22. Sasha
SASHA
D inner, as it turns out, is exactly that.
Which somehow makes this all the worse.
I never predicted I would be sharing a table with Viktor Morozov and his daughter, let alone with Nikolai Malyshko presiding over the head of it like this is some grotesque parody of a family gathering. Polished silverware. Crystal glasses. A linen tablecloth so white, it borders on offensive.
All of us pretending this is a normal Friday evening. All of us pretending there isn’t a metaphorical gun trained at the backs of our heads.
Well. Three of us, anyway. Nikolai, of course, looks perfectly at home.
I force myself not to watch him too closely at first. Instead, my gaze locks onto the seat directly across from mine.
Alina’s.
The sight of her punches the air from my lungs in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Despite the nightmare reel that’s been looping in my head since that phone call with images of her bloodied, broken, lifeless body waiting for me when I arrived, she is very much alive.
She’s wearing something simple, elegant without trying, nothing flashy.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, darker under the warm dining light.
She looks good.
Better than good, actually.
My chest tightens when our eyes meet for half a second, loosening almost instantly when she slips me a quiet smile over the rim of her wine glass behind setting it down and focusing on her plate again.
I breathe out slowly.
I hate how fiercely I want to reach across the table and pull her away from this. From him . But what I hate even more is that she’s here because of me.
My attention slides reluctantly to the head of the table.
Nikolai lounges in his chair with one leg hooked over the opposite knee.
He’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him.
Gone is the expensive clothing tailored to perfection and in its place is a white T-shirt that has been perfectly pressed and a pair of dark-colored slacks.
He cuts into the meat on his plate with quick, efficient flicks of his utensils, completely at ease despite the tension hovering over all of us.
Viktor sits stiffly beside me, his posture rigid. He hasn’t looked at any of us once since we arrived. Not even when Nikolai greeted us with that infuriatingly polite smile before ushering us through his front door.
He lifts his glass with deliberate care, fingers too tight around the stem, and takes a measured sip of wine. The gesture is meant to project composure, the illusion of a man who still believes he belongs in rooms like this.
When he sets the glass down, I see it. The tremor.
It’s subtle, barely there, but it’s enough. His knife quivers when he lifts it, metal trembling faintly as it meets the plate. He presses harder than necessary, sawing through the tender meat like it might fight back.
Fear has finally caught up to him.
Good.
I keep my own hands flat on the table, fingers splayed slightly against the linen. It’s a grounding tactic, one I learned young when violence was a language spoken fluently around me. I don’t trust my hands not to do something stupid if I let them close around the handle of a knife.
Behind me, Roman stands, watchful and rigid.
I can feel his tension like static at my back.
He’s been wound tightly since before we even crossed the threshold of this estate, every instinct screaming the same sentiment mine is.
This is not a negotiation. This is an execution waiting for its order to be chosen.
“Sasha.” Nikolai’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Eat. Please. The chef will be offended otherwise.”
My eyes snap to him.
“Forgive me. I’m not particularly hungry,” I say evenly, every ounce of restraint pulled tightly beneath my skin.
Nikolai doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his wine glass with infuriating leisure, the crystal catching the light as he brings it to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Is the food not to your liking?”
The question is harmless on its surface. Polite. Courteous, even.
I know better than to believe that.
My hands curl into fists, knuckles tightening as I force myself not to move them.
I hate when he does this slow, methodical needling.
The way he presses and waits, watches to see where the cracks form.
My father used to do the same thing when I was younger when he wanted to remind me who held the power in the room.
It had been a learned habit, one gifted like an heirloom from Nikolai’s father.
For a brief, unguarded second, my eyes flick to Alina.
She’s watching me closely, her fork nudging food around her plate without any real intention of eating it. Her movements are careful, pretending to be calm for my sake, I realize.
I drag my attention back to the head of the table, schooling my expression. “The food is excellent. Though, I’m sure we are all well aware that we didn’t come here to share a meal together.”
Nikolai hums softly. “Tell me, Sasha, do you never stop to enjoy things?”
