Chapter 2 - Held While the Room Watched
Dmitri's hand was still around my throat.
Not squeezing anymore, just holding. My own hands were locked around his wrist and I could feel my pulse hammering against his palm. The ballroom had gone that kind of quiet where you can hear the chandeliers hum. Everyone was looking at us. I couldn't breathe right, little shallow pulls that didn't fill my lungs.
Victor hadn't moved from the marble table. He stared down at the broken coupe on its side, the pale gold liquid spread in a thin starburst around the shards. His tattooed right hand rested lightly on the edge of the table, not touching the spill.
Then he looked up at Dmitri. His voice was low and even, like he didn't need to raise it for the whole room to hear it.
"Let go of her throat," he said. "Keep hold of her. Don't hurt her."
Dmitri's hand slid down half an inch and released. Air came back in a sharp, ugly gasp and I coughed before I could stop myself. His other hand was already around my upper arm, fingers locked just above my elbow, not tight enough to bruise but tight enough I wasn't going anywhere. I dropped my hands to my sides because I didn't know where else to put them.
Two servers in black vests had started toward the table with white cloths folded over their arms, the way we're trained to move fast when something spills at a charity gala. Victor didn't look at them, just lifted his left hand a few inches.
"Nobody touches this table," he said. "Leave the glass. Leave everything exactly where it is."
One of the servers stopped mid-step. The other said, "Sir, I —" and then stopped too when Victor's eyes flicked to him.
"Get the manager," Victor said, still calm. "Tell him the table on the north side stays closed. No bussing."
I felt Dmitri shift behind me. His grip on my arm tugged me half a step back, away from the table, away from Victor. My apron had slipped sideways and my pearl stud in my left ear felt too tight, like everything on me was crooked.
Victor's gaze came to me for the first time since I'd lunged. It wasn't angry, which was worse. He looked at my face, then at my uniform, then back to my face. He didn't say anything to me.
He turned slightly and nodded toward the far wall where the service door was hidden in the paneling, the one guests aren't supposed to notice.
"Take her back," he told Dmitri.
Dmitri started walking and I had to walk with him. The marble turned to carpet and then we were moving past the edge of the ballroom where the guests had parted without being asked. I could feel their eyes on the back of my head, on my navy dress and my white apron. A woman in a sequined gown held her clutch tighter as we passed. I stared at the floor so I wouldn't have to see anyone's expression.
The service door had a plain brass push plate. Dmitri hit it with his shoulder and the sound of the ballroom — that low murmur, the clink of silverware — cut off the second it closed behind us.
The hallway was narrow and too bright, white walls, scuffed baseboards, a rubber mat on the floor that smelled like lemon cleaner and old mop water. A bus cart loaded with dirty plates was parked against one wall. Somewhere down the hall I could hear the kitchen clang and someone calling for more champagne.
He walked me about ten feet and stopped. He didn't push me against the wall, just positioned me with my back to it so I was facing the hallway. His hand was still around my arm. Up close I could see the stitching on his suit jacket and a faint nick on his bald head near his ear.
I tried to swallow and my throat was raw where he'd held me.
"I'm sorry," I said, and my voice came out smaller than I meant. "I wasn't trying to — I just saw —"
"Quiet," he said. Not unkind, just flat. He was listening toward the door.
Through the door I could hear Victor's voice, muffled. He was still in the ballroom. I couldn't make out words, just that same controlled tone, and then another man's voice answering quickly, nervous. The manager, probably.
I pressed my palms flat against the wall behind me. My fingers were shaking so bad I had to spread them to hide it. I kept thinking about the coupe, the way the liquid had fizzed around the broken edge. I'd seen the busboy's hand over it for just a second too long near the service station, and I'd moved before I thought it through, and now I was back here and the glass was out there and no one had drunk from it.
The door opened and air moved in the hallway.
Victor came through holding something carefully in both hands — a shallow white catering box, the kind we use for petit fours, with a folded white linen napkin draped over the top. He carried it level, like it would spill if he tipped it. I realized what it was and my stomach dropped.
He looked at Dmitri first, then at me against the wall.
May you like
"She stay here," he said to Dmitri. He glanced down at the box. "This stays covered until I say otherwise."
Dmitri gave a short nod. Victor's eyes came to me again. He didn't ask me anything yet. He just stood there in that bright service hallway in his black suit, holding the box with the broken glass inside, and I understood he was bringing whatever was in that spill with him, and that I wasn't going back into the ballroom.
