Chapter 27
T he Russians were full of contradictions. Dexter learned the lesson early. To most people, they didn’t follow discernable patterns. Dexter’s mother was Polish, however, giving him some insight into how the minds of Eastern Europeans worked. For instance three years ago the brothers spent four days on the phone trying to hash out which office toilet paper was the cheapest, finally locating a half ply made from recycled trash in Taiwan. For three months that was their standard until Yuri got an unmentionable infection from it that required a ten-day course of antibiotics. But those same men who had happily skimped on toilet paper that cost ten cents less per role had rented out an entire luxury country club for Dexter’s reception, complete with full catering by some of the biggest names in the food industry.
True, everything was a tax write-off because it was essentially a networking party. Also true that the catering was a goodwill PR stunt to fluff up some of their clients. But still, it had cost a fortune and been a massive amount of work. Dexter knew because he’d watched the brothers oversee every step of the process. He was touched by their thoughtfulness and care. Even if it had started out as a stunt to cover their backsides after their slipup at The Bristol, it had turned into so much more. In their way, they were telling Dexter they loved and appreciated him, and maybe that they were a little bit sorry for all the sleepless nights they’d brought him the last few years of putting out fires and rescuing them from themselves. They would not be where they were as a company without him, Dexter knew. He had brought them from a humble warehouse on the docks to a fancy office in a prime location, to say nothing of the explosive growth of their client list and portfolio. But he owed them something, too. In their own way, they had given him something in return; they had taught him not to take life or himself too seriously, to find the value in people who were so unlike himself. If he got down to the nitty-gritty, they had helped prepare him for Lainey, helped him to see beyond her zany exterior to the adorably sweet woman within. He could never repay them for that, not with all the money or prestigious clients in the world.
All he could do was play his part tonight. The Bristols, and everyone else, would see nothing but a happy groom and an upstanding family company with a rock solid work ethic. This was technically Dexter and Lainey’s night, but The Popovs would shine bright; Dexter would make sure of it.
There was a rustle, the sort that happens when a beautiful woman enters the room, as if everyone has to stop and stare, arrested by the sight. Dexter turned, expecting to see Lainey, but saw Sonya instead, her cool beauty fully on display in a midnight blue dress that matched her eyes and conformed to her lush figure. Dexter easily and readily admitted she was beautiful, but in an abstract way. It wasn’t the sort of beauty that touched him, not the way Lainey’s beauty pierced his heart, almost painful in its overwhelming depth and size.
As if thinking about her had conjured her, he noticed her slip in quietly behind Sonya, with no fuss or undue attention, which was a shame because he thought she looked stunning. He loved her in her ubiquitous messy bun, adored her in an apron covered with chocolate, and now had a newfound devotion to the Albert Einstein nightshirt. But this was a whole other level and he couldn’t look away.
“Dexter,” Sonya said, her tone perplexed.
Dexter paused, tearing his eyes off Lainey with effort in order to regard Sonya. “What?”
She shook her head at him and he realized what happened. When he began walking toward the entrance, she thought he was coming to her heel, as every man in the room minus her brothers seemingly longed to do. But in his haste to reach Lainey, he had completely forgotten Sonya until she spoke.
“Thanks for coming,” he said lamely and kept going until he reached his goal, until he reached Lainey. Then he did what he had been longing to do the entire day—he pulled her close and kissed her, wrapping her in what had to be the world’s tightest hug. “I missed you,” he said, an understatement. The day had felt interminable.
“Same,” she said, returning his hard squeeze. “How was your day?”
“Long, but better now. Yours?”
“Same.”
“You look incredible,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “What are the chances we could leave right now without being noticed?”
“Since you’re the guest of honor, I’m going to say not great,” she said, easing back slightly to touch his tie. She stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. “But maybe we could find a private moment, before The Russians find us.”
“Lainey, you are here,” Ivan boomed.
Too late, Dexter mouthed.
“You can tell Lainey is here because Dexter is no longer Mr. Floppy Jowls,” Maxim added.
Lainey’s brows rose questioningly toward Dexter who wound his finger around his ear.
“Is time to make introductions, yes?” Yuri added.
“Yes,” Dexter agreed with a nod. He would be the one to introduce Lainey, both because she was his wife and because he was the official Popov spokesperson. “Ready?” He stared down at Lainey, trying not to beam. Perhaps he actually was Mr. Floppy Jowls without her because, now that he thought about it, he was almost always smiling when they were together. It was probably a nice break for his face when he was away and not grinning like a deranged person.
“Put me in, coach,” Lainey said, slipping her hand in his and giving it a squeeze.
Unable to resist, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I think you’re my favorite.”
“Your favorite wife?” she guessed.
