Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,19
about working for a woman?”
“He says he doesn’t mind, because she’s clever like a man.”
“So what do you do?” I ask, piling caviar onto a blini.
“What do you mean, do?”
“Like do you work, or…?”
“I put up with Pavel and all his bullshit precisely so I don’t have to work.” She glances downwards at her cleavage, which has been sprinkled with tiny gold stars. “That’s why we’re married to these bratva guys. They’re wealthy. Not Forbes Rich List wealthy but, you know, comfortable. So where do you come from? Your Russian is like, really weird.”
“I’m from London. It’s a long story.”
“And this Oxana, you’re friends, or…”
“Partners.”
“Business partners?”
“Life partners.”
Her face goes blank for a moment, then she brightens. “That’s a really beautiful dress, where did you buy it?”
I’m saved from answering by Dasha, who stands, raises her glass, and proposes an elaborate toast to the Pakhan. “Long life and good health to the father of our bratva,” she concludes. “Death to our enemies. Strength and honor to our fatherland.”
The Pakhan blinks, smiles his rabbity smile and touches his shot glass to his lips.
“I’d also like to welcome my sister Oxana,” Dasha continues. “We holidayed together in Dobryanka, the finest resort in the Urals. And believe me, friends, she was one tough bitch. They told us that she’d hanged herself in her cell, but here she is, alive and well.”
Oxana bows, grins and raises her glass to Dasha. “From one tough bitch to another, spasibo.”
At this point Dasha evidently thinks she should bring me into the conversation. “You and Oxana had quite a journey, didn’t you? The Baltic container route can be quite cold, I believe?”
A polite silence descends on the table, and nineteen faces turn toward me. I force a smile and, suddenly unconfident of my Russian, attempt to explain that Oxana and I spent the entire week shivering.
Dasha’s eyes widen with shock, and she starts to laugh. Everyone else joins in, even the Pakhan. The men stare at me and at each other, spluttering as they repeat my words, and Dasha has tears running down her cheeks. The laughter goes on and on, as I look desperately from face to face. Even Kris is smiling. “Don’t worry,” one of the brigadiers says, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “You’re among friends. Your secret’s safe with us.” Only one person is not amused, and that is Oxana, who is staring at me with icy, undiluted hatred.
The meal seems to go on forever. Endless courses of soup, baked meat, ash-roasted beetroot, sturgeon with porcini mushrooms, dumplings and pastries. And vodka, glass after tiny glass of it. Citrus vodka, cardamom vodka, raspberry, pepper and bison grass vodka. Every couple of minutes someone proposes a toast. To companionship, loyalty, honor, the vory life, beautiful women, absent friends and death. I try to sip discreetly rather than swig, but am soon hopelessly, wretchedly, drunk. Time slows to a ticking standstill. The conversation and laughter rise and fall, the room swims in and out of focus. Angelina and others attempt conversation, but give up when they discover that I can only manage slurred and simplistic responses. From time to time I glance over at Oxana, but she is making a point of avoiding my gaze, and conversing animatedly and flirtatiously with everyone around her. The briefest complicit smile or sympathetic glance would turn the evening around for me, but none is forthcoming. Instead, her eyes slide over me as if I’m simply not there.
Finally, mercifully, the last toast has been drunk. Na pososhok, one for the road. Everyone stands, and the Pakhan is escorted from the dining room by his bodyguards. Standing at the door, I watch the guests file past. Some smile at me, some shake hands; one or two of the women, clearly as drunk as I am, embrace me like old friends. As Oxana passes, her face is stone.
The apartment empties, leaving Dasha, Kris and Oxana standing in front of the glassy remains of the ice sculpture. “Go to bed,” Oxana orders me as I approach. “Dasha and I need to talk.”
“Planning another torture session?” I ask, and Dasha has the grace to look uncomfortable. “Can I just say I’ve had the loveliest evening. The food was divine and your friends are delightful. I particularly liked the Pakhan. He’s a riot.”
“Eve, please,” Oxana murmurs. “Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough tonight? Do us all a favor and fuck off.”
I obey, picking my way carefully through the thick silence to our bedroom. There, I sit on