Page 12 of Power's Fall

Montana was watching him with a narrow-eyed gaze, and when Dahlia backed up, Montana moved closer to her.

“Vadisk Rustemvych Kushnir,” he said, formally introducing himself with a nod to each of them. Then he gestured behind him. “This is our plane.” He would have preferred to fly them in himself via helicopter, but to do that they would have had to fly out of Ukraine, and all airspace over both Ukraine and Crimea was restricted.

Getting the private plane in and out only worked because the wealthy Russians who were using Crimea as a vacation destination had already paved the way for private planes to land as long as all the right people were bribed.

“Flying private?” Montana eyed the sleek plane the admiral of Rome had arranged for them. “How many seats?”

“Twelve.”

Montana’s shoulders lowered fractionally, and he nodded.

The sound of wheels on concrete made them all turn. A porter approached with a flatbed cart bearing suitcases and a black hard-sided case.

They all watched in somewhat awkward silence as the porter wheeled the luggage past them to the private plane, where he helped a member of the ground crew load the bags.

“Do you have your Russian-issued visas?” Vadisk asked.

Dahlia nodded. “Yes.” She raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Yes. I have a grandfather who was from Perekop. In northern Krym. My territory…” Did they know what that meant? What a Masters’ Admiralty territory was? “My people scrubbed my history, so it shows I grew up in Ukraine, but with no strong ties or loyalties.” Vadisk tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. He’d be wearing long sleeves for the duration of this trip, despite the summer heat. The Ukrainian military tattoos that made up part of the sleeve of ink on his left arm would be a problem if anyone saw them.

Vadisk switched from English to Russian. “?? ???????? ??-???????”

“??, ? ??? ? ?????? ??? ????, ????? ??? ??????,” Dahlia replied.

Vadisk’s brows rose. She not only spoke Russian, but he couldn’t detect a foreign accent when she did.

“Can I get a translation?” Montana asked.

“Vadisk asked if I spoke Russian. I said yes, and that I’d lived in Moscow for three years when I was young.”

“That’s why you speak like a native,” Vadisk said.

“Not quite that good but well enough,” Dahlia said in agreement. She leaned to the side, studying the plane. “Shall we?”

Without waiting for a response, Dahlia brushed past him and headed for the plane.

Montana fell into step with Vadisk.

“Hey, man, do we have a problem?” Montana’s tone was deceptively mild.

Vadisk’s shoulders knotted. Did they have a problem? Yes. This marriage had destroyed Vadisk’s life. But he wouldn’t say that. As fucking pissed as he was, he knew neither Montana nor Dahlia had orchestrated this.

Since the day he joined, he’d known he wouldn’t choose his spouses, but he hadn’t expected his marriage to force him to leave not only his home but the whole fucking continent, plus leave behind a job he loved and was good at—security officer for Hungary.

Out loud, all he said was, “No.”

Vadisk felt Montana watching him as they finished crossing to the plane.

A flight attendant greeted them at the top of the stairs. “Welcome aboard.” She stepped back and gestured for them to enter; Dahlia was first, Vadisk in the rear. He had to practically bend in half to get through. His head bumped into Montana’s back, the other man having stopped just inside the door.

Vadisk grunted and braced one hand on the bulkhead, feeling seriously fucking stupid stuck in the doorway like this.

“Sorry,” Montana muttered, taking several steps.

Vadisk finally made it onto the plane, though he kept his head ducked so he wouldn’t brain himself.

They took their seats, Montana and Dahlia sitting beside one another, while he sat across the aisle.

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