Page 129 of Silenced

Dmitri snorts. “You haven’t missed the new year. Today’s the 28th.”

“Helpful,” she snaps, making me hide another smile. “But we’re cutting it close.”

Arrogantly, I inform her, “They wouldn’t dare anger me,solnyshko.If I asked them twenty minutes before the gala, they’d find a way to make it happen.”

She sniffs her disapproval.

Dmitri’s brows lift but he shoots me a grin—he likes her.

The like is growing.

As we head to the doors, I step closer to her and slide my hand around her hip so that it rests on her belly. With ease, she settles into my slowed step as if this is a dance we’ve been in for decades, not just weeks.

Today, in preparation for this appointment, I’ve put her in a halter-top dress that falls to a pleated skirt. It’s a little-known designer, one I’d never heard of until I’d personally ordered her wardrobe, but I know Tatiana will treat her with more respect if she’s wearing quality.

I will not have Cassiopeia feeling like she’s Julia Roberts inPretty Woman.

And yes, I’ve seen that goddamn movie.

Dmitri can be blamed for that travesty. I truly have spoiled him far too much.

As we step inside the storefront, an attendant moves toward us with a tray of champagne. I shake my head at the sight, tugging Cassiopeia back into me when she makes to take one.

In response, Dmitri surges forward with a bottle of champagne from my cellars.

“Where the hell was he hiding that?” she mutters to herself. “Up his damn ass?”

My lips curve slightly as Dmitri makes arrangements with the confused attendant for us to drink from this bottle only.

Cassiopeia peers at me. “You think theirs might have been poisoned?”

I shrug.

“Better to be safe than sorry?”

I nod.

She hums, and that fucking hum shuttles through my system in a way that makes me wish we’d never left the estate.

Still, this is important—the gala matters.

We have few official gatherings throughout the year, ordinarily on New Year’s which, since the Soviet Union era, has become our most important holiday. Sometimes, we switch it up with the May holidays.

We don’t paint a symbol on our heads for the FBI for no reason, but New Year’s and May holidays are different.

Symbolic.

No reneging on making an appearance—even for me. And I’d prefer to eat glass than attend.

Dmitri sets Igor on ‘champagne watch,’ while I let Cassiopeia wander around the front room of the store, a flute in hand as she peruses the dresses on display.

My hands settle behind my back as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Every minute that passes, my annoyance grows.

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