13. Katya #2
I smile. Despite my grief, I can't help it.
"It's the season. You know how it is."
He nods, though I suspect he's never understood my dedication to ballet. In his world, power comes from money and fear and the willingness to destroy your enemies. Art is a luxury, a decoration for powerful men to display.
His granddaughter being a ballerina was cute when I was younger, but now it's time for me to contribute to the family. I'm sure that will come up soon enough.
"I've ordered for both of us," he says, pouring wine from an expensive bottle. "I remember what you used to like."
He doesn't remember that I don't drink, but I hold my tongue.
I'm too tired to argue, and he won't care anyway. My grandfather is one of those men who has spent so much time being listened to that he doesn't quite remember how it works when he has to do the listening.
"How long are you in New York?"
"A few days. Business." He takes a sip of his wine, studying me over the rim of his glass. "I was hoping we could spend some time together. Real time, not just one dinner."
I tense because, just as I suspected, he wants to pressure me into giving up my career. We've had variations of this conversation for years.
"I'm very busy with the company?—"
"You're always busy with the company." There's frustration in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. "Katya, you're twenty-four years old, nearly twenty-five. You can't dance forever."
I snort.
"Please do not pretend that you care about my health and longevity as it pertains to work."
He glares at me.
"And you should not pretend that dancing around a stage is a career."
"I'm a principal dancer at one of the most prestigious companies in the world. This is what I've worked my entire life for."
"This is what you've hidden behind your entire life."
The words sting because I've worked hard for my career. It's been the only thing I've ever been able to count on in my life, and his insistence that it is nothing hurts, even if there is a little truth in his statement.
Maybe that makes the words hurt more.
"I'm not hiding. I'm building a career."
"In a world that doesn't matter." He leans forward, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when he's trying to be persuasive rather than commanding. "You have responsibilities, Katinka. To your family. To your heritage."
"I have responsibilities to myself."
"Do you?" His pale eyes are sharp, calculating. "What kind of life are you building here? You live in a tiny apartment, you have no security, no protection. You're completely vulnerable."
I grit my teeth.
"I'm fine. No one is looking for me."
I leave out the apartment part. My place is all I can afford since he cut me off, but I know mentioning that will give him an opening.
"Can you be sure?" He glares at me. "Is that why you continue with Luciano Nero?"
I release a breath of frustration.
Here we go.
"I've told you, Luc and I are friends."
"Luciano is a Nero. And the Neros hate us. They think they are better?—"
"Are you spying on me?"
I don't actually need confirmation. If he's not spying on me, I assume he's spying on Luc.
"I told you?—"
"I protect what's important to me," he says simply. "Even when it doesn't want to be protected."
"I'm not an object," I snap. "And I don't appreciate being treated like one."
My grandfather curses under his breath, asks God for patience, and focuses back on me.
"Katinka, please. I worry about you. I heard about Adrian Nero, and his sister. They do not?—"
"We aren't friends anymore," I say, and the words taste like ash in my mouth. "So it doesn't matter."
Something shifts in Viktor's expression, a softness I don't expect.
"Did he hurt you? Your eyes are red. You think you can hide it, but I know you. You are upset."
The question is asked gently, but there's steel underneath it. The kind of steel that has made men disappear without a trace.
"No," I lie, because the truth is too complicated and too humiliating to explain. "Our friendship just ran its course. I simply have allergies."
Viktor studies my face, and I know he doesn't believe me. But before he can push further, there's a soft knock on the door.
I slump in relief. He's not going to let this go, but for now, we can move on.
"Come," Viktor calls.
One of his security men steps into the room.
"Sir, a guest has arrived."
My grandfather's brows narrow.
"I said not to be disturbed."
The guard swallows heavily, and I grip the armchair slightly. Whoever is showing up uninvited is important enough that the guard is willing to risk my grandfather's ire.
"It's the Pakhan."
This time, I'm confused.
"Alexei?" I shift in my chair. "You invited him here!"
My grandfather knows how much I hate Alexei Morozov. The few times I've met him, he'd been a slimy asshole.
"Send him in."
My mouth drops open, and I'm about to lose it.
But as the door opens wider, it's not Alexei who walks in.
It's Artem, dressed in a crisp navy suit.
For a split second, something flickers in his expression, but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Viktor," he says warmly, moving forward with his hand extended. "Apologies for the interruption."
"Artem." Viktor clasps his hand, genuine affection in his voice. "I'd like you to meet my granddaughter, Katya."
The world tilts sideways.
Granddaughter.
Viktor Popov is my grandfather, and Artem, the Russian financier, is a Pakhan—the head of the New York Bratva, which my grandfather oversees.
And from the way Artem looks at me, I know this is not a coincidence.