I wonder if he knows how ironic that sounds coming from him.
Beside me, Viktor shifts in his chair. His discomfort is palpable now, leaking out of him despite all his careful composure. He stares straight ahead like if he doesn’t acknowledge what’s happening around him, it won’t come crashing down on his shoulders.
Coward.
I lean back slightly in my chair, forcing myself to relax despite the tension still bleeding out of me. “If this dinner has a purpose beyond culinary critique, I’d rather we address it directly.”
“Straight to business, as always. How very you,” Nikolai muses. “Very well.”
He sets his utensils down with deliberate care, the faint clink against porcelain echoing loudly in the cavernous room.
He lifts his wine glass and drains it in one unhurried swallow, as if savoring the last moment of civility.
When he sets the empty glass aside, it’s done with finality.
His napkin follows, dabbed once at his mouth then tossed onto the half-finished plate like the meal itself has already lost its purpose.
He pushes the plate forward out of his immediate space and clasps his hands together on the table, fingers lacing neatly. A king folding his hands before judgment.
“Seems we are eager to get things started.”
My muscles coil instinctively as his gaze drifts around the table. I expect it to land on me, to feel that familiar, invasive pressure that Nikolai wields so effortlessly.
Instead, his eyes settle on Viktor.
Viktor freezes mid-motion, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. For a heartbeat, he looks like a man caught in the act of something shameful, uncertain whether to continue or retreat. Slowly, he lowers the fork back to the plate.
Nikolai watches him in silence, his stare unblinking.
Unforgiving.
“Tell me something,” he says at last. “Why your daughter?”
Viktor blinks. Once. Twice. His brows knit together as if he’s misheard. “Pardon?”
Nikolai doesn’t repeat himself right away. He tilts his head slightly, studying Viktor. “Why not someone else’s? Why try to kill your own? Surely, a tragedy can be manufactured in other ways.”
My jaw tightens.
Alina goes very still across from me. I see it out of the corner of my eye the way her shoulders lock, her fingers curling tightly around her napkin.
Nikolai continues on, undeterred by the sudden growing unease.
“A horrible car accident involving children on a school bus,” he offers, almost conversationally.
“A subway car suddenly derailing, killing all its passengers. Gas leak at a nursing home. Electrical fire at a daycare. Structural collapse at the local food pantry… There are plenty of ways to bring a community together in shared grief.”
He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug.
“Ways that don’t require involving your own family.”
Viktor’s face drains of color. His lips part as if to speak, then close again.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
For the first time since arriving, he looks…
small. Stripped of the politician’s polish, the practiced outrage, the righteous grief he’s paraded in front of cameras for nearly a decade.
“I—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat roughly. “You’re mistaken. My daughter was never the target.”
Nikolai’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Don’t insult me.”
Viktor stiffens. His hands curl against the edge of the table. “I-I would never?—”
“You already did,” Nikolai interrupts, his tone sharpening. “Did you think I wouldn’t do my research? That I don’t know exactly what goes on in my city?”
His gaze flicks briefly to me.
I meet it and give a single nod, a silent acknowledgment. Nothing more needs to be said between us.
He turns back to Viktor, his attention snapping into place like a trap closing.
“You gambled. You assumed that if she died, it would serve your narrative perfectly. A promising young woman taken too soon. A devoted father left shattered after losing the only remaining family he had left. Your voters would eat it up.” His lips curve faintly. “Tragedy is excellent theater.”
Viktor’s mouth opens, then closes again, his breaths coming shallowly and unevenly.
Nikolai goes on, relentless now. “You planned to stand in front of cameras with tears in your eyes. To speak of loss and resilience. To let sympathy do what policy never could. And when election season rolled around, the city would honor you the only way it knows how. By giving you another term. The only problem is you never accounted for her living.”
His gaze darts around the table, searching for an ally that no longer exists.
Nikolai leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “This is what makes you so fascinating, Morozov. You didn’t just sacrifice your wife for power. You couldn’t help yourself by sacrificing your daughter too.”