Page 15 of Fate and Family

A silent conversation passes between the family members. Finally, his mother says, “I’ll come with you while your father and uncles figure out what happened.”

Dimitri lifts Ian out of my arms and carries him toward the door. Ian doesn’t say goodbye, which is probably a good thing because I’m completely covered in blood. We’ve done a pretty good job of keeping him distracted. He doesn’t need to see this.

The crowd’s attention shifts back to the family, murmurs filling the air. I take a deep breath and rise, brushing shards of glass off me. Standing there, unsure of what to do, I glance out the window. Dimitri carefully places Ian on the gurney as the medical team works with precision. In a matter of minutes, Ian and his mother are gone.

Chapter

Seven

Katya

The party guests return to their hushed conversations and the incident is forgotten. A maid is already sweeping the glass and waiters are restocking the stemware. Glancing at my blood-soaked clothes, a wave of exhaustion hits me. I scan around for a bathroom, but before I can move, Mikhail approaches.

“The boss wants to see you,” he says, his gaze averting to everywhere else but directly into my eyes.

I follow Mikhail into an office. Despite the light streaming through the curtains, the dark wood of the desk and bookshelves makes everything feel heavy and important. The air carries a faint scent of leather and aged paper. This room is the epitome of power and money.

Dimitri’s father sits in a large chair behind the desk, Uri and Dimitri flanking him. Mikhail stands silently behind me.

“Thank you for your service today,” the family leader says.

I nod. “Of course.”

“You handled yourself with great composure.”

“Thank you.”

He leans forward on his desk, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. “Explain to me why you told my grandson I was a hero, when you know I am not.”

“He was already scared, and he should feel safe.”

The patriarch frowns, the sort of frown that even makes his forehead seem grumpy. “He needs to fear and respect his role in this world we’ve created.”

I shrug. “Generational trauma sure has worked out well for this family.” I twirl my fingers in a circle. “Just trying to disrupt that cycle, if only for a few minutes.”

There’s a stillness before it breaks with Uri’s chuckle and spreads to everyone else.

“Katya, you’re a funny one,” the family leader says. He pats Dimitri on the arm, “Just like my youngest son.”

This blows my mind. I point to my boss. “Him?”

“Yes.”

I turn to Dimitri, stiff and unsmiling. His strong jaw tightens as his sharp blue eyes dart to Uri, then back to me. Maybe he’s still reeling from the stress, but his glower is deeper than ever.

“That guy right there? He’s funny?” I tilt my head to the side. “Nope. Don’t believe it. I’ve spent the last year with him, and not once has he done anything remotely funny.”

Dimitri’s broad shoulders slump but he quickly straightens up, his brows furrowing. “I’m funny.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what the evidence suggests.”

He lets out a growl and says, “Come on. We need to find you new clothes.” He steps from behind the desk, and I can feel his annoyance as he brushes past me.

Dimitri leads us down a corridor to a second staircase far away from the party. Family bedrooms and private offices line the hallway. From the other side of a door come the grunts, groans, and bed squeaking that leaves little to the imagination.Dimitri's forehead vein pulses, and his body tenses. He exhales and hurries his pace.

He stops in front of a door two rooms away and pushes it open. The dark green walls and a painted ceiling make the room feel closed off and formal. The only sprinkling of personality are aged, framed posters and a few trophies that break up the monotony of the bedroom’s walls. Beyond that, it’s all leather-bound books and rich dark wood. Poor guy never had a chance to be himself, always living in his father’s image and his brother’s shadow.

Dimitri huffs and pushes past me, heading straight to the closet. He glances over his shoulder at me before pulling out a shirt—correction, a tent. It’s a white button-down, easily seven sizes too big.

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