Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,18
the tall windows overlooking Stachek Prospekt, an ice sculpture of the Russian president riding a bear drips on a sideboard. At the far end of the room a white-jacketed steward with a bandaged head is serving drinks at a generously stocked bar. Belatedly, I recognize the gang member that Oxana laid out cold in the warehouse. His colleagues mock him, slapping him condescendingly on the cheek as they collect their drinks, laughing at his idiocy in allowing himself to be hospitalized by a woman.
I take a glass of pink Latvian champagne from the bandaged barman, who eyes me ruefully, and search the crowd for Oxana. She’s deep in conversation with Dasha, and although I can’t hear what either of them is saying I can see the sly flash of Oxana’s eyes and Dasha’s slow, complicit smile. They look at me and laugh, and although I’m tempted to hurl my glass at them, I sip the sweet, ice-cold champagne instead.
Kris materializes beside me. She looks elegant in gray chiffon, but out of place among the glittering Kupchino Bratva women, like a moth among fireflies. “They’re so boring,” she murmurs to me. “It’s impossible to have an intelligent conversation with any of them. They only talk about three things. Clothes, kids, and how to stop their men screwing around.”
“Oh God.”
“Exactly. Oh God! They’re endlessly telling me how the nanny’s so lazy, how she spends her whole time stuffing herself from the fridge and WhatsApping her friends and ignoring little Dima or Nastya, and then they look at me pityingly, like they’ve just remembered, and say, ‘But of course, you haven’t got children, have you? Do you think you might have some if you met the right guy?’ And of course I have to be polite and play along, because Dasha would be high-key angry if I was rude to them, but I want to say, ‘You know what, bitches? There’s never going to be a “right guy,” so suck on that.’”
For Kris, this is quite a speech.
“Are you sure this whole vorovskoy mir is for you?” I ask her.
She gives me a weary smile. “I love Dasha, and this is her world, so I guess it has to be for me. How did you and Oxana meet?”
I’m wary. Has Dasha instructed her to fish for information about us? But then I drain my champagne glass and look Kristina in the eye, and she’s so transparently guileless, and I so badly need an ally, that I’m almost tempted to tell her the truth.
I don’t, though.
Clapping her hands to announce that dinner is served, Dasha squires the Pakhan out of the room. The rest of us follow the two of them at a sedate pace into an ornate dining room, where a long table has been set for twenty. A crystal chandelier sends out rainbow spikes of light, the air is heavy with the scent of lilies, and along the center of the table, framed by gold cutlery and glassware, a glazed sturgeon is laid out like a corpse. Place cards indicate where we should sit and the protocol is strict. The Pakhan occupies the place of honor, flanked by Dasha and another brigadier, the soldiers are arranged on either side of them, and the women cluster around the table ends.
Oxana, looking fabulous in the tuxedo suit, has been placed between two of the soldiers, and I watch as her eyes narrow with anger as she realizes that she has not been seated among the Kupchino Bratva elite. I’ve learned the hard way just how badly she reacts to any perceived disrespect. Something flips in her. Possessed by the need to reassert control over the situation, she’s capable of the most lacerating viciousness. I watch as one of the men tries to converse with her and is icily ignored. I could have told him not to bother. When she’s like this she’s impossible.
“So which is your man?” asks the woman seated on my left, as a selection of blinis, salads and caviar is brought to the table, along with silver trays of vodka in shot glasses. A glance at her place card tells me that her name is Angelina. She has nervous eyes and hair the color of burnt caramel.
“I’m with Oxana,” I tell her. “Over there, in the black suit.”
She regards me uncertainly for a moment. “Pavel,” she says, nodding to one of the men whom Oxana is studiously ignoring. “My husband. He’s a boyevik. One of Dasha’s crew.”
“So how does he feel