Page 128 of Filthy Little Fix
I watch her put on the glasses. The image is so offensive to my aesthetic sense that I can't hold back.
"You're not going to wear those, are you?" I say.
Svetlana glares at me. "Pardon me?"
"That frame," I say, approaching. "It screams 'middle-aged accountant in crisis'. You're a fucking Volkov. You look like you're about to present a spreadsheet at an HR conference."
Svetlana could kill me with her eyes.
"My choice of frames is not open for discussion, Leonel.Especiallynot by you."
"Didn't you say we need to be taken seriously tonight?" I retort, stopping beside her in front of the mirror. "No one's going to take a woman seriously who looks like she's about to present the quarterly financial results using Microsoft PowerPoint from 2003. That black frame in the case is infinitely superior."
She remains silent. Her eyes dart to Dante's reflection, waiting for him to intervene, to put me in my place.
I look at his reflection too. Dante doesn't move a muscle, but I see it. He's enjoying this. There's an almost imperceptible lift at the corner of his mouth.
Another one of my lessons learned: I can bust Svetlana's balls. It's fun, because she can't do anything about it as long as Dante is on my side and my work for them remains impeccable. She definitely hates me.
I decide to push a little more. "Dante, tell her. The black frame. Wouldn't she look much more like someone who would kill you with a pen?"
Dante shrugs at our reflection.
"That's between you two," he says, with an undercurrent of amusement only I can recognize. "Just figure it out quickly. We have to leave in ten minutes."
He takes a cigarette case from the inner pocket of his suit. He won't defend me. And he won't defend her either.
With a sound of pure frustration, she rips the gold glasses from her face and throws them on the dresser. She picks up the case with the frame I pointed out.
She puts them on. The difference is immediate. The sharp, minimalist design accentuates her features, transforming her from a "competent executive" into a "woman who could order your death and then calmly have dinner".
She glares at me.
"Satisfied?" she says, obviously pissed.
I smile. "Much better."
Dante, from the corner of the room, releases a cloud of smoke, his eyes still on us, appreciating his new family dynamic. Svetlana's expression, however, tells me that if there wasn't an important gala, she'd be testing the durability of my skull with one of her stilettos.
This week,I felt like an 18th-century monarch. All because of this event, an older man with round glasses was sent to my tech bunker to teach me how to act, because Svetlana deemed my mannerismsunsuitablefor high society. He listed some rules for me. Don't stare too much, but maintain eye contact. Don't interrupt, even if the person is stupid. Always hold the wine glass by the stem. No slang, no swearing, don't touch anyone first, don't speak openly about politics, religion, or money, and greet with firm handshakes. Etiquette is nothing more than violence disguised as courtesy. He said, "You can be passive-aggressive, but not with sarcasm. Withelegance." He was a very sane man.
Svetlana spent the entire ride reviewing every single one of those rules. She said I couldn't embarrass them. She'd surely preferDmitryin my place, but he's somewhere in EasternEurope, speaking Greek with some ambassador from the Orthodox elite.
Being abroad solving primarily social and moral problems is his natural habitat. I found out Dmitry speaks six languages fluently—Russian, English, French, Italian, German, and Greek. And he's almost there with Mandarin because, he said, with China's economic growth and its ties to the underworld of smuggling, cryptocurrencies, and technology, it's important. I had doubts about whyGreek, but Dmitry considers it a moral obligation. According to him, any man who quotes Greek tragedies must, at the very least, read them in the original.
When we're just a few minutes away from the museum entrance, Svetlana summarizes, "So, Nyx, control your facial expression. And your hands. And your voice. And, if possible, your entire existence for a few hours." Dante wasn't saying anything, but her nervousness radiates to him too, because she says, "And you, Dante, at least try to look like you've read a book in your life."
Dante rolls his eyes. But he says nothing.
He's the only one of the three siblings without a framed university degree on the wall. It's not the first time Svetlana has placed herself in a position of intellectual superiority—she doesn't think he's refined, and she's sure I'm making him worse.
Svetlana and Dmitry's degrees intimidate me. MIT, Harvard, KLU, Stanford, ETHZ. Dante often gets pissed at how they form anintellectual duothat pulls rank, but he has his own specialty too. I see it, and Ihearit. His knuckles are often busted, with gauze bandages between his fingers when there's barely time to heal. I've seen him wrap his hands with a thick black tape, winding it with all the patience he doesn't have for people. Luca mentioned that besides boxing, he knows a little bit of everything—he's trained Krav Maga for over ten years, has Muay Thai foundations straight from the source, and knows a martialart developed by the Red Army that I had no idea existed, called "sambo". It's a different kind of education. One that doesn't fit at Stanford or MIT, that teaches how to break bones and not how to quote Greek tragedies in the original. Svetlana despises it. I find itfascinating.
The armored SUV stops smoothly in front of the illuminated entrance of the Met. Luca opens the door for Dante, who gets out first. I expect Svetlana to exit, but Dante turns and extends his hand. To me.
I hesitate. It's a gesture for the public. A performance. I accept it. His hand is warm and firm around mine. He helps me out of the car, a perfect gentleman. Svetlana gets out on the other side.
We enter. The noise of New York traffic is replaced by soft conversations, the clinking of crystal glasses, and a string quartet. It's a very different world from the one I'm used to. This one is clean, beautiful, and theatrical. Orderly. The gazes of most of those people are fixed on us. OnDante, mainly. It's clear he is feared and respected. And desired by more than half the women present.
