Page 13 of Fate and Family

I return the smile but shift my attention to Ian. “Well, hello there. What can I get you fine gentlemen?”

“Juice, please,” Ian says, his voice soft but polite.

I made sure to stock apple juice—it’s Ian’s favorite, according to his dad—and it's perfectly chilled. I lean over the bar and whisper at him, “Want it in something fancy?”

Ian twists his whole body back and forth like moving his head wasn't clear enough. “No, those break too easily.”

I pull out the green plastic Ninja Turtle cup I bought on the way over. “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to give this cool color-changing cup to someone else. Do you think Uri would like it?”

Ian lights up. I’m already pouring the juice, when he squeals, “Ohhh, yes! Can I have it please?”

Dimitri inspects me, his expression unreadable. Maybe annoyed, maybe happy. It’s hard to tell. He nods and whispers, “Thank you.”

Uri comes over and I open a beer for him. “You just missed out,” I motion to Ian who’s watching the cup change from all green to reveal each turtle with correct color headbands and weapons. The kid takes a sip and heads toward the buffet table.

“I always miss out on the good stuff.” He flashes his goofiest smile. “Oh good, you’re both here. And Mikhail isn’t around for Katya to do bodily harm to.” After taking a quick sip from the bottle, he turns a bit more serious. “So, remember when you almost died and I saved your life?” he asks.

“Yes, I am well aware of that night.”

“Cool. So, I lost my watch.” He frowns and lifts the beer bottle. “I really hope it didn’t get tangled with Viktor’s body when I was dumping it.”

Dimitri and I exchange oh shit looks. “I swear to God almighty,” Dimitri growls, “you better not have left any evidence.”

But Uri seems unfazed. “What are the Politsiya going to do? We bought them off years ago. And I hope the Smirnovs know it was me. Fucking human hemorrhoid Viktor is dead. They’ll probably send me a fruit basket or something.” He waves the idea away with his hand.

“Maybe it's still in the alley?” I suggest, ever the helper.

Uri winks at me. “Damn, Katya, you're the best. And sexy as hell.”

I laugh, but out of the corner of my eye, Dimitri bristles as he grabs his cousin and pulls him away from the bar.

The room is lined with buffet tables filled with meats, cheeses, and other delights I’m not allowed to eat. Floor to ceiling windows light the space, but it also makes everything louder. Conversations and laughter bounce off the walls, creating a swell of sound.

Amid the noise, a small, sharp wheeze cuts through, faint but urgent. Maybe it’s because it sounds so different I can hear it. My eyes dart to Ian, whose tiny shoulders are hunched forward. His back tenses, and his chest heaves in uneven, desperate movements. Panic flashes across his face, his lips already tinged with blue. Anaphylaxis. But how?

He stumbles backward into the buffet table, his little body colliding with the stemware. The table rattles violently before the glasses come crashing down, raining shards of crystal onto the floor.

I grab the medical kit from under the bar and sprint toward him. Time seems to stretch and slow, the sound of my ownbreathing deafening in my ears. Ian’s on the floor, crying, his sobs choked by his struggle to breathe. Glass glitters in the light, embedded in his skin like jagged stars, blood already staining his pale arm.

“It’s going to be okay, Ian,” I say, more to steady myself than him. My hands move quickly, searching for the chloropyramine shot in the med kit. His tiny body writhes against me as I push the needle through his pants and into his thigh.

“Call one-one-two!” I yell to no one in particular.

Ian’s high-pitched wheezing begins to subside, his breaths coming slower, less ragged. Relief rushes through me, but it’s short-lived. Blood is pouring from the deep cuts on his right arm—far too fast.

The rest of the guests stare in voyeuristic horror, no one steps forward to help. Maybe they don’t want to stain their clothes. After all, most of the people here aren’t Bratva but crime adjacent. They live off the money and never question how it was earned.

“Okay, Ian, we’re not done yet,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. The coppery smell of blood fills the air, sharp and sickening. I lift him onto my lap, his small body trembling against mine. “You’re doing great. We’re going to sit here for a few minutes while help comes, okay? But first, I need to take out a few pieces of the glass from your arm. It might sting a little, but you’re a brave kid. I know you can handle it.”

Tears spill from his wide, terrified eyes. “It will hurt,” he whimpers on the edge of a whine.

“I know, buddy,” I whisper, “I know. But I’m right here, and we’re going to get through this together. You can pinch me for as long as it hurts, okay?”

I instantly regret saying that because his left hand digs deep into my thigh. As I pull the first piece of glass out, he cries, and my thigh throbs in pain. With each shard I pull free, his criesgrow softer, exhaustion overtaking his fear as warm stickiness pools in my hand, reminding me what’s at stake.

Dimitri rushes with a cloth and wraps it around Ian’s wound while I squeeze his arm to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. “We’re going to sit here together for a little while. We’re just going to talk.”

The critical eyes of deadly criminals fall on us. I point to Uri. “Did you call emergency services?”

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