I reached the bar before I even knew I meant to. The room’s noise slipped into a softer hum around me—the clink of crystal, the murmur of gilded conversation, the sweep of violins—because Daria had already grabbed two flutes and a bartender slid one across without asking. I told him I wanted something light; I hadn’t drunk much in years, not since Lily. Liquor hit me in places I hadn’t realized were fragile anymore.
But the Bratva women did not respect fragility. They laughed like it was oxygen. One glass turned into another and, before I knew it, I was finishing a second flute of champagne with an ease that surprised me. The fizz burned my throat and steadied my hands in a kind of false courage.
A hand slid around my waist like it belonged there and Dominic appeared at my side. He press
