33. Deargán
DEARGáN
The first time Alistair’s hand found the small of her back, I forced myself to turn away.
I was here for the mission. Not for her.
The second time, his fingers closed around her elbow to steer her left, it was harder not to react.
The third time, his palm settled at the base of her spine, and something dark and ugly twisted in my chest.
Now I was standing in front of her, because I stupidly couldn’t stay away.
And the devil himself had taken his place next to her, his hand secured around back of her neck like she belonged to him.
Rage and disgust hit me so hard my grip tightened on the stem of my champagne glass. For one vicious second, I almost snapped this flute in half and stabbed the broken end into his jugular.
But I restrained myself. I breathed through it. Kept my weight even, my chin level, my tongue pressing behind my teeth.
If I wanted to just kill him, I could have done that years ago. A quick knife under the ribs while he was asleep. Done.
He deserved to suffer. He deserved for me to take everything away from him, piece by piece. To shatter his precious empire. To destroy his legacy. To end his only heir.
Beneath my anger, something more foul moved.
I had sent her here. I had decided the risk was acceptable, and now I was standing three feet from the proof of what that had actually meant.
Her knuckles were white on the tray. But her smile was in place. She was performing beautifully. And I was the one who had put her in the position of needing to.
Alistair’s thumb dragged against the side of her throat. “I don’t remember greeting you earlier, Mr.…”
My jaw tightened under my mask.
“Mikhailov,” I said, transforming my speech into a clipped Russian accent. “Aleksei Mikhailov of St. Petersburg.”
Bas had built my Mikhailov cover quickly, linking it to the Volkovs, a prominent underworld family. The cover included legitimate-looking IDs and a deadly reputation.
I didn’t ask how he did it. I didn’t want to know. I just cared that it held when Alistair dug into it.
Apparently, it did.
Recognition at the name opened Alistair’s expression. “Ah, Mikhailov. I’m so pleased your family could spare you.”
He smiled at me and extended his hand.
I was forced to take it, the touch of his hand making my skin crawl. Dark fantasies of tearing off his arm before I beat him with it threatened to consume me.
But I held my smile and kept my gaze off her as I answered his polite questions about Moscow weather and whether my flight over here was pleasant enough.
“Enjoy the party.” Alistair tugged her away, his palm resettling at her waist as he turned back to the room.
She glanced back at me over her shoulder, her eyes wide for a moment before she tucked herself under Rua’s mask.
Someone stepped into my line of sight.
The young Lasair boy.
He was taller than I’d expected, broad through the shoulders like he knew his way around a press rack. He held himself the way fighters do when they are pretending not to square up, weight set, fists at his side, sharp eyes taking measure while giving little away.
Youth gave him speed, no doubt, but I had been in enough bare-knuckle fights to know how to win. And I wasn’t afraid to play dirty.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he said. “How do you know my father?”
I repressed my irritation as I lost sight of her behind his back. “Business. Mutual colleague in St. Petersburg.”
“St. Petersburg, huh?” he said. “Ty chasto byvaesh tam?”
It took me a second to realize he had spoken in Russian. Do you spend much time there?
He was testing the seams of my disguise.
“Dostatochno,” I replied. Enough.
One corner of his mouth almost moved. “Everyone says the Astoria is best if you want to be near Nevsky for the night life.”
I tilted my head. “The Astoria is for St. Isaac’s Square. If I wanted Nevsky, I’d stay closer to the Grand Hotel Europe.”
His eyes sharpened a fraction. “My mistake.”
I shrugged and took a sip of my whiskey. “Easy to do if you’re a Burzhui.” A tourist.
“I did have the best caviar near Gostiny Dvor once. Tiny place. Armenian, I think.”
“Near Gostiny Dvor?” I made a face. “Then you paid too much for it. Next time, go to Volna on the Moika.”
Christ, he was clever. More clever than I’d given him credit for. He was probing my story under the small talk, and he was doing it well enough that I had to actively manage my responses to stay ahead of him.
I hadn’t calculated this.
I had been treating him as collateral damage. A variable to manage when the time came.
That assessment was wrong.
He was not peripheral.
He was a threat.
Perhaps the first one I should eliminate.