CHAPTER 13
Gavril
Moments Before
“We are very pleased that you and your lovely companion decided to join us tonight. It’s an honor to have you in my restaurant.”
I listened to the rambling of the restaurant owner in my ear as he walked me down to his personal wine cellar below the restaurant. As we descended, the chatter of the restaurant was slowly drowned out and replaced by the hum of the dim lights overhead.
When I had decided to take Naomi out, there was only one place I was going to bring her to, a place that would give her maximal benefit to be seen by the elite of LA. The waitlist usually took years to clear out. But I was on another list. I’d done the owner quite a number of favors over the years—both legal and illegal. And seeing as how I supplied most of the rarer bottles in the cellar, he knew better than to deny me entry.
We reached a heavy wooden door, and he pushed it open, the automatic lights flickering on and revealing row upon row of dusty bottles in the dim light. He led me to the selection of reds and I picked up a bottle, looking at the label before setting it back on the rack. My own mansion held an impressive selection itself. I liked to enjoy a fine bottle in lieu of vodka at dinner.
Not that I ate much at home. Normally I was working, either at one of the clubs or conducting the business to keep the Bratva afloat.
Something told me that I would be eating more meals at home in the coming months.
“This one,” I told him, showing him the label. A peninsula red from the Southern Rhone Valley of France. Aged fifty years. Easily a fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle.
“Excellent choice,” the owner stated, nodding his head. “Shall we get back to your companion?”
“My wife,” I corrected him.
His eyes widened. “My apologies, Pakhan! Please accept my sincere well wishes on your happy union.”
I was going to need more than wishes to pull off this plan. Grabbing the wine by the neck, I started back. The owner followed, hot on my heels, and took two steps at a time in an effort to close the distance between us.
When we finally arrived back at the restaurant floor, I saw Naomi still seated where I had left her, but someone else was at the table.
Fucking touching her.
I watched through a red sheen of anger as the fucker’s fingers touched the back of her hand, saw how pale her face had gotten, and nearly hurled the bottle at his fucking head.
He had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I asked as I slammed the bottle on the table.
The fucker touching Naomi looked up, surprise filtering through his expression. I was on him in a second and pinned his head against the table so hard that the entire place setting rattled.
Silence detonated in the place like a bomb. But all I heard was the buzz of rage in my ears. I wanted to see the man who had dared touch my wife bleed all over the fucking white tablecloth.
He fell to the floor, his head in his hands as I placed my foot on his back. I flexed my own, ready to rip out his spine.
“Gavril. Gavril, no.”
Naomi’s terrified voice reached me, and I forced myself to look at her. She was as white as a sheet. “Please,” she whispered in Russian. “Please don’t do this. Not here. Not in public.”
She knew. She knew what sort of rage lived within me, almost like she could read my fucking mind about what I was going to do.
That unsettled me, but the fear in her eyes did something far worse that I hadn’t anticipated. It was fear for me, not because of me.
Fuck.
I ran my hands through my hair, smoothing the locks and my nerves all at the same time.
“My wife has asked me not to rip your spine from your back tonight,” I told the man, who was trying and failing to get to his feet. “You can thank her for saving your life.”
When he didn’t say anything, I kicked him hard in the ribs, satisfied at the sound of a bone breaking under the force.
“I’m sorry! Okay?” he groaned, grabbing his side and trying to move out of my range. “Fuck, man! Are you insane?”
I wasn’t done. “Ask her forgiveness.”
“Gavril,” Naomi started, but I silenced her by raising my hand.
Grabbing the back of the man’s neck, I forced him to look at Naomi. “Apologize to my wife Sveta for touching her without her or my permission.”
The man literally trembled in my grasp, but now that I had commanded the entire restaurant’s attention, I couldn’t very well let him walk out without some humiliation first. I was exerting my power.
And fuck, it felt good.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, spittle flying from his mouth.
I moved my hand to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough until I felt the crack of the bone underneath.
“I said beg,” I told him. “Try again.”
“I apologize for touching you, Sveta,” he said, his voice a notch higher from the pain he was likely feeling right now. “P-Please forgive me.”
“Kiss her fucking shoes,” I growled, pushing his face toward Naomi’s feet.
At first I thought he was going to refuse, but in the end, he did as I asked, pressing his lips to her black heels. There were a thousand other ways I could make him humiliate himself, but we were in public and I had to show some restraint.
I let go of his shoulder and stepped back to watch as he scurried away past the onlookers that stared in rapt attention. A few of them quickly put away their phones, clearly filming what had just happened.
I didn’t fucking care.