Chapter 24
Alina
Vik drills names into my skull until they feel like a song I can hum blindfolded. He scrolls, gives me clean, clipped intel. I turn it into hooks I can hang a man on.
“Seva’s second?”
“Artur Kolesnik. Dead stare. Keeps a logbook that he never lets out of his sight. If he touches his cuff twice, he’s lying.”
“Grisha’s?”
“Tomas Geller. Oxford polish. Smiles when he’s cornered.”
I file it. Cuff tick equals lie. A smile equals a stall. I go down the list, force him to slow down when he rushes, and force him to repeat the ones that don’t stick the first time.
“Miroslav’s?”
“Goes by Punch.”
“Punch?”
“One punch and you’re dead.”
“Noted,” I murmur.
“Pavel’s second?”
“Ilari Sokol. Too expensive a watch for his pay grade.”
“So he’s skimming.”
“Always.”
The screen lights up with more faces. I take them in rows until my head throbs.
I build a map: docks to cash, cash to clubs, clubs to white lines, white lines to security, security back to docks.
Loops and choke points. I make him go back over the ones that blur into each other until they separate cleanly in my head.
“Lev’s second?”
“Kirill Bogdan. Ex-docker. Chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking. He hates suits; if he’s wearing one, someone told him to behave.”
“Roman’s?”
“Vanya Drozd. Calls everyone brother. He’s not your brother. He breaks noses for fun.”
I nod, sift, reorder. I need quick tells I can clock in a blink.
“Kaspar?”
“Erekle Sajaia. Georgian. Polite as fuck, never swears, and that’s not a virtue. He counts exits the second he walks in.”
“Anatoly?”
“Felix Abram. Phone in his hand like it’s fused. He texts instead of speaking when he wants deniability.”
My head starts to pound in time with the scroll. I push through it.
“If Dmitri shows, who sits behind him?”
“Orhan Petrosyan. Keeps his chin up like a bored prince. If he’s present without Dmitri, that’s your tell Dmitri is gone.”
“Gone as in gone?”
“Pick one: dead, hiding, or sold.”
I file that under today’s worst-case column and breathe through the throb behind my eyes.
“Seating?” I ask.
“Three flanks, you to Arkady’s right. Me to his immediate left. Old guard on the left side of the room, newer money on the far row. Blood up front. Seconds behind. No one at his back.”
“Windows?”
“Shuttered. Blinds down. Side entry staggered. Weapons in the console. Dima is at the back of the room with Kosta.”
“Okay.” I rub the ring once and force my mind quiet enough to play the scene. “Arkady probably won’t answer this, but when they see me, what’s the first test?”
“Silence,” Vik says. “They’ll pretend you don’t exist. It’s bait. If you bristle, you lose. If you speak first, you lose twice.”
“So I sit pretty and count blinks.”
“Count who refuses to look at you. That’s the arrogance column. Then comes the second test.”
“What flavour?”
“Insult through compliment. ‘Arkady’s taste has improved.’ ‘He needed a wife to look civilised.’ The words say one thing, the tone says another. If you smile, they push. If you bite, they smell blood. Don’t give them either.”
“Deadpan and bored. Got it. Third?”
“A toast. Someone will pour vodka and offer it to you first. If you drink before Arkady, they’ll read it as you overstepping. If you refuse, they’ll label you timid. You wait for him. Then you drink.”
“And the fourth?”
“Miss.”
I go still. “Miss what?”
“Someone will call you Miss to your face and see if you twitch. It’s a power check. If you correct them too fast, you look desperate. If you ignore it, you show you understand subtext.”
“I wait. Arkady calls me wife. They follow his lead.”
“Exactly.” He scrolls again. “Fifth test is practical. A question in Russian phrased like a joke. Nothing rude. A proverb. If you miss it, they’ll assume you don’t belong in a room where men speak that language at speed.”
“I’ll manage.”
Vik looks at me from the side. “If Miroslav needles Arkady through you, let Arkady answer. If Anton flirts, don’t flinch. If Ilya is wired, do not meet his stare. He reads a glance as permission.”
“Noted.”
He closes the laptop with a quiet click.
My head throbs, but the map holds. I stand. “I need food. Then I’m going to lie down for a while, so my brain doesn’t melt out of my ears.”
