Page 46 of Bratva Baby

He listens. Says two short things in Russian. Hangs up. Makes another call. Gets a longer answer. Hangs up again.

“I hate that you do that.”

He looks at me thoughtfully. “What?”

“Act like everyone in the room exists to wait for your summary.”

His mouth shifts. “You’re in the room, aren’t you?”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock and a tray comes in. I smell it before I see it properly and my whole body wakes up at once. A roast chicken with browned skin and garlic under it. A cast-iron pan of potatoes crisped in duck fat with rosemary and black pepper. Buttered noodles with sweet cabbage and bacon. Thick slices of bread still hot from the oven. A bowl of cucumber salad with vinegar and dill. Two bowls of goulash, dark red and glossy with paprika and onions. A plate of soft cheese and smoked sausage. Apple strudel cut thick, steam still coming from the middle.

The woman setting it down looks at me and says, “Eat before it cools.”

I could kiss her.

When she leaves, Anton pulls out the chair for me. I glare at him and sit anyway. He tears bread open with both hands, steam rushing up, and sets half on my plate. Then he spoons potatoes beside the goulash, cuts a piece of chicken, and pushes that over too.

“I can serve myself.”

He smirks again. “I know.”

I stare at him. “Then why are you doing it?”

His eyes lift to mine. “You’re shaking.”

That shuts me up.

The first bite of chicken is so good it nearly makes me angry. Crisp skin, hot juice, garlic, salt. The potatoes are obscene. The goulash is rich and deep and full of beef that gives way at the touch of the fork, and the cabbage noodles hit sweet, salty, buttery notes that make my eyes close for one stupid second.

Anton sees that and leans back in his chair like he’s watching a show he paid for.

“Better?”

I hate that he’s right. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m never not smug.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are, eating my rescue dinner.”

I tear more bread. “You keep calling it rescue and I keep hearing abduction.”

He picks up his spoon. “The difference is simple. Men outside wanted you back for leverage. I want you alive.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It isn’t supposed to be.”

I eat another bite. He watches me until I swallow.

“The ambush confirms what I already suspected,” he says. “Maks’s side is hunting hard, and now somebody besides him knows I have you.”

“Who?”

“Could be a broker line, someone from the road, or one of the men who recognized my car before they fired.” He tears bread and looks at me over it. “Either way, I’m off the cleaner route now.”

“Where are you taking me?”