Danylo wore a perfect black tuxedo. Under it, Alena knew, was a Kevlar vest. When they stepped out of the limousine, camera flashes popped around them. His hand settled firmly at the small of her back, guiding her and steadying her at once.
“Smile, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to be crazy about me.”
“I can’t stand you,” she muttered through a bright smile.
“Perfect. Keep that look. It reads as chemistry.”
They descended into the gallery. The walls were raw concrete, decorated with twisted metal sculptures. The air was thick with cigar smoke and tension.
At a long steel table sat the heads of the other criminal families. There was Bohdan Rudenko, heavyset and sweating, with a laugh like a chain saw and dead eyes. Artem Tkach, who controlled the river docks, sat nearby, calmly cleaning under his nails with a pocketknife. And there was Vadym, the quiet representative from Odessa, who seemed to prefer listening to talking.
Nikita stood behind Danylo’s chair. Ilya held position by the door. Danylo pulled out a chair for Alena.
“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, “forgive our delay. My fiancée Alena had trouble choosing earrings.”
Every man at the table looked at her. Rudenko licked his lips. “Fiancée? You move fast, Moroz. I always figured you were married to business.”
“Priorities change when someone tries to kill you,” Danylo said, taking his seat.
He looked relaxed, but Alena could see the tension in his jaw. The meeting began. To an outsider, it would have sounded like a dull conversation full of coded references to territory, shipments, and compensation for the incident at the restaurant. Alena sat quietly, sipping champagne now and then, playing the role of decorative companion. But her eyes kept moving.
Rudenko was too loud, too eager, and kept checking his gold watch. Tkach looked calm, almost bored. Then she watched Nikita.
He wasn’t watching the room. He wasn’t scanning for threats. He was watching Vadym from Odessa. And Vadym was tapping a finger against his glass in a strange rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Alena’s heartbeat kicked up. It felt like a signal. She lowered her eyes carefully beneath the table. The white tablecloth wasn’t long enough to hide everything. She saw Vadym’s shoe slide toward a black briefcase sitting near Danylo’s chair.
Her gut told her that wasn’t paperwork. It might be a signal jammer. It might be a bomb.
“Danya, honey,” Alena whispered, leaning in as if to kiss his cheek. To everyone else, it looked like a foolish little show of affection. Danylo didn’t flinch.
“What is it?” he breathed.
“The Odessa man,” she whispered against his skin. “He’s signaling Nikita. And there’s a briefcase under your chair that wasn’t there before.”
Danylo pulled back and looked at her. He didn’t waste time questioning her. He stood up abruptly.
“Gentlemen, I need a proper drink,” he said loudly. “The champagne here tastes like dishwater.”
“Sit down, Moroz,” Rudenko snapped. “We’re not finished.”
“I am,” Danylo said coldly. He took Alena by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, darling. We’re done here.”
The instant they turned toward the exit, the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
“Down!” Danylo shouted, yanking Alena to the concrete floor for the second time in forty-eight hours. Muzzle flashes strobed through the blackness. Automatic fire ripped across the steel table. Alena hit the floor hard, covering her head. The gunfire in the enclosed space was deafening.
Men shouted. Glass shattered. Danylo’s pistol barked in measured rhythm as he fired back.
“Ilya, move to the exit!” Danylo yelled.
But Ilya wasn’t at the door. He was in a hand-to-hand fight with two of Rudenko’s men in the passageway.
“Nikita, with me!” Danylo called.
No answer came.
Then a hard white beam from a tactical flashlight cut through the smoke and landed on them.
“There they are!” a familiar voice shouted.
It was Nikita.