He nods once, but he is already ignoring me, so I fuck off in the direction of the kitchen and raid Elena’s domain like a thief.
I build a sandwich that would offend a Frenchman.
Cold roast beef. Mustard. Pickles that make my eyes water.
I inhale half of it over the sink, pad a plate with the rest, and grab a bottle of water.
Upstairs, I kick off my trainers by the door and drop onto the bed, plate on my lap, phone face down beside me.
I want to phone Mina. I don’t. If I hear her voice now, I’ll start promising things I can’t control.
After I finish the sandwich, I stretch out flat and force my eyes shut.
Thirty seconds later, the room hums. My brain refuses to shut down.
I switch to box-breathing, counting four seconds in, four seconds held, four seconds out.
I stare at a crack in the ceiling that branches like a river delta and bully myself into stillness until my pulse finally begins to slow.
A knock breaks it.
“Come in,” I call out.
Elena enters with a small tray and an expression that would survive a nuclear winter. “Eat properly,” she says, setting down chicken soup.
“I made a sandwich.”
“You made an insult.” She puts a spoon in my hand. “Tonight, you sit straight for hours and do not faint like a society girl. You are the bride now. Don’t mistake this house for safety. It is a fortress and a target at the same time.”
“I know.”
“You think you know. Eat.”
She leaves, and I eat at the risk of offending her.
Luckily, the soup is good. Really good. The soup is hot, salty, and perfect.
It calms the ache low in my gut that food never touches and somehow still does.
I finish every drop because I’m not an idiot, and because Elena will know if I don’t.
The bowl is empty, my head steady, and the room stops humming like it’s wired to the mains.
Another knock.
“Yeah?”
Dima steps in with a narrow case and a smaller velvet box. “For tonight.”
I set the tray on the dresser. “Accessories?”
“Insurance.” He sets the case on the chair and clicks it open. A compact pistol in matte black rests in a cut-out, neat as a jewel. A thin blade with a pearlescent handle. Practical elegance.
“He wants me armed with a weapon I don’t know how to use and a blade sharp enough to cut myself on because I don’t know any better?”
“He wants you armed.”
Plain and simple. Fabulous.
“Okay, where do I put these weapons, down my bra?”
Dima gives me a scathing glare and doesn’t rise to my bait. Instead, he opens the velvet box. It contains straps in matte elastic, gunmetal clips, and a narrow holster. “Under your dress, split side to allow access.”
“The blade,” he says, holding it out. Four inches, needle-thin, handle that disappears in a palm.
“Where do I put it?”
He nods to the top of my head.
“In my hair? Like a hairpin?”
He nods again.
“Okay,” I say, marginally impressed. It is easy access, and it tucks clean behind the knot without showing. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “Rest. Eat. Hydrate. You need to be sharp.”
I nod. “How do I use the gun?”
“Take the safety off, point and shoot.”
“Just like that?”
“If someone is threatening you, yes.”
“Show me?”
He breathes out and picks up the gun. “Safety.” He points to it. He points to a small lever with the barrel angled toward the floor. “Up is safe. Down is fire.” He changes it so I can see both positions. “Keep your finger here until you intend to shoot.” He taps the frame above the trigger.
I mimic him. The gun is lighter than I expect, solid in a way that quiets something ugly inside me.
“Grip.” He adjusts my hands, firm but not intrusive. “High. Tight. Two hands unless you have no choice.”
“Stance?” I shift my feet apart.
“Square. Knees soft. Breathe out on the press.”
“Press?”
“Don’t yank. Press. Front sight. Always the front.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a last resort. If you have to use it, it means the pakhan is dead.”
I blink and swallow hard. “Got it,” I croak.
He gives me a hard glare and then leaves. I stare at the gun and place it down, his words echoing in my head.
I’m useless, is what he is saying. Arkady has to protect me because I can’t protect myself.
It’s a little late in the day to change that now, but I will for next time.
Whatever next time is. However, wherever I’m meant to learn to shoot a handgun.
If things go south tonight, it’s simply a case of learn by doing.
But one thing I am dead sure about is that I won’t let Arkady die protecting me.
I will protect myself. If that means accidentally blowing the head off one of the brigs because I was aiming for his balls, then so be it.