Page 37 of The Payback

Anastasia leans closer to me. “Eerie, isn’t it?” she asks, following my line of sight.

“A little bit,” I whisper back.

“They’ve been like that since they were kids.” Her eye roll is dramatic but playful.

“Elsa, this is my wife, Oksana,” Sergei says, his attention focused on me.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say demurely. I only know what was passed on to me from Interpol records about Oksana. She married Sergei when she was young, is a former beauty pageant winner and etiquette school enthusiast, volunteers at various nonprofits, and sits on the board for no less than three charities.

She has perfectly coiffed blonde hair, sharp pointed nails, and an outfit that screams luxury. The diamonds around her neck and dripping from her ears are probably worth more than I make in a year, and I can’t help but feel intimidated by the woman. She fixes her icy-blue eyes on me, and her lips tip up in a small smile.

“Very nice to meet you as well, Elsa,” she says, her accent not as pronounced as her husband’s. “Welcome to the family. I hope you don’t mind my husband arranging this. I wanted to get to know you, and you looked so overwhelmed at the wedding.”

I dip my head in gratitude. “I was. Thank you for being patient with me.”

“Nonsense, dear. Anything for family.”

Dimitri nods to his aunt. “How is the renovation coming along?” he asks, taking some of the attention off me and sitting back as Oksana launches into details.

She’s coordinating the renovation of their townhouse—her third time redoing it in five years—as Sergei smirks around his whisky glass. I take the opportunity to assess him as he pays attention to his wife. He looks at her the way one does an indulgent child. His meaty hand is draped over the back of her chair, and she leans into him. But she keeps her torso angled away from him, her hips twisted in the other direction, and her back away from the backrest where his arm is positioned.

Oksana turns towards me when she finishes telling us about the marble she’s having imported from God knows where. “What about Dimitri’s apartment, Elsa? Would you like the number for my contractor? He does outstanding work, and you can remodel his penthouse how you like.”

“My apartment is fine,Teta.” Dimitri sighs.

“Your apartment is probably a bachelor pad—not that I’ve seen it yet, but I can only imagine,” she counters. “No woman wants to live somewhere they haven’t had a hand in creating. It is only a house then, not a home.”

The conversation is halted when the servers appear, carrying long dishes with silver domed tops. I help to move things from the centre of the table so they can land safely, and Dimitri puts his hand on my arm, stopping me. “Leave it,” he whispers when a server takes over the job.

Oksana is looking at me curiously.Right. Organised crime princesses don’t help the help.Because they’re assholes.

I waited tables during university, and it’s my instinct to help when I see someone overladen with dishes, trying their best not to spill it all down someone’s front as they balance the heavy platters. But I’m yanked out of my memories by Dimitri’s warm, callused palm on my knee. I knew I should have worn a longer dress.

Dimitri grips harder as I shift in my seat and try to dislodge his hand. Turning to him, I find him looking straight ahead, so I take advantage of the moment and study his face in profile. His high cheekbones and perfectly coiffed dark blonde hair make the slight bump on the bridge of his nose seem less of an imperfection and more like an intentional feature a sculptor carved on a masterpiece. It only makes him look more regal and fierce, adding to the careful perfection he presents to the world. It’s a façade, and I want to rip that mask off and see who he is under all of that—and not just when our clothes are off.

Dangerous territory, Ellie, I scold myself.

Movement just past his decidedly flawless face catches my attention. I’m caught off guard when Nik leans forward with his eyes fixed on me. He quirks a brow as servers’ arms block us from the other side of the table. He flicks the tip of his nose with his thumb like he’s got a slight itch. The same way he used to when he was my partner. It was our signal to check in with one another—if we needed the other to intervene.

I subtly shake my head, and he leans back in his chair again.

The servers remove the domes from the platters and wish us a good meal before disappearing. The scent of dinner hits my nose, transforming my stomach from peckish to ravenous. Pierogies, racks of lamb, and cuts of meat roasted to perfection rest on beds of rice, small pasta, and an array of vegetables so colourful they look like a mosaic.

Dimitri picks up the serving utensils and turns to me. “What will it be, Elsa?” he asks.

I choose things randomly, and Dimitri fills my plate and places it in front of me. “Enjoy.”

Aleksandr and Sergei plate food for their wives before the men descend on what’s left in the serving trays. By the time their selections are made, the platters at the centre are nearly empty and everyone digs in.

Dimitri’s hand returns to my leg as he eats, tracing the hem of my dress, and with every swipe across my tense thigh, he drags it higher.

His pinky brushes the material of my panties, and I realise I’ve been unknowingly spreading my legs for him under the tablecloth. He drags the tip of his finger across my clit, causing me to gasp.

“So,” Sergei says around a swallow of his wine, “Elsa, how is married life treating you?”

I place my fork on the side of my plate and clear my throat. “Very well, thank you. Dimitri is a wonderful husband.”

Said husband hooks his finger under the lace of my panties, his skin warming my already heated clit as he strums it, never using the pressure I need, just teasing me while everyone’s attention is on me. It’s a fight to keep the blush from rising and effectively giving away what Dimitri’s doing to me.

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