4. Valentina

Chapter 4

Valentina

The first thing I notice is that the room is filled with men. Older men, like, as old as my dad would be, were he alive. Some are better matched to my grandmother, with gray hair and deep-set wrinkles carved around their eyes and mouths, one of them even sporting a cane set down by his side. Everything about them screams old money and privilege—from the way they glare at me as I enter the office, to the obnoxious shine on their leather shoes.

The decor matches its guests; dusty bookshelves with ancient tomes line two walls, with a heavy, wooden desk sitting at the far side. Liam sits behind it as leader of this gathering, with the other men lounging on couches or in armchairs around the room.

A dozen men, and one frigid old bitch lurking in the corner.

I enter the room as quietly as possible, but the clatter of the silver serving fork on the equally shining silver tray, combined with the rattle of coffee mugs against a sleek metal carafe, means I fail miserably. Not that it would have mattered with Riot following me inside; the broad set of his shoulders could block out the sun, and he takes up double the space of the older men. If they don't notice me, they definitely notice the tall, imposing guard disobeying his pakhan's orders by allowing me inside.

The chatter in the room ceases instantly as all eyes fall upon Riot and me, and I can't help but imagine this as some all-boys' party I've crashed—like I snuffed out the birthday boy's huge look at me candle, and now everyone's waiting to watch him explode at the woman who ruined his big moment.

Liam may have mastered his poker face, but there's no mistaking the steely glint in his cerulean eyes. He's pissed.

I smile sweetly at him as I wheel the cart to the center of the room. "I hope you boys will excuse the interruption. My husband left so early this morning—why, I thought he might need a little pick-me-up after such a long night."

A few of the men smirk, and the sudden rush of heat across my cheeks is one hundred percent authentic. I worked hard to cover the bruise Liam left on my cheek, but it aches the longer I stand here smiling. Carefully, I pour Liam his perfect cup of coffee: black with two sugars, mindful not to make a mess.

Our eyes meet when I look up, and I can feel it—the challenge I've presented him, draped across my shoulders like a heavy cloak. Will he entertain this interruption to business, or will he punish me for it?

And , if he punishes me in front of all these men, will I fight back? Can I withstand the humiliation of a public spanking—or worse ?

While Liam makes his decision, I carefully lean across the desk to set his coffee in front of him, giving him an ample glimpse of cleavage in the process.

To his credit, he doesn't even look at my boobs, too focused on holding my gaze .

Were this a normal day and a normal relationship instead of some fucked-up hostage kink-fest, I might be insulted. I've got great tits.

"Darling," I greet, sweetening my smile. "Would you like anything else?"

His nostrils flare, but after a tense heartbeat, he averts his gaze, dismissing me to return to conversation with the man beside him. Still, he clutches his coffee mug, thumbing its side idly, as I take a tour of the room and greet each of its inhabitants with a smile and a sweet treat.

Most of the men pay me little mind, their mouths pinched, their responses curt. When they don't accept coffee or a bagel, the rejection stings exactly how it's meant to—as an offense. These men are actively offending me by refusing my generous gift. They want me to know how little they think of me. They want me to learn my place beneath their heels.

I know where they want me. I've been trained my whole life on how to be the perfect lap dog—pretty, but insignificant.

But I have better plans for my life.

I take turns giving each man in the room attention, placing my hand on one's forearm as I ask his coffee preference, bending slightly to address another, murmuring softly as I get the attention of a few at the edges of the room. Of the twelve men, some I actually recognize as my father's business associates. About half of them are new, with only two of them looking young enough to be in their thirties.

They're the ones who watch me move around the room instead of listening to the business at hand, which makes it difficult for me to eavesdrop. The good thing about Liam's present company is that in order for discussion to reach all ears in every corner of the room, Liam needs to speak up—especially as I tinker with stirring cream and sugar into mugs that no one seems to want. It means that I can multi-task, taking mental notes about the conversation as much as I am about who's in the room.

In addition to all the men, my grandmother's sitting in the corner, completely unobtrusive as she perches in an armchair by an empty fireplace. She blends in so well with the furniture that at first, I nearly overlook the fact that she's here—which, I'm sure, is precisely her goal. When I pass in front of her, the look she gives me could freeze hell over. The firm press of her lips matches the stiffness in her posture. I won't let her win the silent judgement round, so I slather her favorite bagel in cream cheese and bring her a bread plate.

"For you, babushka. " As I hold the plate over her lap, she takes my hand and squeezes tight. My smile pinches as I avoid reacting.

Her eyes search mine, her lips twitching into a frown. " Ditya. I did not expect to see you this morning." Her gaze sweeps over my outfit, her frown deepening.

"Well, a wife is meant to support her husband." I lick the fruity gloss off my lips, smacking them. "What better way than providing for his guests?"

In truth, I wasn't sure who all would be inside the room. Now that I'm here, I'm not sure I should have entered dressed like this .

To some people, a woman is merely a target, something to tease and touch as they please. A pretty woman in a dress, oozing sweetness like me, is damn near irresistible. That was the point of this little ensemble—to catch eyes and attention, to let them know that I'm not going to sit in the corner and wait to be called upon—and it's clear that, for the two youngest associates, at least, it's working.

They're hungry , and they've just spotted their next meal. As I approach the first of the two men, I can't help but feel like Little Red Riding Hood approaching the Big Bad Wolf, my basket of treats in hand, while the monster drools at the temptation in front of him.

Me.

As I'm readying a new plate for the next guest, Liam chooses that moment to speak up, the word orphanage stealing my attention away from my hands. I distractedly push a bagel off the tray and onto the floor, the soft thud lost to me over the words booming through the room.

