I sat stiffly next to Matvey, hands folded in my lap as I observed everyone at the dinner table.
The mahogany table stretched out in front of us, gleaming under silver knives and golden-rimmed glasses. Crystal decanters reflected the chandelier light, casting glints like warning beacons.
And the men around us—the seasoned Bratva members whose hands were dipped in blood and all sorts of evil—cracked jokes about their latest conquests as if taking a human life was the same as hunting a pig, and not even pigs deserved the brutal deaths they described in their sickening jokes.
I slowly spun my head around to glance at Matvey.
He hadn’t spoken a word all evening; he didn’t even smile or contribute to the murder and sex jokes passing round a table as if it were a plate of everyone’s favorite dish.
He just sat in his chair as if a crown had been carved into his very bones. One hand lay casually on the armrest, and the other wrapped itself around the stem of his wine glass. His dark eyes were void of any emotions, and his face remained the usual cold, blank mask.
I could feel him, even when he was not looking at me.
Especially then.
My designated seat was deliberate, tucked comfortably in his shadow. Not in front of him, but next to him.
Every time a seated man looked too long at my exposed shoulders, or kept a comment about the bride on his lips a beat too long, I could feel Matvey’s tense reserve growing tighter.
Not possessive in a loud way.
I fought to hide the rigidity that had taken its grip on me, longing painfully to disappear behind the refuge of my wine glass or imagine a hundred excuses to leave.
But I was not going to give them the pleasure.
I held my spine straight.
No one dared to say a word to me all evening, not with Matvey beside me. I could tell they all feared him, and for the first time, I found myself wondering how much more brutality he was capable of.
One of the men across the table leaned forward, a smile spreading across his lips, but never making it to his eyes.
I’d heard they called him Yakov. He was older—late sixties, maybe. Piercing white beard, rings on every finger, and a voice slick with vodka. He was Matvey’s distant uncle.
“Well, Matvey. Another weak Carter girl, eh? I thought you’d be smarter after the first one.”
My blood turned to ice, and a wicked shiver rolled down my spine.
The table chuckled, though not fully, as if they were unsure whether to take the joke or not until Yakov raised his glass and added, “Recycled brides must come cheap these days.”
Yulia.
She wasn’t….
My hands clenched under the table, rage surging through me like thunder. How dare he make a joke like that about my sister?
Before I could answer, before the flames could even reach my face, Yakov lifted his glass in a slow gesture and continued, his words slightly slurred. “Recycled brides do come at a discount, don’t they?”
The air snapped.
The laughter stopped.
My breath stuck in my throat as all heads turned slowly, not to Yakov. To Matvey.
He hadn’t moved a single muscle; he just lifted his icy gaze to Yakov. He didn’t raise his voice or change expression. Instead, he tightened his fingers slowly, silently around the wine glass until the crystal broke with a clink.
Glass shattered into fragments on the floor. Red collected along the creases of his palm, yet he didn’t even flinch.
I kept my eyes locked on his hand, watching his blood mix with wine, and my heart pounded in my ears.
