Page 150 of Dance of Deception

Instantly, the entire restaurant shifts.

The music stops. Conversations die.

Every patron turns toward us, some getting up, some simply watching with quiet attentiveness.

They’reallKir’s people.

Even the staff begin to pull back their jackets, revealing glimpses of holstered guns. The waiters, the bartenders—every single one of them, armed.

I lift a brow as I turn back to Kir. “The famous Russian flair for dramatics,” I growl.

Kir’s smirk widens but remains cold. “Please. You're the one looming over my dinner like an impatient assassin.”

I ignore the jab, my hand still resting lightly on my pocket. “I’m confident I could cut your throat before any of them got to me.”

Kir leans back in his chair, adjusting his cuffs.

“Maybe,” he muses, “butI’mconfident you’re not the first man to threaten me or my jugular. Almost as confident as I am that if you take one more step right now it will be your last.”

Kir cocks a brow, his smirk sharpening like a blade.

“Why don't we stop pretending we're still down-in-the-trenches brawlers and accept that we're both kings now.”

His gaze flicks to my pocket, then back to me.

“And kings never fight each other hand to hand. That’s what they have armies for.”

Kir tilts his head, indicating the seat opposite him.

“Sit, Carmine.”

I bristle.

Kir clears his throat again. “Please,” he adds with a dramatic sigh, almost as an afterthought.

My jaw tight, I pull out the chair and lower myself into it.

Kir raises a hand. Instantly, one of his men appears, bringing over another glass.

Kir pours wine from the bottle of 1999 Petrus Pomerol on his table—the kind of nine-thousand-dollar bottle you drink when you want to remind the world that youcan.

He slides the glass across the table toward me. “I assume you’re not here for the steak,” he says dryly. “Although it’s quite excellent. I was joking before about the temperature being off.”

I lean forward, voice low. “I’m not here for the Yelp reviews,” I growl. “I’m here about my fuckingwife.”

Kir exhales slowly, swirling the wine in his glass, watching me over the rim. "You’ll have to be more specific, Carmine. What exactly about your lovely bride has you so wound up?"

“You pushed her onto the witness stand against Arkadi,” I say thinly.

Kir lifts a brow, mild amusement flickering across his face. “Tell me—do you always get this possessive about the past, or just when it involves her?”

Something violent and dangerous coils in my chest.

Kir leans back, finally taking a sip of his wine. “Relax, Carmine.” His voice is unfazed, smooth. “I didn’t push her. I simply informed her—and her mother—that if she testified, the Bratva wouldn’t stop her. Nor would there be any…repercussions…from my end.” He swirls the wine again, watching the way the deep red coats the glass before setting it down. “Ultimately, the choice was hers.”

I grit my teeth. “She was a fucking child.”

Kir shrugs. “And Arkadi was a fucking monster.” He clears his throat. “To get to the point, yes, Lyra’s father worked for me. A mid-level enforcer. He did some muscle work for me…ran a few shipping operations…collections.” Kir’s eyes turn icy. “When his crimes came to light, he was instantly excommunicated from my organization.”

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