24. Artem
Artem
Viktor said her name like a grenade with the pin already pulled, which was likely his plan.
He wanted to see whether I'd flinch. Whether he'd found the seam.
It took a lot of control, but I gave him nothing. Whatever weakness he was looking for, he wasn't going to find it. This wasn't my first time being probed for information, and it's soft in comparison to the torturous methods I'd experienced in the past.
I would have laughed in Viktor's face had I been able to.
He and I both know why I forced Katya to marry me, he simply didn't want to admit it at the time.
I would have been more obvious about it, but then I heard a small creak and knew that Katya was there, listening.
I was not interested in her knowing about Irina.
Not now.
Katya is smart, brilliant even, and it won't be hard for her to put the pieces together.
Not that that stopped her from asking. When she did, and I shut her down, she stormed off, slamming her bedroom door like an angry teen.
Her lack of pressure puts me on edge, and as I walk into the kitchen this morning, I feel a sense of unease. There's never any telling how Katya will behave.
I see her at the counter, both hands wrapped around her mug, still in her sleep clothes, hair loose. She looks up when I walk in with an expression that hasn't had time to armor itself yet.
For a moment she just looks at me, and I just look at her, and I'm reminded of how she used to look at me, the softness she used to give to me.
And for a second, I feel a longing for what we once had — even if it was fake.
"Coffee's fresh," she gestures to the pot, apparently deciding speaking to me is better than glaring silently.
I raise a brow. "I didn't know we owned a drip pot."
She snorts. "I got tired of trying to figure out your espresso machine, so Lacey bought me one."
I nod, pouring myself a cup. I need the caffeine, and I don't mind black coffee, even if it's not my preference. I bite my tongue, words of scolding just on the tip.
"Thank you."
She stays at the counter, and I know this is some sort of play. Katya doesn't stay this close to me unless she has to.
"My grandfather called me," she says casually.
"Oh?" I'm not surprised. "I assumed now that he's content you are settled, he'd return to Russia."
Her knee bounces up and down. "He told me he's ill and can't make the journey back."
I hold back a smile, trying my best to appear concerned. "Oh?"
"Don't pretend to care, Artem," she snaps. "It's clear that there is something else between you and my grandfather beyond our marriage. I'm not a moron."
I say nothing, sipping from my mug as though I did not hear her.
"He says he's seeing a doctor and it's helping. He wants us to attend a dinner tonight. Apparently, as a make up."
I hold back a smile. It's getting more challenging to hold back the glee I feel. It dies quickly as I look into her eyes. Katya looks different. I've noticed her exhaustion since our marriage, but here, in the morning light, there's more.
I'm not sure how I missed the gaunt look in her face and the way her collarbone juts out from her shirt.
"Are you ill?" I take a step toward her, putting my coffee down.
The question throws her off guard. "What?"
"You look ill, Katya. Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor?"
She laughs, but the sound lacks happiness. The warmth in her, which I'd enjoyed so much when we first met, is slowly being snuffed out.
"Gee, thanks. That's what every girl wants to hear."
"I just mean?—"
She places her mug down hard enough to cause the coffee to spill over the edge. "I'm sure you know about the dinner, and I would have appreciated a heads up."
"What?"
"When he called me, I said no. I don't want to go to a Bratva event, but my grandfather manipulated me into agreeing to accompany you. Apparently, it's your coronation."
This time I laugh dryly. "He would say that."
"It's not?"
"It's a thank you to the captains. Your grandfather wasn't even supposed to be in town for it. I didn't expect you to attend, which is why I didn't mention it."
Not entirely true. I'd always known Viktor would want to stay behind and take credit from the men, most of whom he barely knows. But what's one more lie?
Katya frowns. "You know," she takes a sip of her coffee, "I never wanted to be part of the Bratva." Her voice is soft, shaky. "I've spent my whole life trying to run away from it. When I got cut off at eighteen, I survived off Poptarts and SlimFast shakes."
She chuckles, but I can see the unshed tears in her eyes and the way her hands wobble.
I grip my own mug hard, trying not to go to her.
"And yet, here I am. Married to it. Wrapped up in it." She shakes her head. "All of that hard work…for nothing."
Her words slice at me. They sound broken. And yet I'm not going to apologize. I can't. What the fuck do I say?
Katya releases a heavy exhale, and I watch the vulnerability she displayed disappear. The armor comes back up. "I don't know why I'm telling you like you'll care. You clearly don't."
