26. Damir
DAMIR
The man has his hand on my wife.
She’s near the side of the bar, trapped between a man and the wall, one hand braced against his chest as if she has already tried to push him off.
His hand is on her arm. His body is too close.
Her face is pale, her eyes wide, and for one second I think she’s only frightened because a stranger has cornered her.
The room begins to quiet as I cross it. Men move aside before I reach them. Some know who I am. Some only understand from the way Arman’s security shifts, from the way Mikhail comes in behind me, from the way Nikolai has already taken the front exit without saying a word.
The man sees me when I’m halfway across the floor.
His face changes at once. He releases Sofia, pushing her away like that will make the last ten seconds disappear. She stumbles forward, catches herself on the edge of the bar, and turns toward me with wide eyes and a flushed face.
Her breathing is wrong. Fast. Shallow. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
I reach her first and catch her by the waist before she can take another unsteady step. “Sofia.”
“I’m fine,” she says immediately. Her voice is rough.
I look at her face, then down at the hand she has pressed flat against the bar to keep herself steady. Her fingers are shaking. She pulls them into a fist when she realizes I have seen.
I turn to the man.
He backs up another step, hands raised. “I didn’t know who she was.”
I hit him in the mouth. He drops against the bar, catches himself, then tries to swing because some men are stupid enough to mistake survival panic for courage.
I step inside the punch and drive my fist into his stomach hard enough that he folds over, coughing.
Before he can fall, I grab the back of his collar and slam his face down onto the bar.
Glass breaks under his cheek. Someone screams behind me.
I hear Sofia say my name, but it’s quiet and strained, not enough to stop me.
I pull him up again. Blood runs from his mouth and nose.
“I didn’t know,” he gasps.
“You said that already.”
“I swear, I didn’t touch—”
I punch him again before he finishes the lie. His head snaps sideways, and he collapses to his knees. I step forward, catch him by the hair, and force his face up. His eyes are unfocused now. Blood drips onto his shirt. He’s trying to speak, but his mouth is too damaged to form anything useful.
I pull his arm down and twist until he cries out. “You put your hands on my wife,” I say.
“I was just talking to her.”
I hit him again. His lip splits open. Blood runs down his chin and onto his shirt.
Behind me, Mikhail says, “Damir.”
I ignore him.
The man swings at me once, weak and desperate. I step inside it, catch him by the back of the neck, and slam his face onto the bar. His knees buckle. I let him fall this time, and he lands on the floor, coughing and trying to crawl away.
I put my shoe on his hand.
He screams, and the sound finally makes Sofia move. Not toward me. Not away either. She flinches, just slightly, and then becomes very still again.
I look back at her. She’s standing beside Mikhail now, shoulders straight, face pale, one hand hovering near her throat before she forces it down.
Her breathing is wrong. Controlled, but not calm.
She’s trying to look unaffected, and because I know her, because I have spent three days watching the last footage of her fighting men in a service corridor, I can tell exactly how much effort it costs.
The man under my shoe makes a low sound. I look down at him. He sees my face and starts shaking.
“Take him out,” I say.
Two of my men step forward at once. Mikhail doesn’t argue.
The men lift him under the arms and drag him toward the side exit.
He is half-conscious, his feet dragging behind him, blood leaving small drops across Arman’s floor.
One of Arman’s guards starts forward, but Arman, standing near the private hallway now, raises one hand and stops him.
A few seconds later, the side door opens and closes.
I don’t ask where they leave him. The street is good enough.
I turn back to Sofia. She watches me carefully, but her face gives little away now. Too little. Her throat is red, her hair is loose over one shoulder, and she’s wearing my coat like she put it on without thinking and then forgot to take it off.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Her voice is still rough.
I look at her throat. Before I can have a good look at her, she turns to her side.
She lifts her chin. “He was being disgusting. That’s all.”
It’s a lie. Not all of it, maybe. But enough.
Any other time, I would push. I would make her say it. I would ask until the truth had nowhere left to hide.
Not here.
I step closer, but I don’t touch her. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Sofia.”
“I said no.”
Her eyes hold mine, and there’s a warning in them.
Not now.
I understand. I hate it, but I understand.
Before I can answer, a woman steps between two of Arman’s men and walks toward us.
Anya. I recognize her from the file. She’s Sofia’s oldest friend. She looks angry, worried, and far less afraid than she should be in a room full of my men. Her attention goes to Sofia first, quick and assessing, checking her face, her throat, her hands, the way she’s standing.
