Chapter 22
“I’m not a huge fan of surprises, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, and I promise we could be doing more…stimulating activities right now.”
Thatcher finally pauses from leading me excitedly down a corridor of the house I haven’t spent much time in, and the heat in his eyes thrills me that I’ve succeeded in distracting him from his surprise plan.
It’s short-lived, though, and whatever he’s planned must be very special to him, since it hasn’t taken more than a passing glance lately to have him naked and on his knees for me.
“I know you aren’t a fan of surprises, so I’m going to tell you what’s behind that door before we go in, but!”
My glare speeds up his explanation of what’s behind the door, although based on the raucous cheers, it’s becoming clearer by the second. “You planned a party.”
“Yes. No. Well, it’s not really a party. The purpose isn’t to party. It’s game night. Uh, for the guys. And some of them who have wives and kids brought them as well. The vibes should be super chill, except for the number of people here. But the ballroom is huge, and—”
“Ballroom?”
“Yeah, you didn’t see it on the plans?”
“No. And I feel pretty damn certain that a room labeled ‘ballroom’ would have caught my eye.”
“Well, it wasn’t labeled as a ballroom on the plans Ivan gave you.
I think it said ‘music room,’ since that’s what it was mainly being used for whenever that set of blueprints was drawn up.
You had to notice how big the dimensions were, though, right?
Most of the big country houses built around the same time as this one had ballrooms, even if they functioned in different roles throughout the years.
My parents’ Hamptons house has one, though I caused quite a bit of structural damage by turning it into an ice-skating rink one summer.
The cooling units failed during a heat wave, and since it was on the third floor, everything below it flooded… ”
“I’m both impressed by your knowledge of architecture and terrified that I now have to worry about you destroying property with fire and ice.
” He has the decency to look sheepish for a moment.
“I suppose when I was reviewing the plans, I had, and still have, more pressing concerns than how big my ballroom is. Or the fact that I have a ballroom. Or a music room. Or an ice rink.”
Thatcher’s eyes sparkle, and I can see why he’s never gotten into too much trouble, regardless of how much damage he’s caused. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll fare much better disciplining him than his parents, teachers, or coaches ever did.
“No! No ice rinks on the third floor.” Another huge cheer brings us back to the matter at hand, which is apparently hundreds of people here for…game night. “So tell me about game night.”
He’s excited enough about game night to forget to be sad about the ice rink, launching into what must be a practiced elevator pitch for getting me through those doors.
“Long story short, as I got to know these guys during my penetration into their ranks.”
“Nowhere near a good enough reason to say penetration, and you know it.”
“It became clear they needed a chance to get to know each other in a lower-stakes environment,” he continues with a wink.
“The gym is fine, but it’s a lot of masculine ego, trying to lift heavier or run faster than each other.
Movie night in the bunk wing is fun, but they fight over the movie, and inevitably, someone just wants to watch R-rated shit, and it devolves from there.
Same problems with going out to the range. ”
“So you brought in some women and children, and what I’m assuming is a variety of games, to encourage healthy competition and deeper camaraderie.”
“You fight harder for the man at your side if you’ve met his little girl.”
That sounds like something my father would say, and Thatcher shrugs at my raised eyebrow. “One of the older guys told me that. I don’t remember who.”
My eyes roll so far back into my head that I can see my brainstem. “Yes, yes, Misha is very wise. So why were you so nervous to tell me what’s going on in there? It didn’t have to be a big secret.”
“Well, you’re not the most extroverted person around, you know. And honestly, it’s been so hard to keep you off my co—”
“There you are! We’ve been waiting on you to cut the cake, and the kids are getting antsy as fuck in here.
” Misha saves Thatcher’s life with his interruption, and we’re shuffled into abject chaos that lasts ten seconds before I’m perceived.
The respectful quiet rolls throughout the crowd like a wave, and once the far corners of the room have also ceased their chatter, Kirill waves at me from beside a frankly ridiculously large, tiered cake.
