Page 22 of Dark King Daddy

So the dining room downstairs remained full. The baths remained open. Men argued over cards behind frosted glass while steam rolled beneath the doors. Plates struck tables. Vodka poured. Music drifted up from the second floor, muffled by carpet and concrete.

Above it, the third floor belonged to me.

The elevator had been locked out at four. A key was required to reach us from the lobby. Two men stood at the west stair. Two more guarded the east service stair. The dumbwaiter had been disabled, though Arkady had objected on the grounds that no assassin could fit inside it.

I had told him that Nikita probably could.

Nikita had informed me he lacked the flexibility.

I checked the elevator myself.

Then the stairs.

Then the locks on the service doors.

The private floor held two dining rooms. The Samovar Room faced the street and would hold dinner. The Birch Room stood at the rear, windowless and quiet, with walls paneled in pale wood. Lev and Mikhail would meet there after dinner to compare their lists of compromised men.

I opened the Birch Room’s rear service door.

A narrow passage ran behind the kitchens and joined the east stair. One guard stood at the junction. Another waited beyond the outer door. Both men straightened when they saw me.

“No one enters this passage after seven,” I said.

They nodded.

“Not kitchen staff. Not family. Not someone you recognize.”

Another nod.

“If my father asks?”

The nearer guard hesitated.

“You call me,” I said. “Then you open it.”

“Yes, Daniil.”

I shut the door and tested the electronic latch twice.

When I turned, Nikita stood inside the Birch Room with one shoulder against the wall. Dark suit. Green eyes. The expression of a man who had found entertainment where none should exist.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I waited.

He smiled. “Are you planning to search the Orlov delegation yourself?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

I walked past him.

He followed me into the corridor. “Mikhail and Anton would object, naturally. But perhaps Ksenia could receive more individualized attention. A pat down? Checking for weapons, of course. I thought you might want to do the honors.”

I stopped.