Ruthless Creatures

34

Somehow, that doesn’t comfort me.

Even before we reach the table, all three men are on their feet. Sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, Sloane looks back and forth between them and us, her brows lifted.

“Hey, babe,” she says to me, her voice neutral. Even if she were unnerved—which she isn’t, she never loses her cool—no one listening would know it. “You look amazing. Kage, nice to see you again.”

She smiles at him. He sends her a cursory nod.

She turns to the man on her right. He seems like the leader of the three, though I don’t know how I know that. He just has an air of power about him. Like he’s used to calling the shots.

She says, “Nat and Kage, this is Stavros. Stavros, Nat and Kage.”

I say, “Hi, Stavros. Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t answer. He and Kage are too busy doing a weird glare-off. So Sloane turns to the men on her other side. “And this is Alex and Nick.”

The shorter one says, “Alexei.”

The other one corrects her, too, with a curt “Nickolai.”

They’re both looking at Kage when they speak.

Sloane gives me a baffled look, as if to say, That’s news to me.

Finally, Stavros tears his gaze from Kage’s. From the corner of my eye, I see Kage smirk.

I know what he’s thinking: he made Stavros blink first.

I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.

Very formal and serious, Stavros says to me, “Natalie. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sloane has told me so much about you. I feel like I already know you so well.”

There’s a faint hint of innuendo in his voice when he says the last part. Around his lips plays a slight, provocative smile. He looks me up and down, taking his time, enjoying it.

That crackle on my left is Kage, bristling.

I squeeze his hand and say pleasantly, “Thank you, Stavros. Sloane has told me about you, too.” I turn to the other two. “It’s nice to meet you both as well.”

They dip their chins to me in unison, but don’t take their eyes off Kage.

For f**k’s sake. In an instant, I lose patience with the weirdness.

I direct my question to Stavros. “Is there a problem here? Because I’m happy to go sit at another table if there is.”

Sloane protests, while surprise flashes in Stavros’s eyes. He quickly quashes it, then says smoothly, “Of course not. Please, join us.”

He sits. The other two follow. Then Kage is pulling out my chair, bending over me as I sit and murmuring, “And you say I’m direct.”

I murmur back, “Life’s too short to sit through pissing contests.”

He tries to suppress a smile, but I don’t miss it.

The moment everyone’s seated, the weirdness begins again. I haven’t even gotten a menu when Stavros says to Kage, “Do you have family here?”

What a strange question. That’s what he leads with? And why does it sound like he’s really asking something else?

The situation grows even more odd with Kage’s reply.

“Here. Boston. Chicago. New York.”

“New York?” says Stavros, his voice a shade sharper. “Whereabouts?”

“All five boroughs. But primarily Manhattan.” His smile is bland. “That’s where I came up.”

Came up? Doesn’t he mean grew up?

Alexei and Nickolai glance at one another.

Sloane and I share a look across the table.

Kage and Stavros haven’t glanced at anyone else.

His voice betraying nothing, Stavros says, “I’m originally from Manhattan as well. Perhaps I know your family. What’s your surname?”

Fed up with whatever the hell is going on, I decide to answer for him. “It’s Porter. Right, Kage?”

After a beat of silence, Kage says softly, “Porter is the Anglicized version. When my parents came to this country from Russia, it was Portnov.”

The sudden freeze that comes over Stavros, Alexi, and Nickolai is arctic.

His face draining of blood, Stavros whispers, “Kazimir?”

Kage doesn’t answer. He simply smiles.

After a moment, his face white and his tone subdued, Stavros says, “Ja izvinjajus. Ja ne xotel vas oskorbit.”

Kage answers with a kingly nod of his head. “Apology accepted. Let’s eat.”

I’m too busy putting two and two together to eat.

I was always s**t at math, but this equation is too obvious to miss, even for me.

When Kage told me he was a criminal, he didn’t mean the garden-variety kind. Your average criminal doesn’t buy houses with cash or pilot his own plane or scare the living s**t out of three dudes who look like they scare the living s**t out of everyone else.

Your average criminal doesn’t understand Russian.

The kind of crime Kage is involved with is organized.

And from the looks of things, he’s running the organization.

I moisten my lips, heart hammering. Noticing my sudden anxiety, Kage hands me my water glass and commands, “Drink.”

I finish the whole thing, wishing it was vodka.

Meanwhile, Sloane watches the unfolding events as if she’s sitting front row at a sold-out Broadway play that she’s been holding tickets to for months.

There’s nothing more the girl loves than drama.

Well, d**k. But also drama.

She says brightly, “Isn’t this fun! You guys know each other! Such a small world, don’t you think?”

The three Russians don’t make a peep.

Kage chuckles.

I sit still and try not to let my brain leak out all over my dress.

Kage is in the mafia.

The first man I’ve had feelings for in more than five years is a Russian mobster.

If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.