Chapter 1 - The Weight of Eight Languages
The pistol on the polished mahogany remained heavy with implications. Charles Bennett backed away from the table, his knees buckling slightly as he realized diplomacy had run out. Dominic Rossi did not raise his voice. He simply watched the trembling graduate.
"Twelve," Dominic said softly. "Eleven pack up their things. You lie beside the rug."
Before Charles could plead further, I stood up from the floor. My right knee gave a sharp, familiar click. The yellow sponge dripped dark, copper-scented water onto the pristine wool.
"He called your grandfather a butcher from Catania," I said.
The silence in the room became absolute. All twelve guards shifted their hands toward their holsters. Gregor Volkov froze mid-smile, his eyes darting toward the tiny woman in the faded navy cleaning smock.
Dominic slowly turned his head. "What did you say?"
"Charles translated ‘structural complications’ because he doesn’t know the difference between St. Petersburg dock slang and Odessa criminal turf wars," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "Gregor didn't mention port delays. He said your dockworkers are toothless dogs, and if you don't hand over twenty percent of the shipping rights by dawn, he’s going to burn warehouse four while your younger brother is inside doing inventory."
Gregor cursed in rapid, furious Russian, leaping to his feet. "Who is this bitch? She’s an illiterate cleaning rat!"
"I am the person who cleaned your last three hotel rooms in Zurich, Mr. Volkov," I replied smoothly, switching effortlessly into flawless, ice-cold Russian. "I know you prefer your scotch neat, your receipts burned, and your mistresses smuggled through the cargo terminal. I also know you owe two million euros to the Bratva, which is why you're trying to bully Dominic into covering your debts."
Dominic looked at me, his dark eyes narrowing. "You speak Russian."
"Russian, Georgian, Roma, Sicilian, Mandarin, German, French, and Spanish," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I needed to pay for my mother's dialysis, Mr. Rossi. Cleaning pays fifteen dollars an hour. Interpreting for dying men used to pay more, before I retired from the room."
Gregor lunged for the pistol on the table. He never made it. Two of Dominic’s guards pinned him to the mahogany floor before his fingers touched the steel.
Dominic stood up, buttoning his jacket. He looked past Gregor, past the sobbing Charles, and fixed his full attention on me. "What’s your name?"
May you like
"Elena," I said.
"Elena," Dominic said, walking slowly toward me. "Pick up your bucket. We have family business to discuss, and it turns out my family has been lying to me."
