first in Russian, then in English so he can’t pretend he misunderstood.
Silence spreads through the room and hovers for several seconds.
Then, eventually, chairs creak and glass stems clink again.
Abram sits back, lips twisting into a dangerous grin he thinks is charming.
Gavriil lifts his glass and tips it in my direction, as if to say: You’ve made your threat; now you better be prepared to back it up.
I always do.
Would I take a man’s eye, a member of our family’s eye, for looking at the woman I’ve known for less than three days? A woman who I’m holding hostage thanks to her traitorous brother?
Only if that man had fair warning and decided to try me anyway.
My hand stays on the back of Alina’s chair, a silent warning that says mine spoken in a language men like them actually understand. Every man at this table has seen what happens to people who cross my lines. Tonight, I redraw one around her throat and dare them to pretend they don’t see it.
We work through each course as we move through our strategy session. Short ribs fall apart under a fork. Several bottles of wine are opened, each one costing more than what most honest men make in a month as we discuss multi-million-dollar ventures.
I only half-hear most of it until a captain from Brighton Beach reports that a biker crew has been sniffing around a warehouse in Kearny. “They’re testing fences,” he says, his eyes on me.
“Then we’ll make them regret it,” I respond.
Word travels fast. The firearms Archer sold will pull idiots into our orbit, and I intend to close my hand around their throats when they get too close.
When conversation thins, Gavriil shifts his full attention to Alina. “Do you miss your brother?”
It’s an innocent question, all things considered. She doesn’t look to me before answering, “Yes.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
“Is he a good brother?” The question sounds soft. It’s not. It’s a crowbar to the ribs.
Her jaw tightens. “He tries to be.”
“Tries,” Gavriil repeats, polite poison while everyone at the table pauses mid-conversation to eavesdrop. “Trying is a word meant for hobbies, not families.” He lifts his wine glass toward me without looking. “My little brother never lets me down.”
He can’t ever resist inserting the demeaning word “little” whenever he refers to me, in English or Russian.
Alina gasps, and I feel her eyes on me. “You two…he’s your brother?” she whispers, stunned, maybe disappointed, as if I have any more control over blood than she does.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t change anything.”
For a second I see it in her eyes. She’s trying to figure out if blood makes me more dangerous or less.
I wish I could tell her the truth: with Gavriil, being his brother just means he knows exactly where to stab me to do the most damage.
I didn’t intentionally hide the fact from her. It’s not like I have more sway with him just because we’re related by blood, which is what she would have wrongly assumed.
Several sets of eyes flick from me to Alina to Gavriil, then drop back to their plates. His words were meant as a threat. I believe she senses that as well now that the shock is wearing off. All I know is I’m going to need something stronger than wine to get through the rest of this dinner.
Between courses, I cross to the bar for vodka. On the way back to the table, a young lieutenant makes a fatal miscalculation. He’s from out of town, trying to impress someone, and his gaze lingers on Alina in that glazed, appraising way that makes men’s teeth scatter across tile.
I stop next to him without looking at him. “Pray.”
He startles, eyes flicking to me, to my knife that’s suddenly appeared in my free hand, to the space between us. His mouth opens. It’s full of apologies I don’t want to hear.
“Close your eyes and pray to God that I don’t cut one or both of your eyes out,” I tell him. He shuts them immediately. “Keep them that way unless you’re looking at your plate.”
“Yes, sir.”
I fold my knife and put it back into my pocket, then return to my seat. Alina doesn’t ask what I said to the man. I feel her eyes on me, watching us. She doesn’t need to ask. His head is still bowed in prayer when he takes the only empty seat at the table.
Dessert arrives, dark chocolate espresso torte, and the room resumes its performance of civility until Gavriil sets his cup down then addresses the room.
“Put out the word,” Gavriil says. “Archer Kent stole from us.”
Alina sucks in a breath at the sudden mention of her brother’s name.
“He sold to fools who can’t carry what they bought. We’ll correct both affronts.” Gavriil turns his head, and the entire room tilts toward his gaze. “Dominik will handle the correction.”
Agreement ripples through the room in quiet murmurs. I nod once. The only answer that matters is the outcome.
Once the plates are cleared, we move into the back room where men splinter into tight pockets of conversation. I guide Alina to a loveseat near the window, out of reach of curious ears. “Stay here,” I tell her. It’s not an order so much as a recommendation. She nods in understanding.
The door to the side lounge clicks. Gavriil gestures me over. The room smells like leather, smoke, and hard decisions. I stand in the doorway where I can speak to him and keep an eye on Alina.
“She’s become an object lesson,” he says, holding a cigar between his fingers that he probably won’t even smoke. “Useful. And every valuable object belongs to someone.”
