Chapter 18
TESS
We’re shown out onto a terrace where people are sitting around, chatting, sipping cocktails, and leaning over the stone barrier and looking over an Italianate garden.
It’s all perfect and sophisticated, and I immediately feel out of place.
For a second, no one notices us, and when I look up at Kirill, he glances down at me with an expression of, “Well, this was a mistake”.
Then the closest knot of people go silent.
The blank expressions and lack of recognition make me want to drop to the stone paving and commando crawl out of here. But Kirill tightens his hold on my hand, our fingers linked together.
I kinda hate this. I’m always the odd one out at parties. I actually prefer to have something to do, which is why I like working in the pub. It’s a party that I’m paid to go to, and I have a clear role.
But when he smooths his thumb over the back of my hand, it feels like we’re a team.
“Who’s that?” asks a male voice with a British accent.
“No idea,” comes a reply.
“Can I help you?” A tall man steps forward. He has a posh accent in a deep tone.
“Blackfen.” A man pushes through the group, most of whom are staring at us now. “It’s good to see you.” The Russian flat intonations and clipped words are reassuring somehow after these days with Kirill’s similar way of speaking, but there are intakes of breath from all around us.
“A psychopath,” someone mutters. “Anti-social.”
My chin goes up. I don’t know why Kirill wanted to come here, but I won’t accept anyone being mean about my boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend, but still.
“Easy, lapochka,” Kirill says, but lets go of my hand, and part of me panics. Then he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close to his side.
“Mayfair,” he greets the Russian man who is before us now.
The posh man recovers with the sort of ease only the very arrogant and influential can pull off.
“Good to meet you at last, Blackfen. Welcome. What would you and your guest like to drink? And you are staying for dinner, I insist. I want you to meet…” He continues on with surprising warmth, and in moments we both have a glass in our hands and have been introduced to a dozen people.
Kirill doesn’t stop touching me as we meet the London Maths Club, half of whom are men I’d be wary of if they walked into the pub, because they look like they might have just bought the whole place, or pull a gun if you don’t do what they want.
But I’m with Kirill, and his hand consistently on my waist, moving me with him, is comforting. However dangerous these men are, they’re the ones who are suspicious, and a bit nervous, of the man at my side.
The names are confusing. The men are generally called by their London territory area, and call Kirill Blackfen.
The posh man turns out to be Westminster, and appears to be nominally in charge.
The mafia boss’ wives, who are around my age or a bit older, intimidatingly gorgeous, well-dressed, and far friendlier than I expect, introduce themselves with only their first names.
I try to keep quiet and listen, but one of the women brings me into her conversation after she introduces herself as Willow.
“Tess, there’s an important question we need you to weigh in on. Pride and Prejudice, the romance written by Jane Austen in the Regency?”
“It’s alright, I know about it,” I say, a bit confused.
“Which camp are you in? One of the films, the old television series, paperback, hardback, audio, or ebook?” Willow looks at me intensely.
Kirill’s hand moves up my back and it’s all I can do to focus on what Willow is saying, because I have to bite back a moan as Kirill’s hand reaches my neck.
Then he drops a kiss to the top of my head and continues his conversation seamlessly, as though to give me permission to stop paying him attention, because we’re that secure in each other.
“Um.” What’s the right answer here? Turns out I’m glad of the kissing practice. Without it, I don’t think I’d be managing not to drag Kirill into a corner to allow him more access to my body.
“I won’t be offended, don’t worry,” Willow adds. “Lily and I obviously prefer physical books, but we understand that others have different—”
“Wrong,” interjects the girl who comes up next to her.
“Opinions,” Willow finishes. “How can you say that, Lily, when you won’t even accept a nice, readable paperback these days? Her bookshop is all hardback special editions with sprayed edges and foil covers,” she says to me as an aside.
Then another woman strolls over, drink in hand, and announces she will defend the honour of the movie with her last breath, and I’m laughing genuinely at their good-natured banter, while also hyper-aware that Kirill is next to me.
“So what about you, Tess? What’s your favourite?” Willow repeats after they’ve discussed the film.
“I’m an ebook fan, to be honest,” I confess awkwardly.
“Excellent choice,” she enthuses. “Practical. Have you heard about the change in terms and conditions for ebooks?”
“Yeah.” I hide a smile, and Kirill squeezes my waist. Our secret.
I’m warm all over from Kirill’s careful attention as we’re swept along by the London Maths Club’s energy.
We’re not given the option about whether to eat with them, it’s assumed.
And what’s really nice is that Kirill and I are seated next to each other.
He has Westminster on his other side, and I have Lina, Mayfair’s wife.
Kirill kisses me when I least expect it. Just casual but possessive brushes of lips on the top of my head, my cheek, or my hand when I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed by all the people and noise.
He’s my anchor, and I wonder if maybe I’m his. He doesn’t stop touching me, keeping our hands linked, his arm over the back of my chair, or his foot reassuringly pressed to mine.
And it all goes well, I think. I even manage to catch most of the names at the table.
After dessert—a multi-layer custard and flaky pastry cake called Torte Napoleon—everyone is drinking tea, warm cherry compote, whisky, or coffee, I’m honestly enjoying myself when a discussion escalates to raised voices.
Kirill immediately leans closer to me.
“It was theft, Islington,” says one of the men.
“Well, Dalston stole six streets of my territory.” Islington doesn’t sound terribly upset, leaning back in his chair and shooting a challenging look over to another man, who I assume to be Dalston.
The table goes silent.
I stiffen with fear.
“It’s okay,” Kirill reassures me as he drops a kiss next to my ear, and takes my hand to rest on his knee. “You’re safe with me, whatever these idiots do.”
“Ah fuck,” Westminster says under his breath. “Dalston, give him the territory back. This isn’t okay.”
“I have a solution,” says Angel, his Russian accent thick.
“No murder,” Westminster responds, pointing over his shoulder to Angel without looking.
“I don’t have a solution,” Angel mutters, scowling.
I see Kirill catch Angel’s eye and shrug. The kingpin of Angel is known as the Angel of Death for his murderous tendencies. Seems like he’d have something in common with Kirill.
“It wasn’t theft,” Dalston gives an irritable sigh. “It was part of a deal with our mutual neighbour, Highbury, my brother-in-law, and some issues occurred. I admit I shouldn’t have smoke bombed—”
“It’s alright. I retaliated.” Islington smiles evilly, his green eyes flashing.
Westminster pales. “We can sort this amicably.”
“What did you retaliate with?” Mayfair asks.
“He sent my son a drum kit,” says Dalston, tightly.
“Oh no,” another man says.
“God help you,” mutters one of the women.
A bubble of laughter rises up my chest, and I look up at Kirill, who is watching this exchange intently. His eyes soften when they meet mine.
“And I’m not swapping back.” Islington crosses his arms, looking utterly smug.
Kirill strokes my hand under the table, keeping it on his knee throughout the conflict, and it’s so nice.
He’s faking.
But as I gaze at the big, scary mafia boss who kidnapped me, I realise something.
I’m not. Every touch, every smile. I’m not pretending.
Call me Stockholm syndrome, because I’m in love with my kidnapper.
The realisation flows through me, invigorating and warming, like sipping hot chocolate on a cold day. But it also burns, because this is fake. Every kiss, his smiles that look as though they’re only for me, the possessive touches. It’s not for me, it’s for them.
“That seems fair,” Westminster says mildly. “Which just leaves us with one question to resolve this evening.”
Everyone turns to him.
“Why are you really here, Blackfen?”
I’ve been wondering the same thing. Kirill gives the other man a measured look.
“To take up your offer of joining the London Maths Club.”