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“Your sister Arina. Such a strong woman.” He lays his knife down very precisely beside his plate. “Perhaps too strong. People talk, you know. A woman doing a man’s work makes men nervous. Nervous men make poor decisions.”

Across the table, Anton’s fork goes still.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say mildly.

Richardu smiles. He thinks he’s found the soft place inside of me. He is wrong.

“This is why families must support one another,” he says. “The Nevolins have a great deal of experience with the river. With certain men in this city. Naturally, we’d be glad to help you manage your share until things are more settled.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Oleg Rusakov is a reasonable man, when he’s approached properly. I’ve known him for thirty years. A word from me in the right ear...” He spreads his hands. “And all this unpleasantness goes away.”

Kira’s hand has gone white around her water glass. Under the table, Theo’s knee is pressed hard against mine.

I take a small sip of my wine. I set the glass down. I fold my napkin and place it beside my plate, the way Mama taught me.

“Mr. Nevolin,” I say. “Can I tell you something about myself?”

He inclines his head, gracious.

“I teach reading to eight-year-olds on Wednesdays. I work at a women’s shelter on Mondays and Thursdays. I catch spiders in a glass and put them outside, because I can’t stand to kill innocent creatures.” I keep my voice gentle. Pleasant. The voice Arina uses on Milana when Milana borrows her clothes. “People think that makes me soft. My father knew it didn’t.”

Richardu’s smile stays where it is, but his eyes change.

“At my shelter,” I go on, “I meet a lot of men like you. They come to the door with flowers. They’re always very polite. They always say they only want to help.” I tilt my head. “And every single one of them believes the woman they’re talking to is too soft to see what they are.”

The clock in the hall ticks. Mila looks from me to her grandfather with enormous eyes.

“You sent your son to break a tailor’s hand when he was seventeen years old,” I say. “You traded your daughter to the council like a debt. You’ve been sitting at Oleg Rusakov’s table, planning what to take from my family before my father was even cold.” I lean forward very slightly. “And now you’d like me to hand you the river.”

“You’re upset,” Richardu says. His voice has gone thin. “It’s understandable, at a time like this...”

“I’m not upset.” I smile at him. It’s the warmest smile I own. “My share of my father’s business will be managed by me. No Nevolin will ever set foot on a Maximov dock. And you can tell Oleg, since you’re such good friends, that my sisters and I already know exactly who he’s been talking to.”

Silence.

Total, perfect silence, except for Pasha banging his spoon on his tray.

Richardu’s face has gone very pale with two high, pink, spots in his cheeks. His eyes cut to Theo.

“Fyodor,” he says sharply. “You’ll let her speak to me like this? In my house?”

Theo doesn’t move. He sits beside me with his arm along the back of my chair, and he looks at his father with no expression at all.

He shrugs. “You’re the one who insisted on family dinner. And I don’t speak for my wife,” he says. “She is quite capable of speaking for herself.”

Richardu stands so fast his chair scrapes back across the floor. He leans down across the corner of the table toward me, his hand coming out to grip my wrist.

He never gets there.

Theo’s hand closes around his father’s forearm in midair. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t need to. He just holds it there, between us, with his father’s fingers an inch from my skin.

“No,” Theo says quietly.

Richardu goes white to the lips.

“Richardu.”