“My favorite everything,” he said. He squeezed her hand, noting with pleasure the resulting flush that crept over her cheeks. Suddenly it felt like everything would be okay. Lainey was here. The night was perfect. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, as it turned out.
F or a while, everything was fine. Dexter had always been good with names and faces, a bonus when he was the de facto spokesman of his company. He introduced Lainey to each person they encountered, remembering to tell her a pertinent fact he hoped was interesting.
Lainey responded like a seasoned pro, so well that if he ever decided to run for office, she’d be a shoe-in as a senatorial wife. She smiled, she dazzled, she charmed, responding with sincere wit and warmth, nothing fake or awkward about her.
The Russians trooped silently behind them, looking stern and broody. They weren’t, and Dexter thought Lainey’s bubbly enthusiasm went a long way toward providing a proper contrast. The brothers must have thought so too because they began to relax as the night wore on, occasionally laughing or smiling at something she said.
By the time they sat down to eat, it was as if she had become an honorary Popov, especially when she spent so long extolling each bite of her meal.
“Is this beef from heaven? I don’t know what a tournedo is, but it is about a thousand times better than a tornado,” she said.
“To be fair, you’ve never eaten a tornado,” Dexter said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she said, resting her hand on his thigh so he lost the thread of the conversation a few minutes. When he came back to earth, he realized she was cutting her meat in ever-tinier bites.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“If you cut it in tiny bites, it makes more,” she said.
“It absolutely does not,” Dexter said.
“Of course it does,” Yuri said, coming to Lainey’s defense. “Is science.”
“You’re not a science guy,” Lainey said. “It’s okay.”
“We each have six ounces,” Dexter said, showing her his beef for comparison. “No matter how many bites you cut, it’s still the same six ounces.”
“No, you have six bites. Lainey has twenty. Is more,” Ivan said with authority.
“More bites does not equal more,” Dexter said.
“How is twenty not more than six?” Maxim asked.
“Because it was the same amount to start with,” Dexter said.
“Dexter is bad at maths, too. Are we sure he should be in charge of books?” Andrei asked.
“I love you guys,” Lainey said happily. The brothers beamed at her, a real smile and not the scary scowl they reserved for strangers.
“I can’t handle all five of you,” Dexter muttered.
“Let’s also hope your tactics for us aren’t the same,” Lainey said, tossing him a wink as she shoveled a bite of potatoes.
“Dexter is blushing,” Yuri said, pointing an oversized finger at Dexter’s cheeks.
“Dexter is not blushing,” Dexter said. Dexter was flushing . There was a difference. As surreptitiously as possible, he checked his watch. Exactly how much longer until he could have Lainey all to himself again?
“Is dance time now,” Maxim declared. He signaled to someone and music began.
Lainey gasped. “Dancing? I love dancing.”
“We somehow thought you might,” Yuri said.
“Are you sure you are not Russian, Lainey?” Ivan asked. “You love all the good things in life—food, music, poetry. You have the passion. Not like Dexter. Is wooden cutout Pinocchio boy.” His hand encompassed Dexter with a little wave of disgust, miming a marionette.
“Yes, but where would we be without him?” Lainey asked. “We need Dexters in the world, mine specifically.” She rested her hand on his thigh again, giving it a squeeze and once again Dexter’s mind flew somewhere near the ceiling and hovered, the very best sort of out-of-body experience.
“Ask your wife to dance,” Andrei commanded, slugging Dexter’s shoulder with what was probably supposed to be a gentle tap but instead touched bone.
“I was going to,” Dexter said.
“Better hurry or we will,” Maxim threatened, wagging his brows.
“First dance to the husband,” Ivan said, scowling at his brother. “After that, we talk.”
“All the dances for the husband,” Dexter said. He stood and held out his hand to Lainey.
“Dexter, be fair,” Yuri complained.
“Get your own wives, don’t poach mine,” Dexter said.
“They’re fun,” Lainey said, trailing behind him as he led her away.
“They’re something,” Dexter agreed, tugging her tightly into his embrace as they started to sway. “I’m not a great dancer.”
“I don’t care,” Lainey replied.
That was likely true, and also one of the things he loved about her. Lainey cared about the fundamentals and none of the trappings. “Are you having a good night?”
“The best,” Lainey gushed. “It feels real.”
He rested his forearm on her shoulder, cupping her face. “Isn’t it?”
She bit her lip and gazed up at him with what was either a pensive or hopeful expression. He felt like he was holding his breath as he awaited her answer.
“I…” she began, but was soon interrupted.
“Is good time to cut in, yes?”
They swiveled in unison to see Sonya on standby, perfectly posed and perfectly polished. Her smile was seductive and confident.
