𝑃ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛

10

~ phoenix ~

Helplessly, I allowed myself to be dragged in the direction of the Bratva.

Mr Cavendish wore an oblivious smile, his arm firmly tucked around mine. I wonder what my grandmother had said to him. I grit my teeth, as the panic rose.

From only a matter of feet away, I could already spot some familiar faces. Two men, in spotless black tuxedos, sipped their vodka whiskeys silently, their eyes narrowed at the large crowd. It was Vik... and Rhev, if I remembered correctly. I also noticed Aleksey, huffing as he violently untied the bow around his neck. His green eyes were pinched in a glare. I glanced back, following it to Giovanni and the Italians who lingered on the other side of the room. Amongst the men, were a handful of other Russian men and women I failed to recognise. I couldn't help but feel a tinge of animosity towards the dark-haired consort who lingered around the figure hunched over his drink at the bar.

The first to spot us was Vik. I couldn't say I particularly missed the uptight boyevik, who'd previously been my babysitter. I watched him swallow nervously, before attempting to subtly elbow Rhev. That guard was the one who'd helped me write and send off invitations for the Novgorod Ball I helped to organise a lifetime ago. He stiffened before turning to mutter to the Hul— Aleksey.

Now, his emerald eyes were narrowed at me; however, before he could express his displeasure, Mr Cavendish interrupted.

"Nikolaev," the British partner greeted, "I hope you're enjoying the night as I am.

Aleksey pressed his lips into a thin line, a poor attempt at a smile. "Yes," he grunted in his strong accent, before his eyes darted back to mine, "I am."

I assumed the Bratva and Mr Cavendish were already well-acquainted. After all, he was the one to overthrow Charles Evans, the previous head of the British criminal affiliate. It was clean, perfectly executed. I knew to make this man a friend, rather than an enemy.

Therefore, I obliged his efforts to 'introduce' me to the Bratva and painted on my most unaffected smile. "I'm glad to hear it."

Hearing my voice, the Pakhan's head snapped to the right, although he didn't directly look over his shoulder.

I stretched my hand out to Aleksey, ignoring the man who ignored me. "I look forward to working with the Bratva."

Sceptically, the green-eyed giant accepted the handshake, not allowing it to be longer than necessary.

I turned to leave, until Mr Cavendish's firm tug on my arm halted me.

"Ivanov!" he called, cheerily. "Don't be such an antisocial bastard! Meet our new Polish ally!"

I stifled an exasperated sigh, wishing that the ground would open up. Heart thundering, my eyes remained on the Pakhan, watching his broad shoulders stiffen. I could bet the expression he was wearing was a livid scowl. He tipped his head back, swallowing the last of the liquor before spinning to meet my eyes.

I hadn't forgotten those dark, gunmetal irises. Yet for some reason, meeting them again after so long, my breath was lost, just as the first time I'd seen them through the windshield of his Lamborghini. My pulse began to slow; for a brief second, the fog in my mind cleared.

But just as the day I met him, Ilya Dimitri Ivanov's expression was a sheet of ice, masking everything except the bitter fury in his eyes. That unbridled rage was a bucket of cold water over my head. I jolted back into reality, remembering this man who once I loved, hated my existence.

This time, I couldn't force my lips to smile. Nor could I wrestle words out of my throat.

I stared at him, staring at me. His fists were clenched, shoulders tense.

"Lyra, this is Dimitri," Theodore Cavendish spouted, somewhere close but far away.

Slowly, I nodded, tearing my eyes to the hand that I raised for the hundredth time that night. "It's a pleasure," I repeated just as I rehearsed with the dozens of other guests, "Dimitri."

Apparently, the blood oath between our mafias wasn't common knowledge, and I was determined to keep it that way. If our allies felt like they had to choose sides, I had no doubt they would sway towards my bigger and more powerful counterpart.

Ilya's— Dimitri's jaw ticked, his teeth grinding.

I wonder what I could've done in the past few moments that seemed to trigger such rage from him. Or perhaps, his hate for Vasiliev and his spawn did not let him let go of that anger to begin with.

After what felt like years, his hand rose to meet mine. Bolts of electricity zipped up from my fingers to my head, dizzying me for the slightest fraction of a second. His skin was ice, mine was fire.

Hastily, I snatched my hand back. A waiter zipped past, and I grabbed the nearest flute of champagne.

His silver eyes darted, watching my movement. I swallowed the bubbly liquid, nervously. Just as I expected, my fingers were beginning to trembled. I clenched them tight around the glass, hoping they would go unnoticed.

Thankfully, Ilya's attention was glued somewhere behind me. I found they were narrowed at the waiter who'd just been past.

He broke the taut silence with a dry comment: "How convenient it is to have so many dedicated... available... waiters."

I didn't miss the displeasure that rolled off his tongue as he spoke the words. The bitterness of his tone implied something else... but what?

"My staff," I corrected, with narrowed eyes, "are indeed an invaluable asset."

Ilya— no, Dimitri, flinched as if I had slapped him. I cocked a brow as his jaw tightened further. Was it something I said?

"As invigorating as this conversation on the help is," Cavendish spoke up, "I'm rather more curious about an unexpected presence tonight."

I took another greedy gulp of the champagnes, already dreading what he'd say next.

"Our Italian guests were invited formally, were they?" the Englishman prodded, quite evidently amused by the waves of fury rolling off the Bratva men.

I smiled tightly, choosing my words wisely. "Of course! Giovanni Castillo is making quite the change in the Cosa Nostra, which I greatly admire. I thought it was appropriate to finally extend an olive branch to the Italians. I know it was something my mother looked to do."

"This is an olive branch, you'd say? An invitation to your coronation is an entire tree, Miss Stilinski!" Cavendish guffawed, making my teeth grind. "Wouldn't you agree, Ivanov?"

I dared to glance at Ilya's expression beneath my lashes. I immediately regretted it, meeting a pair of eyes filled with such loathing. I wasn't entirely sure it was all for the Italians.

The last time the Russians and Italians interacted, the ex Capo was fatally wounded and Ilya also suffered a wound. I didn't invite Giovanni to incite a brawl tonight. I needed to put my foot down and let all these people know that the Italians were here and here to stay. I needed them, and as of tight now, could trust Giovanni more that Ilya.

I quickly cleared my throat, lifting my empty glass as a pathetic escape. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

Ducking out of Cavendish's reach, I made my way to the opposite side of the room, where I'd seen my grandmother last. I glanced around, unable to spot her.

Another waiter came by, except he stopped in front of me, offering me a glass of a dark crimson liquid.

I accepted, gratefully, throwing my head back to gulp down the liquid.

Relieved, I put the now empty glass back on the silver plate. I glanced at the smiling man, my eyes blurring for a moment. I shook my head, clearing the fog before diving back into the insatiable crowd.

NOTE:
Eek, I'm so tired and i have school tomorrow,
Goodnight hoes, xo, Rosavi