Chapter Twenty-One #2
Dmitri takes over the conversation, telling stories about Roman. Maybe twenty-five percent are flattering.
"Roman's stay at the Ares Academy was not a smooth one," Dmitri says, his expression warmed by conversation and good wine.
"Wait. The Ares Academy, is that a private college?" I ask. "I've never heard of it."
"It's the most private of colleges," Dmitri says. "Nearly every family in our world wants to send their children there. It's rather…" He exchanges a glance with Roman. "Rather rigorous."
"Okay," I nod. "So, what happened?"
"Phones and any device that can connect to outside of the college's computer network were strictly forbidden.
Roman here ran a robust black-market network in cell phones and laptops.
He managed to hijack a satellite that was in a stationary position over Ireland and used it to process and disperse the cell data.
He got away with it for… how long was it, brother? "
Roman takes a huge gulp of wine. "Six months. And then, my punishment lasted another six months. I was part of Professor Deschamps cleanup crew."
"What were you cleaning up?" Ava asks.
He barely conceals a shudder. "Everything. We cleaned up everything."
Even as I'm laughing, I'm very aware of Roman having slung his arm casually over the back of my chair, his fingers idly twisting a wisp of my hair around his finger.
I'm just about to reverently dip my fork into what I'm told is a classic Russian dessert - honeycake with sea buckthorn and birdcherry - when a man strolls up to the table.
"What a beautiful sight. A family all together, sharing a meal."
The man is tall, impeccably dressed. He's older, gray streaking his temples and his beard, but his posture is rigid and proud. There are two burly types standing behind him in dark suits that scream 'personal security.'
In a moment, it's like I'm standing in a walk-in freezer. The temperature is dropping around me, the polar chill is emanating from Maksim. "Mattia Bianchi," he nods, making no effort to stand up. "It is a beautiful night. I didn't know you enjoyed Russian food."
"Oh, I do find myself straying away from Italian occasionally," the man says easily. "It's good to visit other neighborhood boroughs, see some new sights, and old friends." His smile doesn't reach his eyes, so he's here for something else. Something not on the menu.
I wish I could decipher the body language passing between him and the Morozov men, but he seems perfectly confident about taking on all three of them at once.
"I have not forgotten," Bianchi says casually, "that I owe you a favor, Maksim. It's unsatisfying, having an open ledger. So, should some favor come to mind, I would be happy to grant it, if it is within my power."
I'm utterly still, barely breathing as I watch this odd interaction.
It's clear these men don't like each other, and yet this guy is offering to do a favor for Maksim?
If there's a superhero who freezes people to death with his eyes, it would be Maksim Morozov.
His eyes are the color of an iceberg, and as cold as he stares unblinkingly at Bianchi for a little while before nodding.
"Gracious of you to remember," he says, his tone neutral. "I will keep that in mind. It's always a pleasure to do business with other professionals."
Bianchi chuckles, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it, despite the anxious fluttering of the hostess behind him. "It is," he says. "I'll be seeing you soon. I'm sure." He turns, walking slowly to the garden's exit, leaving cigar smoke hanging in a cloud around us, heavy and cloying.
"What was that about?" Ava says, her tone low enough to not leave the table.
"Posturing," Dmitri says dismissively. "The head of every family enjoys making themselves known in someone else's territory every now and then."
Maksim takes a long sip of the vodka he'd chosen instead of the wine the rest of us were drinking.
"It's always good to be owed a favor rather than requesting one," he says.
Roman and Dmitri both listen to him as if the words that fall from his lips are the words of God, but I can see why.
Their father is terrifying, but he also seems extraordinarily intelligent and it's clear his gaze misses nothing.
The conversation resumes, but it takes me a while to switch from that tense fight or flight feeling that surged through me when the two men faced off back to relaxed and amiable.
I'm amazed that they can all shift back-and-forth so easily.
If I stay with Roman, that's something I'm going to have to learn.
Doubt assaults me as I take a delicate fork-full of my honeycake with sea buckthorn, whatever the hell that is.
Does he want anything more? A couple of days ago, Ivan told me that Vors for a Bratva tend to be single, with no children.
The position is one of the most dangerous.
I don't know if he was trying to tell me something or just explaining the Bratva power structure.
Roman made it clear that he doesn't want to leave this position and join his brother as Sovietnik when Dmitri takes over as Pakhan, no matter how many times he addresses him as 'Sovietnik Jr.' He said it jokingly tonight. Roman's molars ground together.
"-to go?"
"What?" Blinking, I look at Roman. "I'm sorry. I was wrapped up in this moment with the honeycake."
Ava laughs. "I hear you. I might have had a religious experience when I took a bite of the rhum baba with the cloud berry confiture."
"Do I need to give you a moment?" Dmitri asks with a grin.
"I'm just fine," Ava says primly, dabbing her lips with her napkin.
We say our goodbyes at the gate, and Roman hands me my helmet. "Are you tired, baby?"
That unsettling expression of his... I should say 'Yes, I'm very tired.' I should say the wine's getting to me.
But I don't. I say, "Not so tired," and watch his grin spread, predatory and eager across his gorgeous face.