A diplomat is always the most dangerous man in the room. He will smile as he slits your throat.
“It is not what they have done for us in the past,” he says. “But what they could do, if given the appropriate encouragement. They have connections downtown, for example, where we rarely venture. We could make ownership agreements on their bars. Or we could call an armistice to this petty back-and-forth we have had to suffer for too many years now. How many men have died because we have refused to cooperate?”
“And how many more would die if we walked blindly into the lion’s den?” I snarl.
Fyodor tilts his head, noting my tone of voice. I have never been as skilled at maintaining calm as this suave, self-assured politician. It is even worse now with Camille’s phantom tear-filled eyes watching me every time I blink.
“With all due respect, Erik, I am talking about what is best for the Bratva.”
“Look at what happened to the gangbangers in the nineties,” I say. “They believed that could trust the white supremacists. And the streets were thick with blood because of it. Where does this trust come from, Fyodor?”
He fidgets, reaching for his glass and then letting his hand drop.
“Well?” I prompt.
“I have spoken with a couple of men,” he says cautiously, knowing he’s going out on a dangerous limb. “And they have given me assurances.”
I clench my fist under the table, the cut on my arm twisting in pain. I see myself flipping the table and grabbing Fyodor by the throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge and then turn red. I hear him thudding to the floor, lifeless and limp.
“You should not have done that,” I say quietly.
“With all due—”
“Save your respect,” I growl. “It is too late for that. What made you think it was acceptable for you to make overtures to these dogs without my permission?”
“I did not plan the meeting,” he counters. “I ran into them at a bar. We talked for less than a few minutes. But they are as eager as us to make money, Erik. That is all they care about.”
“That and beating African American men to death, painting swastikas on the doors of single mothers, selling heroin to teenagers. These are not good men—”
“Good men?” he breaks out. “Since when are we concerned with that? We are the Bratva. We have done worse than them.”
“For business!” I slam my hand on the table. Plates and glasses leap up. One rolls off the edge and Anatoly calmly catches it, placing it down, eyes flitting between us. He shoots me a warning look—keep this civil—which I ignore.
“We have never allowed our feelings to dictate who we punish, but these … these animals will rape a woman just because her skin does not match theirs. Listen to what you are saying, Fyodor. You have gone mad.”
He stands abruptly, puffing his chest out like an ape. It would be foolish, this skinny, aristocratic-looking man trying to intimidate me, if I did not know what he is capable of.
“You have become sentimental, Erik. You warn me not to get in bed with men who will help us to conduct good business, but you have gotten in bed with a complete stranger. Is it making you soft? If you are not willing to do what is necessary for the Bratva, step down and let somebody who is—”
Fyodor has always been quick and snakelike, but I am quicker.
Before he knows what is happening I have him against the wall, my hands at his throat. I shove him so hard the walls vibrate and the mirror smashes to the floor. He paws at my hands, panting, straining.
“Remember who you’re speaking to!” I roar, shoving him again.
“Erik!” Anatoly places his hand on my shoulder. “Let him go. This will do nobody any good.”
I hold him a moment longer, redness creeping up his neck, filling his cheeks. His hands are weak as they claw against me. It does not take long for a man to die like this.
“Erik.” Anatoly tightens his grip. “Please.”
When I let Fyodor go, he falls, his breath wheezes loudly.
“Stand up and leave my home, now. This is your final warning. If you step out of line one more time—even an inch, a fucking centimeter—I will end you. Rally your supporters if you wish, but it will not change your fate. Do you understand?”
I kneel down and grab the back of his head, forcing him to look at me. “Do you understand?”
He nods pitifully and climbs to his feet. Taking a moment to straighten his suit jacket, he walks slowly to the door.
“That was not well-handled, nephew,” Anatoly whispers, handing me a glass of vodka.
I knock it back, savoring the acid scorch in my belly. The cut on my arm has reopened, painting my sleeve red.
“No,” I admit, “it was not. But he must learn, Uncle.”
In the hallway, I study my arm, holding it up to the light. Blood trickles down to my elbow and patters on the floor like rain. The meeting replays itself in my mind, the mistakes I made in letting my rage overtake me becoming all too evident now.
I need to end Fyodor—sooner rather than later.
I turn to find Camille standing at the bottom of the stairs.
For a second, I forget everything that’s happened between us. She looks angelic in the silk bathrobe, falling gracefully down to her knees, a slight parting showing me a glimpse of thigh. Her hair streams in waves to her shoulders and her bright blue eyes are wide, drawn to the cut.
“That looks infected,” she notes.
“You can tell that from there?”
She walks over to me. I meet her in the middle of the hallway. This could be our battleground. Or it might become a place of reconciliation. It is hard to know right now; my mind is no longer