I don't argue because she's right. Even if I do care, there's nothing I can do. I'm too close to stop now.
"Be ready by seven o'clock, Katya." I pick up my coffee and walk out of the kitchen, and I don't look back, because if I look back I'll see her face, and I'm not equipped to deal with that tragedy.
I tell myself it's strategy. Asset management. She needs to be seen at my side.
This is the plan.
The Bratva dinner is at Kozlov's restaurant on the east side, private room in the back, twelve men invited, all upper-echelon. Their wives are also in attendance, along with my own.
Who, despite being dressed in a lovely strapless black velvet dress, looks like she'd rather swallow a sword than be here.
That's fine. She's better as a pawn, a trophy. Her cold composure helps me to remember that.
When we walk in, the men register her presence immediately. They all know what it means that I'm married to the Pakhan's heir, even if she doesn't, and I can see how the suspicion they've always looked at me with starts to change.
I've been accepted. I'm no longer an outsider.
The other wives circle around her like moths to a flame, and while she is polite, I see through her veneer.
She's sulking.
Not obviously. She's too well-heeled for that. But I know her tells now: the way she holds her water glass without drinking from it, the angle of her shoulders, the quality of the smile she deploys when someone speaks to her.
Pleasant. Cooperative. Completely absent.
It irritates me more than it should. She shouldn't be like this. Katya is vibrant and alive.
But I have no choice but to ignore it. This dinner isn't really about her anyway.
"Good evening," I say in Russian. I turn to Viktor. "We are here to celebrate the leadership of our esteemed Pakhan, who has been kind enough to grace us with his presence."
There are several claps. Most of these men have never even met Viktor. He's spent a great deal of time in Moscow, in his ivory tower, allowing Alexei to do his dirty work.
Pyotr walks out with an expensive bottle of vodka in his hands. I make a show of presenting it to Viktor.
"This is a bottle from my father's collection," I open it, pouring a shot. "A toast to your health."
I hand him one as Pyotr passes out the others. These have been prepared from a separate bottle. Not that they would know it.
No one would.
Viktor holds it up, smiling slyly. "Your father always had incredible taste."
I lift my glass and shoot it, signaling everyone else to do the same. My eyes catch Katya, and I note that she doesn't even pretend to drink.
Her eyes are narrowed on me, and I wonder if she suspects anything.
It doesn't matter. Viktor has already drunk his shot, and I feel a sense of satisfaction as I watch the liquid work its way down his throat.
There's something poetic about this moment, and yet I cannot fully appreciate what I've just done. Not now.
Pyotr presents the bottle.
"For you," I bow slightly. "A gift of gratitude and affection."
"A surprise," Viktor says, but I can hear the pleasure in his voice. Viktor's vanity is predictable — he can't imagine a world where I wouldn't bend the knee. "I did not expect this from you."
And yet he believes he's owed it.
"We are family now. It is time to move forward."
Katya scowls in the corner, but Viktor is pleased. He pours himself a second shot. "To family."
"To family."
As he drinks, I exhale lightly.
We are so close to the end.
The remainder of the night goes smoothly. At least, on the surface. I can't escape my wife's discerning eyes. Viktor gave her a bread crumb, and she's running with it. As the night ends and I usher her into the car, I'm not surprised when she glares at me.
"What the hell was that?"
"Excuse me?"
"You hate my grandfather."
I raise a brow.
"Don't lie. I can tell. You don't hide it as well as you think."
"Perhaps I am turning over a new leaf."
She holds up a hand, stopping me. "Please do not act as though I am a moron."
I laugh. "Perhaps you see my distaste because it mirrors your own."
She is silent, and I expect the conversation to be dropped. Unfortunately for me, Katya never does what I expect.
"Who is Irina?"
The name lands like a fist, and I struggle to keep myself still, to not react. I'm on edge, and I'm exhausted. I do not care to have this conversation.
"I told you to let that go."
"No," she growls. "I don't take orders from you."
"Katya." I try to infuse warning into my tone. "This is not a conversation you want to have."
Katya has no sense of saving herself, so she continues. "Viktor said her name like it meant something to you." Her voice is steady. Deliberate. "Who is she? Your mistress?"
Normally, the hint of jealousy would spark a fire in my chest. Right now, I'm not interested in anything but going to bed.
"Drop it, Katya. I mean it."
"I saw how you reacted. Is she your lover? I don't care, but since?—"
I move before I've made a conscious decision to do it. I simply snap.
My hand closes around her throat, not hard, not crushing, but enough.