Page 100 of Inked Athena

The muscle in my father’s jaw ticks. He inclines his head and moves to his assigned seat, but I catch the dangerous glint in his eye.

He didn’t come here to make peace.

Unfortunately for him…

Neither did I.

The rest of dinner plays out like a game of Russian roulette. Every time my father lifts his fork, every time he opens his mouth to address one of my guests, I brace for the bullet.

But the bullet never comes.

Instead, he plays the gracious guest. Compliments the food. Makes small talk with Petrov about his recent acquisition of a Formula One team. Even manages to keep his snide comments about the castle’s “rustic charm” to a minimum.

Nova handles it like she was born to this life. She directs the conversation with subtle grace, never letting silence linger too long, never allowing topics to stray into dangerous territory. More than one of my associates sends appreciative glances her way.

I should be proud. Should be focused on how perfectly she fits this role.

Instead, my mother’s ring burns a hole in my brain. I see it every time Nova’s hand moves, even though she tucked the box away. Even though she handled the situation perfectly.

She couldn’t have known what that ring means. What giving it to her means.

But I do.

And so does he.

When the final course is cleared, my father dabs his napkin against his lips and rises. “Son,” he says, “join me in the billiards room? For old times’ sake?”

Nova’s fingers find my thigh under the table. A gentle squeeze. Reassurance, maybe. Or a warning.

I stand, buttoning my jacket. “After you.”

Time to play another round of Russian roulette. Only this time, I know the chamber’s loaded.

And I know exactly where I want to aim.

A few of the men follow along, though they stay behind in the library to drink brandy and smoke cigars while my father and I venture deeper, into the rarely-used billiards room.

It stinks in here. Dust, cobwebs, fear. I take one glance back at our dinner guests before the door shuts behind me. They all look back, eyes wide like terrified rats. At least they’re wise enough to stay away. There’s violence brewing on this side of things.

Leonid positions himself where the shadows eat half his face. He sets his cane down and picks up a pool cue, chalking it with slow, deliberate twists of his wrist. “Shall we play for stakes, son?”

I cross my arms and regard him. “You’re looking frail, Father. Sure you’re up for it?”

His hands still on the triangle rack. Just for a heartbeat. But it’s enough.

“My hands are steady enough to sink the black.” He lines up the cue ball. “Unless you’d rather forfeit now. Like your mother did.”

The rage builds slow and cold in my chest. He wants me to react. Wants me to give him an excuse.

Not tonight.

I chalk my cue with precise strokes. “Name your stakes.”

“Simple enough.” He breaks, scattering reds and yellows across the felt. “Your brother comes home. Takes his rightful place. And you—” His eyes glitter in the dark. “You get to keep playing happy families in this sheep-shit castle with your pregnant whore.”

I sight down my cue at the perfect shot presenting itself.

Sometimes, the universe hands you exactly what you need.

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