Page 88 of Wicked Proposal

Then, mercifully, the car rolls to a stop. “We’re here,” Maksim announces.

“Here?” Mia tilts her head, trying to make out the venue out the tinted window. “‘Here’ where?”

“The back entrance to the Goldenrod,” I tell her.

“Why the back?” she frowns. “Why aren’t we going in the usual way?”

“Because the usual way is for business,” I explain. “This is for something else.”

I step out of the car and offer her my arm. It’s just for show, but the way she clings to me sends a stab of guilt through my chest. Like I’m plunging her into the deep end with no safeguards.

“Yulian… where are we going?” Mia whispers.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

We take our seats at the front of the table, Maksim to my right, Mia to my left.

Mia.She’s been a decent actress so far, but tonight, she’s borderline useless. She keeps fiddling with the silverware, trying to figure out which spoon to use first, even though the food hasn’t been served yet.

If she keeps this up much longer, myvoryare going to realize something’s wrong. I can’t have that.

For this ruse to work, everyone must be convinced. Otherwise, there’s no way Prizrak will be.

I cover her hand with mine. She stops fiddling immediately, the tremors dying down. Centered, once again.

She takes a big breath, exhales. Finds her focus.

I take in the sight of myvory,sitting at their places in silence, eyes fixed on me and the woman at my side. It could almost pass for a company dinner. The thought strikes me as somewhat amusing.

Kazimir Smirnov—Department Head of Bribery, if we had any such thing as departments—is smiling politely at us. He’s my youngestvor,barely even thirty, easy to underestimate. That’s his strength.

Slavik Pushkin—Director of Money Laundering—is sipping his water, calm and calculating. His eyes miss nothing.

Anton Volkov and Zhenya Volkova—Twin Managers of Illicit Entertainment and Violent Debt Collection—are sitting next to each other. Anton is half-asleep, waiting for his sister to say or do anything he can agree with. He’s an oily son of a bitch, but an effective party planner, provider of drugs and girls and whatever else our patrons may wish for. Then, when it’s time to pay the pied piper, Zhenya comes into play. She’s got none of her brother’s reservations and an impressive collection of crowbars.

Finally, at the other end of the table, Rurik is glaring down at us. He’s my oldestvor—been with the Bratva since my father’s time—and he never misses a chance to throw his weight around. He handles the gambling dens, our primary source of cash flow.

There couldn’t be five more different people at this table. And yet, right now, every one of those people is thinking the same thing:

Who the hell is that woman?

The waiters carry in heaped plates of Russian cuisine:borscht, pirozhki, shashlik, blini, pelmeni.

But before anyone can tuck in, Slavik clears his throat. “I understand this meeting was urgent.”

“It was,” I reply. “Haven’t had a decent Russian meal in ages.”

“Enough with the fuckery!” Rurik snarls, slamming his palms on the table. “What the hell are we doing here? Our time is?—”

“Valuable,” I cut in, rising from my chair. “As is mine. More, in fact, if we’re comparing net worth.”

Slavik clears his throat, but says nothing. Out of all my men, he’s the most seasoned and the least prone to conflict.

Rurik, on the other hand, is as ornery and disagreeable as old mobsters can get. He used to be my late father’sbrigadir, and because of that, he isn’t afraid to push me.

“You’d do well to remember you’re not ruling alone, Yulian,” he scoffs. “We all contributed to this empire, and I, for one, am sick of hearing you talk like you’re?—”

“Thepakhan,” I cut him off. “That’s what I am, Rurik. Somethingyou’ddo well to remember. Which brings me to the reason I’ve gathered you.”