Then she looks at me. “I’m Anya,” she says.
“I know.”
“Good. Then we can skip introductions.”
Mikhail shifts behind me.
Anya notices but keeps her eyes on mine. “I brought her here,” she says.
Sofia’s face tightens.
I turn fully toward Anya. “What?”
“My men got her to me,” she says. “I thought she was in trouble.”
She’s lying. Why, though, I don’t understand.
Sofia glances at Anya. One quick look.
Enough.
They are protecting each other.
I should care. I will care later. Right now, Sofia is ten feet from me, alive, shaken. But all of that doesn’t matter. She’s okay.
Three days of not knowing where she was have left me with very little patience for anything except the fact that she’s standing in front of me.
I let the lie remain in the room.
“For three days,” I say.
Anya’s jaw tightens. “She needed somewhere to be.”
“She has a home.”
“She needed somewhere to be,” Anya repeats.
Sofia says, “Anya.” The warning is quiet.
Anya stops, but she doesn’t look sorry.
Arman steps forward then. I’ve never met the man in person, but I know everybody in the city and their business. He is calm, but not careless. His eyes move once to Sofia, then to me. He knows exactly what kind of room he’s standing in now.
“Volodin,” he says.
“Chekonov.”
“I didn’t know your men were coming tonight.”
“If you had known, you would have left?”
“No,” he says. “I would have moved civilians away from the front.”
That answer is practical. I accept it for now.
“Did you know my wife was here?”
“She came here tonight, like my other guests,” he says smoothly. “I don’t make a point of knowing anybody’s business, more then they deign to share.”
I cock a head. I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. But I guess that’s what happens when you run a gambling house.
I look at Sofia. She doesn’t lower her eyes. No apology. No explanation. She is tired, pale, shaken, and still ready to fight me if I make this ugly in front of everyone.
Grigori’s warning comes back at the worst possible moment.
If she asked for help, dragging her back will prove everything she fears. She was hiding out here. She thought running away was better than facing me.
“Did you know the men who took her?” I ask Anya, wanting her to slip.
“Nope, didn’t see them. They tried to kidnap her, thankfully we got to her before they could take her out of the city,” she says.
“Right,” I say.
“You should really be grateful to me for saving your wife,” she says.
“Is that so?” I ask.
“Anya,” Sofia whispers. “Can you not do this here?”
“Your husband is an ass,” she whispers back.
I feel my temper fraying, but I hold it back. I turn to Sofia. “Did you see the men who tried to take you?”
“Probably Dmitri’s,” she says, then adds, “Actually I don’t know for sure.”
Her explanation makes sense. Sokolov men were there, they could have easily taken her. And the reason there wasn’t a peep afterward was because they lost her.
“Sofia,” I say.
Her chin lifts. “What?”
“We are leaving.”
Anya steps closer. “Maybe she should decide that.”
Nikolai looks at her as if she has lost her mind. She ignores him.
Sofia looks at Anya, and something passes between them. It’s quick, but I see it. Anya asking if she wants to stay. Sofia deciding how much more trouble she can survive tonight.
I say nothing. That costs me more than I show.
Finally, Sofia says, “I’ll go.”
Anya doesn’t like it, but she nods. “Call me.”
“I will.”
Anya looks at me. “She calls, you let her talk.”
I hold her gaze. “Yes.”
She clearly didn’t expect that. Neither did Sofia.
Arman says, “I can arrange a car.”
“No.”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Our conversation is not finished,” I tell him.
“I assumed.”
I turn toward Sofia. She starts walking before I can offer my hand. Her steps are controlled, but I see the slight delay in them. She is tired. More than tired. She is holding herself together in public because pride is the last weapon she has in her hand.
I walk beside her, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, not close enough to make her pull away. The club parts around us. No one speaks.
Outside, the air is cold. My cars wait at the curb. My men are already positioned along the street. The man from the club is not visible anymore, but there is blood near the mouth of the alley and a dent in the side of a parked car.
Sofia sees the blood. Her mouth tightens, but she says nothing.
I open the rear door for her. She pauses. For one second, I think she may refuse.
Then she gets in. I sit beside her, and the door closes.
The car stays still while Nikolai confirms the route. Mikhail gets into the front passenger seat. The driver waits for my order.
Sofia looks out the window. “You’re not going to interrogate me?”
“Not in this car.”
Her eyes search mine, trying to find the trap.
There is no trap. Not tonight.
“I’m angry,” I say.
“I know.”