Torrid (Sordid 2)

?

The sign over the door to the restaurant read Il Piacere, and pinpricks of awareness tingled in my mind. I’d heard of the place before . . . but where? What was the significance of this upscale Italian restaurant in the Chicago Loop? John pulled along the curb, and one of the valets opened my door. He eyed my lack of coat with interest, but then Vasilije got out behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist, propelling me under the awning and through the glass doors.

The lobby was travertine tile, exposed brick and textured walls. Soft, warm lighting twinkled from hidden spaces, making the restaurant space feel intimate and inviting. All of the tables were empty except one. That wasn’t too strange. It was the night before Thanksgiving, and most people were home cooking, or traveling to be with family.

The large, round table in the back of the room was draped in a white tablecloth, and although it had six men sitting at it, my attention zeroed in on one. Goran Markovic was distinguished looking and handsome. His once-black hair was now mostly gray, but his black eyes were as alert as Vasilije’s and twice as scary.

He sat facing the door, giving him the best line of sight of the exit, which was the same thing my father did when he went out. Goran’s focus went to Vasilije, and then settled on his hand cupping my arm, just above my elbow. The discerning gaze continued up to meet mine, and I shivered.

It had nothing to do with the cold.

Confusion played on the older Markovic man’s face, and his scowl intensified as Vasilije escorted me toward the table.

Nerves bubbled in my bloodstream, but I stayed calm and collected, planting one steady high heel in front of the other as we closed in. There was no need to be intimidated, I told myself. I knew worse men than Goran. In fact, I was the product of one of them.

“Vasilije,” Goran said, and although his tone was mildly pleasant on the surface, I could hear the contempt beneath. “I need to remind you this is a business meeting?”

“This girl is part of the business,” Vasilije answered.

There were other men sitting at the table, and I jolted to a stop, stumbling on my heels. My blood froze in my veins. My heart refused to keep pumping. All functions ceased.

My father stared at me with stunned eyes that were the same color as razor blades.

What the hell was happening?

I tried to get my mind to work. I must have been made. Maybe Vasilije had brought me here as some sort of bargaining chip to trade. But if so . . . why was he now staring at me with confusion?

The restaurant name clicked into place suddenly. Il Piacere was the restaurant where the Serbians had met us to negotiate the truce last year. It was neutral ground, so no matter what was about to go down, in theory, I should be safe here. But what was happening? Were the Russians and Serbians about to negotiate a new truce, and I was part of it?

Vasilije’s fingers bit into my arm, wordlessly demanding I keep up, and I did the best I could. “It’s the new shoes,” I whispered, not sure what else to say. I’d play my part until the bitter end.

Sergey Petrov, the man who’d made me a bastard, was seated to Goran’s right, with a bodyguard separating them. My father’s straight, graying hair was parted perfectly to one side and as exacting as his personality. I’d been told by my friends that he was attractive as far as older men went, but I didn’t see it. His long nose and equally long face seemed to be cast in a permanent look of disdain . . . at least that was how he always looked at me.

He peered at me with barely-hidden contempt, as if I were going to get him killed. Who the fuck was in more danger here?

Vasilije grabbed one of the empty chairs and pulled it out, and the moment hung in suspension. I realized it at the same moment everyone else did. He’d pulled out the chair for me. The rest of the men at the table lumbered to their feet, standing until I took my seat. My half-brother stood beside my father, and Konstantine’s expression was pure shock, although I couldn’t tell if it was at seeing me, or at what Vasilije had just done. A Markovic pulling out a chair for a Russian, who didn’t carry the Petrov name, but was Petrov blood.

This was the most surreal moment of my life.

It was a table full of murderers acting like they were gentlemen, and regarding me as a lady. I sat hesitantly and allowed Vasilije to scoot the chair in, and then everyone else settled down into seats. My gaze flicked to Goran, who was directly across from me. His scrutiny was so sharp, it felt as if he were peeling the skin from my body, one layer at a time.