"If we don't have enough men, we'll simply take more. How many are housed there?"

"They aren't ripe enough yet. Some are barely fifteen, pakhan. They can't even handle their own dicks, let alone a gun."

"A fifteen-year-old can be taught to shoot."

"We don't have that kind of time?—"

Fingertips brush the inside of my wrist, jerking my attention back into my body. My heart races as the man beside me sets the fallen bagel back onto the cart, his other hand hovering over my wrist. "Are you alright, love? You look a little flushed." The pads of his fingers press into my skin, his eyes lighting up as he finds my skittering pulse. "Mm, heart racing, too. Nervous about walking into the lion's den?" He chuckles softly, more to himself than to me, and I blink to focus. Focus.

Francesca's name rings in my ears, as do the words gun and training . What the hell do orphaned kids have to do with either of those things?

I let my smile slip a moment ago, and I carefully reapply it, giving a smaller, more timid one this time. "I'm a little clumsy today. What can I get you, Mister . . ."

Liam's voice booms like thunder, crashing heavily from above. "If you want to keep that hand, Anton, I suggest you move it before I misunderstand what you're reaching for."

Anton's lips curve into a confident smirk as he releases my wrist, reaching past me for an empty mug. "No offense intended, pakhan. Your wife is sweet to dote on us." He licks a stripe across his front teeth, flashing his canines, before glancing at his pakhan . "I'm a little jealous, actually. Wish I had a pretty wife waiting on me like this. You're lucky that you're the oldest, brother." His eyes sweep back over to me, darkening as he notices me staring back. "Or you'd be mine, pretty girl."

Liam mentioned siblings once a long time ago, but I never put two and two together, especially not after how crazy everything's been. If Liam's in the mafia, of course his siblings are, too.

As Anton addresses Liam, I can see the familial resemblance in the bright blonde faded cut, the shape of his stubbled jaw, and the fucking insanity for being so casual in a room full of criminals. Criminals who are glowering at us.

Anton remains unfazed. He smirks as he takes his seat, likely thinking my blush is for him, but it's not.

I'm fucking furious. Embarrassed. Never in my life have I felt so objectified , and I see so clearly that this is the life I would have had, if I'd played my role as princess perfectly five years ago. Nothing more than a trophy with a big, wet hole to fill.

Anton taps the empty mug in his hands, waiting for me to pour him coffee. "I like mine full of cream."

One of the old men standing closest to Liam—Kravinsky, I think is his name—laughs. He gestures between the brothers, his voice bitter. " This is the family meant to lead us? Fawning over a woman ?" He tsks, his eyes roaming toward my grandmother. "Allowing the matron in the meeting room, as well. Tolkotsky must be rolling in his grave, God rest his fucking soul."

Liam's jaw tics. "Please, Kravinsky, keep insulting me. I'd be happy to fill your seat at my table. What is it you keep telling me? That your sons are itching for a promotion?" He flicks open a switchblade and stirs his coffee with it, clinking the metal against ceramic. "I can expedite that process very quickly."

Kravinsky rears his head back. "Are you mad? We've wiped meaner shits off our asses than you, boy. You may have the title of pakhan , but make no mistake—" He juts his finger towards the corner of the room, where my grandmother sits like a statue—" she is the one who put you there. It's out of respect for the Madame that we're even here." He bows his head towards Katya, showing deference despite the fact he clearly doesn't think she should be in the room to begin with. "She orchestrated the coup to overthrow that upstart Leonov. Now all you have to do is not ruin everything we've built?—"

The blade slices through the air so fast that I miss it, only catching the wet gurgle in the man's throat, then the sudden burst of crimson as Liam withdraws the blade from the other man's flesh. Kravinsky clutches his neck, eyes wide, as he chokes on his own blood. He falls to the ground, thumping against the desk on his way down.

Liam wipes the blade on his shirtsleeve. "Come here, zhena. "

I jump at my name, not expecting to hear it. My ears ring as I tear my gaze away from Kravinsky's body and force my legs to move.

I just watched a man die.

It's my first time experiencing death—yet another first that Liam has taken from me—but I know it won't be my last.

I intend for Liam to have that honor very soon.

He leans back in his seat, scooting out far enough to pat his thigh and beckon me onto it. Carefully, I do as I'm instructed, perching on his knee. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his chest, pecking a warm kiss against my cheek. "Good girl."

My stomach twists as the praise gnaws at me. I've imagined myself sitting in Andrei's lap as he leads our kingdom—or better yet, as we make decisions together—but sitting in Liam's makes me feel less like an equal and more like the dog he expects me to be.

The words good girl only heighten that feeling. I half expect him to reach into the desk drawer and pull out a treat.

"Let's make something clear, gentlemen." Liam takes his time meeting the eyes of every man in the room. "You may have your opinions about this Bratva, or its leader, or his wife . " His palm digs into my hip, clutching me tighter. "But I don't give a fuck about your opinions. You are here as advisors to ensure we win this fucking war. If you have a problem with how I run things, or whose company I keep, you can follow Kravinsky out the door." With a nod, he silently orders Riot to clean up the mess.

A streak of blood follows Kravinsky's body as Riot drags it from the room.

Liam taps his knife on the desk, and from this angle, I can see the map of the city laid out in front of me. Landmarks are highlighted, the Baranova estate colored red, multicolored lines and notations and symbols littered across the page.

I don't have a fucking clue what I'm looking at, but I settle back into Liam and try to appear relaxed as he massages my hip and gets back to business, calling up the next man to advise him on not just our manpower, but our firepower and real estate.

I take it all in—the numbers, the trade routes, the strategy—and make a promise not to forget a single detail.

Even if I have to sit with the devil to do it.