Katarina stood at the kitchen counter, a glass of vodka in her slender hand. Her sleek black hair shone under the light, her cheekbones high, perfect shadows on the apples of her cheeks. She was gorgeous—could’ve been a model. And yet, such perfection held no allure for him.
“So that’s the woman,” she said without a trace of bitterness.
“Excuse me?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Remember the night of the opera? And you asked about love and marriage.”
“You laughed at me.”
“Well, the joke is on me, isn’t it?” She took a dainty sip of her drink.
“You’re not mad?” he pressed.
“How could I be mad? We both agreed we’re not really engaged. It bought us a few months of freedom, but now we have to tell our parents.”
“I’d been hoping to avoid this moment a while longer,” he admitted.
She smiled, showing straight, white teeth.
“I want to speak to your father—directly,” Igor said.
“Before or after you speak to your father?”
He paused in thought. “Before.” If he could find a way to make good on the alliance without marrying Kat, then Olaf would not have any cause for worry. Igor had no desire to anger the temperamental Russian beast that was his father. It would probably occur no matter what. When Olaf didn’t get his way, he acted like a petulant child.
“I don’t envy you,” she said. “I was prepared to go through with the marriage.”
“If business needs a marriage to secure a partnership then it must not be strong enough on its own.”
“You know how things are done in our families,” she reminded him. “Does she know?”
Igor shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
“You have to tell her. She can’t go into this with her eyes closed.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just need some time.”
His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out his pocket. He grimaced. Olaf’s name flashed across the screen. “Guess that’s out of the question, da?”
She smiled without humor and threw back the rest of her vodka before saying, “Da.”
He silenced his phone.
“I’m impressed,” Kat said. “That was a bold move.”
“Or stupid.” He never ignored Olaf’s calls. To ignore them would incite rage and instability. “Would your father be willing to meet with me?”
“I wouldn’t see why not.”
Igor wanted to face Viktor Drugov as a man—it was his duty to explain even though Igor wouldn’t be marrying Kat, there was no reason to fold the alliance.
“Is she worth it?” Kat asked quietly, eyes steady.
He nodded.
“I’ll speak to my father first. And then you’ll speak to him. I’m sure we can all come to a reasonable understanding.”
He heard her tone. He would pay for breaking the engagement. But he would give anything for his freedom.
It was the day of reckoning; the day Igor was going to tell Olaf he wouldn’t be marrying Kat. Father and son trekked to their customary restaurant where they had lunch every Sunday after church. Olaf was in a pleasant mood, and Igor hoped he’d be in an even better mood after they ate.
Igor waited until the end of the meal, and he didn’t mince words. “Kat and I will not be getting married.”
Olaf’s fork was halfway to his mouth with a bite of ptichie moloko, a traditional Russian dessert. His brown eyes narrowed with anger as his fist clenched metal.
Igor blazed on. “I’ve already spoken to Kat’s father. Though he was disappointed, he still wants to go through with the merger.”
The fork hit the plate, and Olaf shoved back from the table. He stood, looming over his son. “You disrespectful derrmo. You went behind my back!”
“No,” Igor said, still calm, still rational. “I handled the matter to my satisfaction.”
His father’s face fused red before he punched Igor in the eye. The force knocked Igor back, his chair tilting onto two legs. In an attempt to right himself, he grasped the tablecloth, but it wouldn’t hold him. Igor went down and brought dishes, glassware, and ptichie moloko with him.
“Restitution,” Olaf seethed, standing over his son.
Igor didn’t bother trying to stand, choosing to stay down. No reason to give his father another reason to deck him.
“Hear me?”
Igor nodded.
Olaf grumbled, turned, and walked out of the restaurant. With a sigh, Igor finally rose. The few occupants of the restaurant stared at their plates and pretended like they hadn’t seen anything.
The elderly owner of the restaurant came to him, took Igor’s arm with a gnarled hand, and gently led him to the back kitchen.
“Thank you, Boris,” Igor said in Russian to the man who helped him clean up.
“I look forward to the day when you are leader,” Boris said, staring at Igor with shrewd blue eyes.
Igor patted Boris’s hand, his mind shifting from cleaning ptichie moloko from his shirt to more pressing matters. His thoughts began to churn.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sasha said. “Just challenge him. Now. End this. You have enough supporters to back your claim.”
Igor shoved a change of gym clothes into a bag. “It’s not the right time.”
Sasha growled in frustration at his best friend. “Not the right time? You’re about to enter The Arena. There will be bets on how many teeth you lose, how long it takes for you to go down, and if you’ll be pissing blood by the end of the night. Don’t. Do. This.”
Igor stopped and looked at Sasha. “Have to. If I don’t, Olaf will know about the dissension. The last thing I want is a bloody take over.”
“It will be bloody no matter what. Your father will not step down. He’d sooner kill you than see you succeed—not until he’s ready for you.”
The door to Igor’s bedroom was closed, and locked, just in case Maryruth came home and decided to come looking for him. He hoped he was able to leave before seeing her. The last thing he wanted to do was lie to her—but she couldn’t know about where he was going, or what was about to happen. Though she’d know soon enough—he wouldn’t be able to hide his injuries from her. Telling her he was going on a business trip while recovering in a hotel room sounded like the smart thing to do. Igor sat down on his bed.
“There has to be another way,” Sasha stated again.
“You want to fight in my stead? Or better yet, offer to marry Kat?”
“I don’t think Kat’s father wants a second-in-command for his daughter.” Sasha snorted. “Besides, you’ve had her already. My future wife will not be your cast-off.”
“Very well, then.” He stood and grabbed his gym bag.
“How do you know this isn’t a setup?”
“I don’t. Not for sure. But I’m counting on one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“My father has spent years hating me while simultaneously grooming me to be his successor. To kill me now would cause too many problems.”
“Anarchy. We’d all revolt.”
“Promise me something,” Igor said.
“What?” Sasha asked warily.
“Not a word of this to Maryruth.”
The two friends stared each other down.
“I’ll tell her,” Igor stated. “When I think she’s ready.”
Sasha ran a hand across his jaw. “Dangerous games we’re playing.”
Resolve flashed across Igor’s face. “Da. But I intend to win.”