WE ARE AT THE RESTAURANT WHERE THE BRATVA BREAKFAST MEETING IS TAKING PLACE.
Dmitry and I are seated in the backseat of one of his cars, the vehicle parked in the driveway of what looks like a very expansive, high-class restaurant. Around us, there are other cars parked, and the owners seem to have already gotten inside the restaurant already, all probably waiting for the Pakhan.
And his queen.
Sweat beads my forehead, and there’s another trail of it rolling down my back, something settling in my lower stomach. I can’t stop thinking of what might happen in there and what their reactions to my presence there would be.
Will they think I’m not fit to be queen? Will they like me? Will anyone try to kill me?
Father has never taken me to formal meetings like this, really, and I’ve never car
