Page 90 of Crowned

Elyah gives a snort of humorless laughter and shakes his head. “You are not fucking wrong. All right. I will see you tomorrow,Pakhan.”

Kirill says his goodbyes to Elyah, gives him my address, and walks him out of the bar.

When he comes back, I tell him, “If he looks the wrong way at my fiancée even once, you will gut him from throat to balls, understood?”

Kirill doesn’t even blink. “Understood.”

* * *

Elyah turnsup at my house promptly, dressed neatly in black and wearing an expression of hostility that I imagine he perfected in prison. I leave him in Kirill’s hands and see to my guests, a selection of my closest men who have gathered to celebrate our engagement.

The living room is filled with the sounds of people talking and glasses clinking. The double doors into the garden are open and warm, rose-scented air wafts inside. My fiancée is standing by the grand piano, her dark hair hanging in a waterfall down her back.

I’ve made it.

Not as far as I plan to go, but an excellent start for a self-made man who started from rock bottom. Or lake bottom, in my case. As I take a sip of champagne, I wonder what Pyotr is doing tonight. Mother died years ago, and I wonder—and then wish I hadn’t—if he misses her as a mother or a lover.

“Why so serious, my love?” A hand slips into mine and squeezes. A canary diamond glitters on her ring finger.

My bride-to-be, Valeriya.

As I gaze into her beautiful face, I feel nothing, which is exactly what I wanted.

Over her shoulder and standing against the wall is a sober figure in black. I turn Valeriya around and draw her closer to the man.

“Elyah, this is Valeriya, my fiancée. Valeriya, Elyah has recently joined my crew. I believe I will make him my driver.”

Valeriya always dresses to turn a man’s head. Her cream dress is tight over her generous breasts and hips, and she beams at the man. “Hello, and welcome. I hope you’re enjoying the party.”

He eyes her coldly and then looks away as if he’s bored. “Good evening.”

Valeriya’s smile falters and dims. She’s used to being admired by one and all, and my men have a habit of behaving around her like she’s a fairy queen. She’s not. She’s the illegitimate daughter of an arm’s dealer who was working as a cocktail waitress in a high-end club until three months ago. None of her family acknowledge her existence and she gave up all her friends in Moscow to move here to marry me. She smiles and knows her place, which is what I like best about her.

Uncomplicated. Obedient. Demure. What all women should be.

I leave Valeriya with my men’s wives and take a lap of the room, talking to my guests. An hour or so later, I’m coming back from talking to the caterer in the kitchen when I see Elyah watching Valeriya. They’re both standing in an alcove, and it doesn’t seem as if Valeriya knows he’s there, watching her absorbed in the party.

He approaches her and asks in a hard and suspicious tone, “Who are you watching?”

Valeriya gives a guilty jump. Or perhaps she’s startled. “I’m not watching anyone. I’m looking at my fiancé. My guests.”

Elyah doesn’t seem like he believes her. “It is my job to watch. When I see someone else so focused on what this person is saying and who that person is talking to, I wonder what she is planning.”

“Why are you so suspicious?” Valeriya replies, trying to laugh but failing. “Practically paranoid.”

Elyah doesn’t reply. He simply stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, glaring until Valeriya walks away.

Several of my men have families and have brought their children and wives. Valeriya sits on the carpet with some of the toddlers and plays animatedly with them.

I draw closer to Elyah’s side as we watch her together. “My fiancée is beautiful, isn’t she? What do you think of her?”

Elyah says nothing for a long time, but his expression darkens. “She will be a good mother to your children.”

I sense there’s more he wants to say but he doesn’t go on. A moment later he excuses himself and walks away.

At the end of the party, I send Valeriya back to her apartment. She’s disappointed and protests she wants to stay, but I’ve had enough of people. I want to drink vodka and talk to Kirill.

The two of us sit at the kitchen table, a bottle of chilled vodka open between us and the remains of the party canapes spread out before us. Kirill makes a sandwich of grilled prawns, cabbage salad, and eggplant caviar. It looks terrible but he makes an appreciative sound as he bites into it.

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