“No, go away,” Lainey said.
Sonya’s exquisite features arranged themselves into an angry pout. “Is bad manners to refuse hostess a dance.”
“It’s worse manners to sexually harass your employee,” Lainey said. She stopped dancing and faced Sonya fully.
“Lainey,” Dexter said softly, warningly. He was heartened by her defense, but people were starting to look at them.
“I never,” Sonya hissed.
“You always,” Lainey hissed in return. “But no more. Don’t touch him again. Or else.”
“I need to hear it from Dexter,” Sonya said, facing him.
“You have heard it from me, a thousand times,” he said.
“Is game we play,” she said, waving him away.
“It is not a game when you stalk another woman’s husband,” Lainey inserted.
Sonya returned her furious scowl to her. “Is not real marriage. Everyone knows this.”
Lainey’s hands settled on her hips. She took a small step forward. “Who are you to say what’s real and what isn’t? This is our marriage, not yours. Leave Dexter alone. I mean it.”
“Big words from small American nuisance,” Sonya said.
“Ladies,” Dexter said, tugging nervously at his collar.
The brothers appeared on the scene, as they always did when their sister showed up. Dexter was never certain if it was an attempt to contain her or curiosity over what might happen next. This time it was neither.
“They are here,” Yuri hissed, furious tone matching Sonya’s.
“Who?” Dexter asked. He had a sudden sympathy for the spotter standing at the edge of The Titanic . The night was spinning away from him with alarming speed.
“The Hungarians,” Ivan said. As a unit, all of them turned to the entrance where, indeed, The Hungarians had just entered.
They were a good counterpart to The Russians, all of them sandy haired and fair skinned, as opposed the The Russians’ black hair, brows, and expressions. While The Russians looked like someone you might encounter in a back alley if you forgot to pay hush money, The Hungarians were more dapper, at home among the elite of the foodie world.
“How dare they,” Andrei said.
“Time to kill them, yes?” Maxim said.
“Let’s all take a deep breath and regroup,” Dexter suggested, but he was certain no one heard. And when a new voice arrived on the scene, he had to take his own breath.
“Lainey, we need to talk,” Ian said. While everyone was focused on The Hungarians, he had arrived through the opposite door unseen.
“It’s our reception,” Dexter said. “I’ve been patient, but you can’t be here. You have to go.”
“Not until I hear it from Lainey,” Ian said, sounding no less desperate than he had that morning at their house.
Everyone turned to Lainey, waiting for her answer, but before she could provide it someone else spoke.
“Popovs. Nice little shindig you have here,” Blaise Kovacs interrupted. He was the oldest Hungarian brother, their de facto leader. Tonight he wore a tuxedo, one that looked like it had been made for him.
“You look like ventriloquist dummy that lost its hand,” Yuri said, scowling. “Go back to Edgar Bergen, Charlie McCarthy. Is waiting for dummy to start show.”
Blaise gave an unpleasant little laugh and scanned Yuri up and down. “You look like a grizzly wearing pants.”
“All the better to eat you with,” Ivan said, popping his knuckles.
“Lainey,” Ian pressed.
Lainey crossed her arms over her chest, looking distressed.
Dexter would have to make a scene, but so be it. The time for polite discourse was over, and Ian needed to go. But before he could say so, Sonya spoke up.
“Why don’t you go off with your little American friend and talk? Leave Dexter to us.” Her hand reached out, curling possessively on Dexter’s bicep.
Lainey straightened, uncrossed her arms, and forced them to her sides. “I told you not to touch him. Ever again,” she said carefully, and then she pounced.
For a breathless few seconds the men stood in a circle, watching the women have what could only be a catfight in the center of the ballroom. They scrambled back and forth, rolling together like warring anacondas as they pulled each other’s hair, shoved, bit, and scratched. It was as mesmerizing as it was disturbing and everyone seemed unable to look away.
Ian was the first to react. “Lainey!” He reached both arms, apparently intent on pulling her back, and that was too much for Dexter.
“She’s not yours to rescue,” he said, and now Ian turned to him, taking a swing. Dexter was prepared for it. He rebounded and took a swing of his own, one Ian returned.
The Hungarians and The Russians surveyed each other. Then, with a shrug, pounced, creating an instant melee of Eastern European grunts as fists met flesh.
With a high keening sound, Mrs. Popov jumped into the fray, fake leather knockoff Kate Spadd pocketbook upraised, beating anyone she could find, which unfortunately happened to be one of her sons, more often than not.
No one could tell who was winning, or if anyone was. At one point everyone was in a twelve person tangle together, struggling and wrestling for supremacy, until at last the police finally arrived, cuffed everyone, and led them away.