Chapter 19
Peighton
Gustav side-eyes me and stills.
His jaw flexes, and for a second, I think I’ve broken through his frosty exterior by simply holding his hand. Then, he leans close.
“Have you started your Russian language class, yet?”
“No.”
“Zhal. Bezhat — slovo-to prostoye,” he says, eyes narrowing.
“Huh?” I ask.
“I said it’s a shame. Bezhat is a simple word.”
I scrunch my nose, confused.
Gustav picks up his glass. Finishes it. Then, without warning, my husband rises from his chair, says something in Russian to Petyr in a steady tone, and the two of them walk out together.
He doesn’t look at me. He does not say he’ll be back. He does not touch me as he passes.
He just leaves.
I stare at his empty chair for a second, torn between getting up to follow and staying put. My instinct, the American part of me raised on romantic comedies and equal partnerships, screams go after him and demand an explanation.
Then I look at Keira.
Petyr is her husband, and she remains seated. Calm. Composed. Fork in hand, as if nothing is amiss. She notices my hesitation out of the corner of her eye and gives the slightest shake of her head.
Stay.
I copy her. My spine straightens, my hands return to my fork, and I pretend my heart didn’t just sink into my stomach.
A few minutes pass. People resume eating. Vodka is poured again. A low hum of conversation returns, this time heavier. The men switch into even faster Russian, maybe freed by the absence of their boss.
Then a chair scrapes.
One of the enforcers near the end of the table stands. He is massive, even compared to the others. Beefy shoulders stretching his dress shirt, neck thick, jaw hidden under a dark beard. He shrugs off his jacket with deliberate slowness and says something in Russian in a carrying voice.
The women in the room react instantly.
Chairs push back. Forks clatter against plates. Every woman rises and steps away from the table with an urgency that sends a chill through me. Keira’s reaction is so fast her fork actually drops from her hand.
I rise halfway, confused, about to follow them.
A hand clamps around my wrist.
I jerk, twisting to look at the man gripping me. Another enforcer with cold eyes and a gleam that tells me he finds all of this entertaining. He says something in Russian, tone amused.
“What are you doing?” I demand, trying to pull free. “Let go of me.”
He just laughs and tightens his fingers around my wrist. It hurts. A flush of outrage rises to my cheeks. I look to Keira. She stands near the doorway with the other wives, eyes wide, throat working.
“What is happening?” I ask her, voice sharper now. “Keira. Translate.”
Her lips part. For a moment, she looks like she might step forward. Instead, she whispers, “I am so sorry,” and her expression folds into something that guts me. Guilt. Pity. Resignation.
Ice sluices through my veins.
The giant enforcer at the head of the table loosens his belt with one measured pull. The leather hisses against the loops. The sound makes my stomach flip.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
The man holding my wrist shifts his grip, twisting my arm behind my back and dragging me closer to the middle of the long table. My feet stumble over the rug, heels catching. I struggle harder.
“Stop it. What are you doing? Let me go!”
He laughs again, a cruel, delighted sound.
“Little boss wife,” he murmurs in broken English, “do not listen.”
Other enforcers stand along the walls now, forming a loose perimeter. No one intervenes. No one objects. This is not chaos. This is something they recognize.
Maybe punishment.
Realization hits like a punch. Gustav is gone. The other women have been allowed to leave. I am the only woman left in this room.
This is fucked up.
Anger overrides fear for one wild heartbeat. I rear back and spit in the face of the man restraining me.
He swears, wiping his cheek, his grip tightening hard enough to bruise. He shoves me toward the table and I fall into it, my palm sliding on a dirty plate.
I spin around, desperate, looking for any way out. The big enforcer’s belt snaps through the air and cracks across my cheek before I can move.
White pain explodes along my face. My ears ring. I taste copper.
The next strike slams across my shoulders. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp cry.
Instinct kicks in and I scramble onto the table to escape the leather’s strikes, palms slipping against spilled vodka and sauce. Plates and glasses topple. Silverware clatters. I crawl awkwardly over dishes, trying to get to the far end, to the door, to anywhere that is not here.
The room fills with laughter and jeers. They make comments in Russian, some words familiar enough that I catch: woman, stupid, American.
I keep crawling. Hands and knees. My dress rides up my thighs, but I don’t care. Another lash bites into my back. Then another. I choke down a cry and keep moving, fingers scraping against the wood.
I reach the edge of the table and swing one leg down, ready to jump.
The heavy door opens.
A cold whoosh of air rushes in from the outside.