DMITRY AND I HEAD INTO THE RESTAURANT.
Every conversation we just had outside has been pushed aside as we make our way to the building, and Dmitry’s face, once carrying a raged, possessive expression at my threat, is now stoned into indifference.
The first thing that hits us when we step inside is the smell of expensive colognes, and the murmurs filling the room. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling shines over the long table the Bratva members are seated around, the men all wearing similar black suits, with a few women in between them.
Dmitry’s hand lays flat on my lower back, leading me further into the room as we make our way towards the table once the guards flank us, one in front, another one behind. And the moment we near the table, as if everyone is now aware of our presence,
