Page 98 of Santa Daddy
“See?” Maksim said softly. “You can step away and scream on camera while they open anyway, or you can stop fighting shadows and talk to me like civilized people.”
The deadbolt thunked back on its own. The mechanism hummed.
The door eased inward an inch under motor power.
I could have thrown my weight against it. Could have grabbed the handle and tried to slam it shut. Could have made a scene that would look fantastic played back in slow motion for a room full of men already calling me unstable.
I stepped back instead. Just two paces. Enough to not be physically bowled over by a door I’d just watched betray me.
The latch finished cycling. The door swung open.
Maksim stepped in, bringing cold air with him. Snow clung to his hair, melting in little droplets.
“Get to the point,” I said. My voice came out steady, which felt like a small miracle. “Say whatever you need to say, then leave.”
He glanced up at the nearest dark dome in the ceiling—one of the cameras—with obvious awareness, then around the room.
“Very nice,” he said. “Clean. Controlled. Very Kostya. No clutter, no color, no family.” His gaze slid back to me. “Until now.”
He shut the door with a casual push. The latch clicked back into place.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said. “If the council really wanted a check-in, they could’ve sent a nurse. Or a questionnaire.”
“They sent me,” he said. “Blood trumps clipboard.” He walked toward the kitchen, placing the wine bottle on the island with a soft thud. “They ask, ‘Is she calm? Is she behaving? Does she smile when Kostya is not in room?’ They want report.”
I followed only far enough to keep him in sight. Arms folded. Shirt tugged lower over my bare thighs.
“They can watch the cameras,” I said. “Free show.”
He picked up the corkscrew. “You should pity them,” he said. “They have old eyes. They cannot see inside very well anymore. They rely on people like me.”
“And you’re just here to help,” I said. “Good Samaritan in Prada.”
He popped the cork. The sound made my stomach pitch.
“This is ‘82 Bordeaux,” he said, pouring. “Pre-collapse. Very rare. Very expensive. We drink, we talk, I tell them you smiled. Then they drink more, worry less, and forget to order your execution. Everyone wins.”
He came around the island with two full glasses. The wine looked almost black.
“I’m not drinking,” I said.
He tilted his head. “You are not hungry, not thirsty, not talkative,” he mused. “Very bad combination for surviving these men.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
His smile thin-lined. He set both glasses down on the edge of the island with a faint clink.
“You know what Konstantin told them last night?” he asked, voice dropping. “He looked Baranov in face and said, ‘No one touches my wife. She is untouchable.’”
A nervous laugh escaped me before I could choke it back. “Sounds like something he’d say.”
“Da,” Maksim agreed. “Very dramatic. Very stupid.”
He reached out with one finger and jabbed my shoulder.
“Touch,” he said.
I flinched.
