Page 54 of Santa Daddy
I felt her fingers tighten on my arm. Just a fraction. Enough.
Easy, kotyonok.
Let me work.
“Cyril,” I said, taking my chair and pulling her down beside me, anchoring her to my side. “Still trying to pay your debts with other people’s money, I see.”
The insult landed; his smile sharpened, but his eyes never left Dani.
The main room’s band slid into a slow, bluesy “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The irony didn’t escape me.
“Perhaps your lovely fiancée would like to sit by me?” Medvedov patted his knee, playacting gallant. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
Over my dead body.
“She’s comfortable where she is,” I said, enough ice in my voice to freeze open water.
He’d never been accused of being smart.
Cards were dealt. Chips clacked. December seeped in under the door in the form of faint music and the scent of spiced liquor. I played conservatively, more focused on the shifting currents of power than the pot.
Dani sat quietly, red dress shining in the gloomy light, but tension rolled off her like heat. Under the table, her thigh pressed against mine. It wasn’t fear alone. It was awareness. Of the men, of me, of the way all eyes lingered too long for comfort.
She didn’t belong in a place like this.
This back room was built for men who’d cut their teeth on blood and fire, not women who used to count tips in elf boots.
The thought should’ve made me push her out, put miles between her and this life.
Instead, something territorial uncurled in my chest, dark and satisfying.
During a break in hands, Medvedov reached for his drink, then stretched his arm just a little farther than necessary.
“Another drink, beautiful?” he asked, fingers brushing Dani’s wrist.
Just a touch. Bare skin on skin. Enough.
He was testing. Poking the bear.
He lost.
Something hot and vicious wiped my rational brain for a second.
I lunged across the table, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and slammed his face into the felt hard enough to rattle the chips and jump the candle wax.
The crack of bone against wood cut through the room. Who knew broken noses could sound festive.
Cards froze in the dealer’s hands. Conversation on the far side of the room cut off mid-joke. Even the music seemed to falter for half a beat, then kept crooning about our troubles being miles away.
They weren’t.
I kept my hand in his hair, grinding his face into the felt.
“Next time,” I said quietly, “I take your fingers.”
All of them. One by one. Maybe wrap them in tinsel and mail them for New Year’s.
No one moved. No one breathed. Smart men knew the difference between a display and an imminent body count.