“Pakhan, we saved the first slice for you!” Instead of a knife, he has a fucking saber in his hand for me to cut the cake with, which is silly enough to make me laugh.
I take note of the few unsmiling faces in the crowd, some men who aren’t around often and a couple of their women, and a brief turn in Thatcher’s direction proves he’s seen them too.
With a tilt of his head, he lets Misha know who he has his eye on, then winks at me.
“Who is that, Papochka?” a dark-haired sprite of a little girl near the front asks her father, one of the men who were already here when we took over.
“Shh, Polina. That’s our Pakhan. She’s going to cut the cake, then we’re all going to play games.”
“She’s Pakhan? But she’s a girl.” The little girl’s confusion is entirely understandable, and as I take the saber from Kirill, her father’s answer makes me want to mount a charger and ride into battle.
“She’s a woman, malyshka. And she’s very strong and fierce, so she’s Pakhan.”
Thatcher looks too pleased with himself from the other side of the cake, and even if he doesn’t know the Russian words for daddy or baby girl, he picked up on the gist of the exchange.
Sensing a restless crowd ready for cake and frivolity, I keep things short and sweet, even as Misha moves some of the frowners out of the room with a small group of men.
“Thank you all for your loyalty during this transition. The best is yet to come. Za nas!”
“Za nas!” The room echoes my toast, “to us,” and the saber slices through the cake like butter. Quickly handing the task of cutting and plating the rest to Kirill and our chef, I move to a mostly quiet corner where Thatcher’s waiting.
“Who were the—”
“A few guys I’ve had my eye on already. Misha has them all. He and Timofey will dig a little deeper and see if it’s anything to worry about.”
He notices my scrutiny immediately. “What? Do I have frosting on my face?”
“No…You’ve just taken to the Bratva business suspiciously well, is all.”
“Suspiciously?”
“Mm-hmm. I might have to redo your background check. Dig a little deeper, as you put it.”
His chuckle doesn’t meet his eyes as he plucks two glasses of punch off a server’s tray. “Nah, this isn’t Bratva business.”
He doesn’t want to discuss this, but the sadness the topic has caused is so unexpected that I can’t help but push. Finding an alcove tucked away near the door we entered, I pry gently.
“What kind of business is it?”
Swirling the punch around his glass, he takes a deep breath before answering.
“It’s the ‘people’ business. Specifically the ‘try to make people like you’ business.
Which goes hand in hand with ‘try to figure out if they really like you or if they’re using you’ business.
Useful if you grow up craving affection and only receive it from people who want something from you.
With a few exceptions, your brother chief among them.
Also useful as a professional athlete or a wealthy individual.
I was burned quite a few times before I got good at it. ”
Thatcher cracks his neck twice before shaking his head like a dog who’s just jumped out of a pool, as if to reset himself. His eyes are brighter when he meets mine again.
“So you’re not a secret Bratva heir, used to all this scheming and plotting behind the scenes?”
“Nope, that was your brother, if you’ll recall.
Although I think he’s been mostly useless in all the intrigue, at least the way Ellie tells it.
He’s taken to all the guns and violence much better than I ever will, though.
Don’t try to put a gun in my hand. Just let me work on getting people to like you. ”
“And wheedling out the ones who don’t?”
“Always wheedling out the ones who don’t.” We clink our punch glasses together just as Misha pokes his head into our alcove.
“Moya tsaritsa, you won’t want to miss this.”
Thatcher’s groan as his ball rolls uselessly across the felt of the pool table is pathetic and adorable, and he drops his head to the edge of the table in frustration. “I swear I’ve played before. I was not this bad. Are you sure the punch wasn’t doctored?”
“One-hundred percent virgin punch, Sunshine,” Misha jokes, goosing Thatcher as he heads for the exit. “Too many kids around tonight. No alcohol at all. Your lack of prowess with a stick and balls is all your own.”
