4. Roman #2
“Stay in line,” I say. My voice comes out flat and cold. “I don’t need your opinions on how I handle this. I need you to do your job and keep your mouth shut.”
Something flickers across her face. Disappointment, maybe. Or resignation.
“Of course, Mr. Volkonsky,” she says. The formality is deliberate. “Will that be all?”
“That’s all.”
She turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. I watch her disappear down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I tell myself I don’t care what she thinks.
I’m about to head upstairs when I hear voices coming from the entrance hall. I walk toward the sound and find Anton Grishin standing by the door, his coat already on and a tumbler of what looks like expensive scotch in his hand.
He’s not alone. One of Dmitri’s associates hovers nearby, looking uncomfortable and eager to leave. When Anton sees me, his mouth curves into something that might be a smile if you didn’t know him well.
“Roman,” he says. My name sounds wrong in his mouth. “I was just leaving. Wanted to pay my respects one last time before heading out.”
“Touching.”
The associate takes this as his cue to escape and mumbles something about getting his car. He’s out the door before Anton can stop him.
Anton takes a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving mine. “Hell of a funeral. Dmitri would’ve hated it. All that pomp and ceremony. He always preferred things more... intimate.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
“Just making small talk. It’s what we do at wakes, isn’t it?
Talk about the deceased, drink his liquor, pretend we’re all one big happy family.
” He gestures with his glass, and some of the scotch sloshes over the rim.
“Though I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here.
Didn’t think you’d show your face so soon after... well, after everything.”
I don’t take the bait. Anton wants me to react, to give him something he can use later. I’ve seen him work this routine before, usually on men stupider than I am.
“If you’re done, the door’s right there.”
“In a minute.” He sets his glass down on the console table, right on the polished wood without a coaster. Oksana would lose her mind if she saw that.
“I wanted to ask you about this Zabota business. Interesting move, claiming the widow so quickly.”
I can hear movement upstairs. Anton hears it, too, and his eyes flick toward the staircase.
Vera appears at the top of the stairs. Her eyes find mine, then shift to Anton... and something in her posture changes. Her shoulders go back and her chin lifts, but I can see her hand tighten on the banister.
She remembers him. Whatever Dmitri told her about his underboss, it wasn’t good.
“Mrs. Volkonsky,” Anton calls up to her. His voice is warm. “I was just leaving. Wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for your loss. Dmitri was... one of a kind.”
She descends the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister.
“Thank you, Mr. Grishin,” she says when she reaches the bottom. Her voice is like ice. “That’s kind of you to say. How will you be getting home? I see you’ve been drinking.”
“Oh, I’ll have my chauffeur take me.”
“Good. See that he drives safely.” There’s an edge to her voice that makes my pulse kick up. From Vera, it almost sounds like a threat.
Anton’s eyes move over her with an assessment that makes my hands curl into fists. He’s taking in every detail of her appearance. His smile widens just a fraction.
“I hope you’re holding up alright,” he says. “It must be difficult, losing a husband so suddenly. So violently.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. “Though I see you have Roman here to... comfort you. How fortunate.”
Vera’s face doesn’t change, but I see the slight hitch in her breathing.
“Roman is observing Zabota,” she says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a brittleness underneath. “As is proper.”
“Of course, of course. Very proper.” Anton picks up his scotch again and drains the rest of it in one swallow.
“I just think it’s remarkable how quickly grief can be alleviated.
One minute you’re burying your husband, the next you’re...
” He trails off, gesturing vaguely between us. “Moving on already, I suppose.”
I cross the distance between us in three strides. Anton doesn’t step back, but his grip on the glass tightens enough that I can hear it creak.
“Careful,” I say quietly. My voice is low enough that Vera probably can’t hear it from where she’s standing. “You’re about to say something you’ll regret.”
“Am I?” Anton’s breath smells like scotch and something sour underneath. “I’m just stating facts, Roman. You show up at your brother’s funeral after, what, ten years? By the end of the day, you’ve claimed his widow and moved her into your protection. That’s not suspicious at all.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m observing.” He glances past me to where Vera stands. “She looks well-fucked, by the way. In case you were wondering if people could tell.”
The rage that floods through me is white-hot and immediate. My hand is around his throat before I consciously decide to move, and I’m shoving him back against the wall hard enough that the empty glass falls from his hand and shatters on the marble floor.
Anton makes a choked sound. His hands come up to grab my wrist, but I don’t let go. I can feel his pulse jumping beneath my fingers.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I say. My voice is perfectly calm, which seems to frighten him more than if I were shouting. “Vera is under my protection now. That means you don’t talk to her. Don’t even acknowledge her.”
He nods as much as he can with my hand around his throat.
“If I hear that you’ve been spreading rumors or making comments about her, I will break every bone in your hands. Then I’ll move on to your arms. If you still haven’t learned your lesson by then, I’ll get creative.” I lean in closer. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes,” he gasps out.
I hold him there for another moment, then release him. He stumbles forward, one hand going to his throat. His face is red and his eyes are watering, but there’s something else there too. Calculation. He’s already thinking about how to use this.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says once he catches his breath. His voice is hoarse and rough. “Thinking you can just waltz back in here and take what you want. This family has rules, Roman. Your father has rules.”
“Then he can tell me himself.”
“Oh, he will.”
Anton picks his way around the shattered glass and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle and looks back at Vera.
Then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear Vera breathing.
“Well,” she says finally. Her voice is shaky but she’s trying to hide it. “That went well.”
I turn to face her. She’s still standing at the base of the stairs, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold. The color has drained from her face, making the shadows under her eyes more pronounced.
Vera crouches down and picks up one of the larger pieces of glass. She turns it over in her fingers, watching how the light catches on the sharp edges.
“Be careful,” I say.
“I’m always careful.” She sets the piece down gently on the console table. “It’s how I survived three years with Dmitri. By being very, very careful.”