Page 105 of Fallen Rook

“So what you’re saying is that Enzo is just a sad, lonely prick who can’t stand to see other people happy? Mmm, I always said you’re the smartest, sweetheart.” He went back to ravaging her neck.

My stare floated from the couple on the couch to Achilles and Tierney. They, too, were making out in the kitchen while putting the last few touches on the buffet-style dinner. In the far corner of the room was Tristan Hale, my half brother but a whole asshole, with newly platinum hair, engaged in a private, hushed phone call. Technically, he was alone, but I wasn’t excited to start a conversation with him. For one thing, he was a condescending prick. For another, I always felt like he knew way more about everyone than we knew about him.

He was the dark horse of the family. Sly, quiet, and chillingly methodical. I’d been in his presence almost every week for the past few months, and I still didn’t know him any better than I had the first time I laid eyes on him.

I knew Luca and Achilles shared my worries—that Tristan would, and very much could, snatch the don title from between their fingers somehow if they lowered their guard.

Alex and Slava stood at the edge of the hallway, as far away from everyone as humanly possible, speaking in Russian. They both had dates. Slava’s was a petite, chic Frenchwoman who looked to be a couple decades his senior. Probably the curator chick who’d warned off Federico. At any rate, I’d rather bathe in dog drool than willingly converse with the Rasputin brothers.

Whose idea was it to orchestrate this get-together? Oh, right. Luca’s. He thought it would be wise to pretend nothing was amiss, that we had no idea about the Bratva’s upcoming shipment to our port.

For the most part, he was right. But I really wasn’t in the mood to face any Russians today, much less my future brothers-in-law.

I slinked to the bathroom, took a piss, then stared at myself in the mirror. I looked normal. Hot. Stylish. Still, something about me had changed, and I wondered when, and if, someone would pick up on that.

I was washing my hands when the door swung open and Slava breezed in, unzipping and taking a piss. Cunt.

“Ever heard of the concept of personal space?” I muttered.

“Heard of it, yes. Abide by it? Rarely.” He made sure to piss everywhere but inside the toilet. Achilles was going to fucking kill him. Rolling his zipper up, he shouldered past me, trekking to the sink to wash his hands. His movements were slow, deft, and laced with malevolence.

“Nice jacket.” I jerked my chin to his camel-hued biker blazer. “Is it new?”

“No.” He was staring at his fingers under the stream of water as he spoke. “You know, I always wondered…what do you do with the skin of the people you flay?”

My palms halted inside the hand towel. I dumped it into a designer hamper. “Who says I’m doing anything with their skin?”

“You’re the creative brother.” Slava flicked the faucet off, shaking his hands. “You wouldn’t go through all the effort without using it for something. What is it?”

I winked. “Hope you enjoyed Tierney’s prosciutto.”

Slava either didn’t appreciate my joke or let it fly over his head, because he said, “Katya’s taken a liking to you.”

My heart dropped to my stomach. I’d been hoping we were both on the same page. But I guess this was what he’d come here to tell me.

My lips twisted in a teasing smile. “Feeling’s mutual.”

Wanting the conversation to be over, I turned around and reached for the doorknob. Slava slammed the door when I opened it an inch. I swiveled to face him.

“Please don’t make me gut you right here, right now,” I said calmly. “Achilles would make me scrub your blood from the grout with a toothbrush.”

Slava got in my face, a mixture of rage and frustration marring his. “Listen here, pretty boy. She’s not your plaything. You will not do to her what Achilles did,” he warned. “I won’t fucking let you.”

My eyes hooded. “Step the fuck back, Slava.”

When he didn’t, I shoved at his chest hard enough to plaster him to the opposite wall, and stomped my way out, feeling out of sorts. I slouched in my seat, checking my text messages, hoping for one or two from Tom. No dice. We’d seen each other the first three days after our trip to Lake George, but he’d been silent the last couple days, citing work. It put me on edge more than I cared to admit.

Katya: We never discussed how many kids we want.

Katya: Do you want one? Two? Three? Four?

Katya: None?

Katya: I would like to have at least one, though. If it’s okay with you.

I wanted kids, sure. But not with someone I didn’t know, and certainly not with someone whose family despised my own and vice versa. I wanted kids with someone I knew inside out. With someone I’d witnessed in times of trouble and despair, in crisis and in joy. Someone whose reactions I could anticipate, who I knew would make a good parent.

Katya, as lovely as she was, was not that person.