12. Sofia #2
“You checked?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“She helped you send the invitation.”
My hand tightens around the coffee cup. So he knows.
“What do you intend to do about it?” I ask. Squash a rebellion? Kill my fire? All of the things I don’t ask him.
“She will not be harmed.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It was the relevant part.”
“I decide what is relevant to my friend.”
“You may decide many things,” he says calmly. “Security is not one of them.”
I set the coffee cup down before I throw it at him. “Is this the breakfast invitation?” I ask. “Because so far it feels more like a police interview with better china.”
“I want you to have breakfast with me.”
“Why?”
“Because we are married.”
“That seems like a reason to avoid each other until death.”
“Not in this house.”
“In this house, do wives traditionally eat with their kidnappers?”
“In this house, wives eat.” His gaze drops briefly to the plate Marina brought. “And drink coffee apparently strong enough to revive the dead.”
“That coffee is the only reason you and I are speaking civilly.”
“We are speaking civilly?”
“By my standards, yes.”
Again, the almost-smile.
I point at him. “Stop enjoying me.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
I blink. He says it so calmly. Not ashamed. Not teasing exactly. Just factual, as if lying is another tailored part of the suit.
I lean back in the chair and cross my arms. “Fine. Breakfast. But if this is where you explain my duties as your wife, I should warn you that I am allergic to duties.”
“You trained to be a wife, did you not?”
The words hit harder than I expect. My humor folds inward.
I look at him. He watches me closely, and for once I hate him for noticing because I don’t have the energy to hide quickly enough.
“My uncle trained me for a lot of things,” I say.
“That was not an answer.”
“It was the only one I felt like giving.”
His expression doesn’t soften. Damir doesn’t seem like the type to soften on command. But something in his attention changes, less predatory, more careful.
I hate that too.
“You were educated abroad,” he says.
“Briefly.”
“Languages?”
“Several.”
“Which ones?”
“Russian, English, French, Italian. Enough German to insult someone’s shoes and order cake.”
“Useful.”
“For diplomacy or dessert?”
“Both.”
I look down at the ridiculous ring tied to my finger, then back at him. “If you already investigated me, why are you asking?”
“Reports tell me facts. I prefer answers.”
“That sounds like something embroidered on the wall of a very threatening school.”
“What did they teach you best?” he asks.
I know what he means. He means etiquette, alliances, family histories, seating rules, names of men whose hands I should shake and men whose wives I should flatter.
He means piano recitals and charity committees and how to smile when old men tell me my mother would have been proud.
He means the training that turned me into a useful ornament before anyone bothered asking whether I wanted to be useful.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of an honest answer.
So I say, “Piano.”
His gaze narrows slightly.
“And knitting,” I add.
There’s a pause. The pause is worth everything.
“Knitting,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“You knit.”
“Beautifully.”
His eyes drop briefly to my hands, to the giant ring wobbling on my finger, then back to my face. “What do you knit?”
“Threats, mostly.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“You’ve never seen my scarves.”
The corner of his mouth moves, and I feel an absurd burst of triumph.
Then he takes out his phone.
My smile fades. “What are you doing?”
He taps the screen and brings it to his ear.
I sit up. “Damir.”
He ignores me. Of course he does.
A moment later, someone answers, and he says, “Have a piano brought to the house.”
My mouth drops open.
He looks at me while he says it. “A proper one. Not decorative. Speak to Kirill; he knows dealers.”
I stand so fast the chair scrapes behind me. “Are you insane?”
He continues, “And send someone for yarn. Needles. Whatever is required for knitting.”
“Whatever is required for knitting?” I repeat, offended despite myself.
His eyes remain on mine. “No pink,” he says into the phone after a second, then pauses. “Actually, bring pink too. She looks angry enough to hate it.”
I point at him. “Hang up.”
He does not.
“Today,” he says, then ends the call.
For a moment, the room is silent. I stare at him as he returns the phone to his pocket.
“You are unbelievable,” I say.
“You said piano and knitting.”
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you bringing them here?”
“Because you said them.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is in my house.”
I let out a laugh, but it has no humor. “You are going to be very disappointed when I tell you I also trained in arson.”
His gaze moves over me slowly. “I will inform security.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he says, reaching for the coffee pot. “You are angry with me.”
“Those are emotionally adjacent.”
He pours himself coffee with that bandaged hand, completely unconcerned with the fact that he has just ordered an entire piano because I used it as conversational bait.
“Sit,” he says.
“Don’t order me around.”
“Please sit.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was worse.”
“Still an improvement.”
I should leave. I should storm out, except I don’t know where out is, and also I am barefoot because the shoes Marina gave me are near the bed and I forgot them in the drama of calling Anya. Dignified escape is difficult without footwear.
So I sit, but not because he told me to. Because standing in bare feet while arguing with a fully dressed crime lord feels uneven.
Damir pours more coffee into my cup too.
I glare at him. He knows I’m sarcastic, he has to be. He’s not exactly stupid.
“You know this is not normal.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t know, or no, it isn’t normal?”
“Yes.”
I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help.
He lifts his cup and watches me over the rim. Smirking.
He’s actually smirking now.
Not almost. Not implied. A real, faint, deeply annoying smirk.
I hate him. I absolutely hate him.
I hate his cliff house, his terrifying men, his perfect coffee, his enormous ring, his ability to hear knitting and decide procurement is romance or warfare or whatever strange category this falls under.
I hate that I asked for information about his dead wife five minutes ago and now I am sitting here trying not to laugh because he ordered yarn like a military asset.
I hate that he has made the room feel less like a cage without opening a single door.
“You are enjoying this,” I accuse.
“Yes.”
“At least lie.”
“No.”
“You lied two minutes ago.”
“I was preserving conversation.”
“You are impossible.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I will probably say it tomorrow too.”
“Good,” he says.
“Good?”
“It means you expect there to be a tomorrow.”
My mouth closes. Just like that, the banter drops too close to something real.
He knows it.
I know he knows it.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The sea crashes below the cliff, steady and violent. The morning light cuts across the table, catching the black thread around my finger, the heavy ring too large for my hand, the bandage wrapped around his palm.
I look away first because I’m not ready for whatever is sitting between us.
Damir lets me.
That might be the most dangerous thing about him. He knows when to push. He knows when not to.
I reach for my coffee and take a sip. Still perfect.
Annoying.
“So,” I say, because retreating into sarcasm is safer than drowning in silence, “when the piano arrives, am I expected to perform for your inner circle like a trained seal?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You will perform for me.”
I nearly choke.
He drinks his coffee. Still smirking.
I set my cup down very carefully. “Damir.”
“Yes, wife?”
The word lands between us.
I look at him across the table. He looks back, calm and unreadable except for the faint satisfaction still curving his mouth.
I should be terrified, and maybe I am. But I am also awake in a way I have not been for months, maybe years.
Angry, confused, trapped, alive. Sitting across from a monster who allowed me a private call, noticed my coffee, threatened my friend with surveillance but not harm, and ordered knitting supplies because I tried to irritate him.
This can’t be my life. And yet here I am.
I lift my chin. “If you want a performance,” I say, “you should know I charge very high rates.”
His eyes warm with something I don’t trust. “I can afford you.”
My heart stumbles.
I hate that too.
I hate everything.
Especially the fact that when he lifts his coffee again and smirks at me over the rim, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling back.