“Hey, you can ask Mila about my—”
“Absolutely not. None of that.” No matter how many times I tell myself not to encourage him, I can’t help but laugh. “Are you heading out, moya sila?”
“Well, as you can see, we’ve closed it down tonight.” He gestures widely to the empty ballroom, and it’s clear we were playing in our own little bubble and missed everyone else leaving. “I’ll see you two kids in the morning. Daddy’s tired.”
Thatcher chuckles, but I don’t dignify Misha with a response. Now that he’s gone, the quiet of the room is magnified, and I can appreciate the man across from me who is so fucking bad at pool.
“Your hand-eye coordination is too good for you to be so bad at this,” I tease, joining him at the far end of the table. He has a few options for his next move, but it’s obvious his attention lies elsewhere.
“So you do think I have good hand-eye coordination?”
If I continue to roll my eyes at my current rate, they’re going to get stuck. “Don’t fish for compliments. I told you just the other day on the mat that you were improving.”
“I can’t help it. Nothing is as intoxicating as your praise. Every morsel I get, I savor.”
Lining up my shot, I move things into position to give him a fighting chance of sinking at least one ball before we call it a night. “Do you find that I praise you too infrequently? Are you starving for morsels?”
“Not starving so much as fiending for an illicit substance. I’ve had enough, sure. But I want more, always.”
His wrist is warm under my grasp as I stop his next shot. “Let me try to teach you something, at least, before we go to bed.”
“We?”
“I. Before I go to bed. Now, pay attention. Your main problem is your stroke mechanics.”
The effort it takes Thatcher to reel in whatever smart-ass comment he wants so badly to make is evident. When a twitch at the corner of his mouth threatens to undo all his hard work in composing himself, I take pity on him and continue.
“Don’t think too hard about it. Show me your stance.” He tenses again as I move behind him to adjust his hips. “Settle your weight slightly more forward. There you go. Now think of your arm like a pendulum. Don’t think too much about the ball, just stay fluid as you lead the cue.”
This time, his shot is true, and his whoop of joy is contagious. “I’m done. I’m quitting while I’m ahead. There’s no way I’ll be able to replicate that for an entire game, so I’m going out on top.”
“That’s fair,” I concede as we finally leave the ballroom and head toward our bedrooms. “Still, watching you fail at something was a treat. You’ve improved so quickly in the training gym, you’re an absolute menace in the pool—”
“I don’t know about menace—”
“You gave someone a concussion!”
“Hey, he ran into me. It’s not my fault that his skull was no match for mine. If your goal is to be truly impressed by my athletic prowess, what I really need is an ice rink. But since you don’t want me to put one in—”
“Flood! Flood was the word you used to describe the aftermath of that venture at your parents’ house.”
“Yeah, well,” he sighs as we approach our destination. “One day, maybe we can test how good you are on the ice, and see if I can impress you.”
Thatcher looks as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him, as if tonight’s success was a vindication, proof that he’s useful and not just lazing about my house all day.
“I’ll take you up on a skate one day. I might surprise you, lest you forget that I did grow up in Russia after all.
But I wanted to thank you. For tonight. It’s obvious you have a finger on the pulse of the men, especially the ones you pointed out that Misha pulled to take care of.
It’s made my life a lot easier to know that task is taken care of. ”
The shift in his posture as my praise lands is subtle, but he can’t hide the blush that creeps up his neck and settles on his cheeks.
I’m far fonder of that blush than I have any right to be, and the insidious pleasure of just how well he’s been slotting into my life lately sinks its claws a little further into my spine.
There’s no time to analyze that feeling any more tonight, but I have plenty of time to indulge in pleasure of another kind.
As Thatcher opens his mouth, presumably to say good night, I nod toward my door.
“I don’t have an ice rink for you. But if you want to impress me…I could use a demonstration of another of your special talents.”
His answering smile is blinding, every bit my solnyskho, and he practically jogs through the door as I open it.
“Yes, Ma’am.”