Page 2 of The Russian Retribution

Showtime.

No one greets me as I head downstairs. Many of the staff who work here have been berated into quiet submission over the years, and they’re the only ones who don’t look me in the eye. I suspect it’s misguided fear cloaked as respect. I’m a Remizova, after all. As a family, we’re incapable of a kind word.

The subtle scents of roast chicken, buttery mash, and something sweet drift through the halls as I head toward the dining room. Each step that carries me closer sends a fluttering pulse of anticipation through my chest. I’m not allowed to show weakness, knowing that the second I do, I will be met with cold glares of satisfaction and a mutter ofI told you so.

Women can’t lead.

Women are weak.

Emotional.

They don’t understand how things are supposed to work.

The very thought of the excuses fired my way makes my stomach tighten, and I lift my head high as I reach the dining room.

A man dressed in black dips his head, eyes averted, and reaches for the door. I raise one hand, and he pauses, waiting for my signal.

Beyond these doors are my father’s eight generals, each as old as he was. Their laughter is thick, their spirits high. They think they’re being treated to an exquisite meal before my announcement, and I know each of them hopes I’m about to tell them that I’m stepping down. They’re likely sharing plans on how to get one of them into power and the glory they’ll take this family to.

I let them think that for a few more seconds. At the next clap of thunder, I nod my head and the doorman pulls the white sliding doors apart.

Rambunctious laughter slowly fades to snorts, huffs of amusement, and awkward throat clearing as eight pairs of eyes slowly lock onto me. A few contain a sickening hunger as they look me up and down in my expensive dress. Others carry open disdain as if seeing me as a woman for the first time. Only one man moves forward, and he nods briefly while his grey mustache twitches back and forth.

“Anastasia,” he greets me without a smile. “You’re late.”

“My apologies.” I smile as sweetly as I can. “You don’t want to know how long it took me to get into this dress.”

At the far end of the room, beyond the long table laden with green flowers, crystal glasses, and fine China, are two of the senior generals in charge of finance. The look they share is open and obvious.

A woman doing womanly things takes up time that is better spent furthering the business.

My smile doesn’t waver.

The mask doesn’t slip.

“I trust you have all been well entertained during the wait?” I lock eyes with the only general to greet me, and he struggles not to roll his eyes as he nods.

“Indeed. Can’t pass up a free dinner even if the hostess is late.”

“I’m sure.” As I smile, I catch some of my inner lower lip between my teeth and bite down as I walk further into the room and head toward my chair. “Please,” I add. “Sit.”

“You aren’t serious?” pipes up a deeper voice. One of the men who regularly sits near me grips the back of his oak chair and frowns at me. “You really expect us to sit here and eat, share a meal with you when more desperate things require our attention?”

“Your attention?” I reach my chair, and as I’m about to pull it out for myself, one of the servants melts from the shadows along the wall and does it before me. He holds the back until I’m seated, helping me adjust my posture to my dress, and then returns to the shadow. “Surely, it’s up to me where your attention goes, and if I recall correctly, we have no pressing matters. None that will crumble if you pause to eat for a few hours.”

“Security is a very serious matter,” the general continues. “It never rests. Never sleeps. While we’re here eating, heaven knows what our enemies could be up to.”

“Our enemies?” With a flourish, I remove the napkin from the placemat in front of me. The cotton is silky-soft against my fingertips and I toy with it momentarily. It’s oddly warm compared to the coolness of my dress against my bare legs. “Who do you think is choosing to move against us tonight? The Irish?” I lift one brow. “No, it can’t be them. With a storm this intense, they’ll be busy securing their ranches since we all know they tend to care about a lot more than their selfish desires on a night like this.”

The storm backs me up with several claps of thunder, and the room lights up like God has taken a picture of us all with the flash on.

“The Italians? They have more to be concerned with than us. After all, most of the other families are trying to act as unsuspicious as possible so we don’t accuse them of my father’s assassination. So I think we can afford ourselves one dinner.”

“Only she would think the Irish give a shit about their animals,” mutters a voice to my left, but it’s unclear which general said it.

I ignore it the best I can and smooth out the napkin on my lap. Then, I extend my hands to either side of the table and lift my arms. “Please. Sit. Tonight is important.”

That catches the interest of every man around the table. One by one, the eight generals take their seats. Napkins are unfurled, chairs creak under the weight of men who’ve eaten one too many pork rolls, and the storm rumbles through the world like a simmering rage the clouds can’t control.

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