“I’m aware,” I reply.
He watches me like a man considering whether to take away and break a toy he gave to his brother. “You brought a lamb into a den of wolves, and she didn’t tremble. Interesting.”
Interesting is the last thing I want Alina to be to him.
“She doesn’t say much, and she knows when to be silent.” I try to paint her as the docile girl that’ll hopefully lose his interest. She has already tested him once tonight, though.
“She knows when to look at you like you’re the only wall between her and the fire,” he corrects. “You enjoy that.”
I let the comment pass. Truths acknowledged can easily become ammunition down the road.
Gavriil lowers the cigar, still unlit. “Your seventy-two hours are down to less than twelve.” His gaze is almost kind. “Tomorrow, before sundown, you’ll bring me Archer and the money, or you’ll bring me the girl.”
Those options don’t really work for me since I don’t put much faith in Archer choosing his sister over himself. Or having all two million on hand.
The Pakhan is not my brother, though. He’s a shrewd businessman who has to be bargained with. At the end of the day, he’s a greedy son of a bitch.
“Then let’s negotiate,” I say, because that’s what greed responds to. This is the point of no return, and I step over it anyway. The second I attach her freedom to the deal I’m not bargaining for my Pakhan anymore. I’m bargaining for my girl.
Gavriil instantly perks up, already sensing a win before I lay out the plan I’ve spent days concocting.
“I’ll get you back the two million Archer stole and the crates of guns that are worth at least that amount.
You’ll end up profiting from Archer’s stupidity.
And when I succeed in providing you with both of those things, Alina goes free.
” I very intentionally leave out Archer being part of this deal, hoping my brother doesn’t notice.
If the idiot returns most of the money and helps us locate the guns, then for Alina’s sake, I’ll let him go free.
Probably with a few broken bones for the trouble he’s caused, but still breathing.
My brother steps closer to me, his voice soft even though it feels like a hand at my throat. “That’s quite a risk, little brother, going against outlaw bikers who won’t easily give up the guns they paid good money for.”
“I can handle the bikers. I’ve already got a lead.”
“How long?”
He’s asking how long it will take me to retrieve the weapons.
“One week.”
My brother is greedy, but he’s not a patient man.
“If you fail to get the money or the guns, I will take her from you a week from today. Do you understand me, Bratishka?” he asks softly, always more dangerous than shouting.
I hold his gaze, refusing to let my relief that Archer isn’t part of the agreement show. “I understand you intend to test me.”
“I intend,” he says, warmth slithering into his tone, “to remind you that family always comes first.” His attention flicks to the window where Alina sits like a pretty statue. “Don’t forget the lesson you’ve already learned about letting the wrong women distract you.”
Gavriil leaves on that note, confident he’s pushed me toward the “right” choice by resurrecting my old mistakes.
He has. Just not the choice he thinks he cornered me into.
When we start to leave, several men make a point of wishing me a good night. Their eyes flick to Alina and away as if I’ve trained them with a shock collar. Good. A threatened knife to the eye and a man praying through dessert tends to make an impression.
Outside, the night has cooled. A summer storm hangs heavy overhead, streetlights casting halos on the damp pavement. I hold the car door as Alina slides in. The hem of her dress climbs her thighs, making me want things I know I can never have.
Renat pulls into traffic. Alina sits with her back straight, hands laced in her lap like a well-behaved girl at Sunday school. I let the quiet sit between us until it weighs more than words.
“You made a scene,” she says at last, still refusing to look at me. “Back there.”
“I made a point.” I keep my voice level. “There’s a difference.”
She turns toward me now, anger bright and clear in her eyes. “I’m not something you get to claim.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not an object. You’re a line.”
Her confusion flickers. “A what?”
“A line men won’t cross if they want to keep their eyes or their hands. Better to be mine than someone else’s.”
She exhales a humorless sound. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”
“It isn’t meant to be a comfort.” I hold her gaze. “It’s meant to be true.”
She looks away toward the glass, the city, and some version of herself that isn’t trapped between two men’s definitions.
A long block later, she says quietly, “You didn’t have to threaten to cut that man’s eye out.”
“I did,” I say. “He wasn’t paying attention.”
“And you would enjoy teaching him a lesson,” she says.
“Sometimes.” The corner of my mouth moves. “Tonight, I would have enjoyed it more than most.”
She falls silent. Renat turns onto the avenue that takes us home. Or what will be her home for one more night.
Oddly enough, I can already feel the emptiness my place will have without her in it.
Maybe tomorrow doesn’t have to be the end for us. Just the end of this nightmare Archer caused for Alina before we get a chance at something else.