Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) by Kat Shehata Page B

Vladimir drank vodka like it was water. Boris wasn’t keen on the boss getting sober. Maybe he was dangling the bottle in front of him to chip away at his willpower. After I woke up from a medically induced coma, hooked up to an IV drip, and hadn’t eaten for days, I still couldn’t get out of downing shots with him at dinnertime.
    Once Pasha set out the food, he fluffed up some feather pillows, spread a quilt across a wooden chair, and made a cozy little nest for me. I took a seat and he tucked the blanket under my legs, and rearranged the pillows so they were in the perfect positions. Pasha was the sweetest guy in all of Russia. I told him not to go to any trouble and that I didn’t need help, but he didn’t listen. The truth was, my shoulder was killing me and I appreciated the added support.
    Dmitri joined us at the picnic table and crouched down in front of me so his face was level with mine. This was the first opportunity he had to speak to me without Vladimir around. His eyes were droopy and he tapped his heart as he spoke. He’d been teaching me how to string together short phrases, but the only word I understood was “sorry.” I didn’t catch everything, but I understood he felt guilty that I had gotten hurt.
    “It wasn’t your fault. You kept me alive.” I held up a closed hand to initiate a fist bump. “Dmitri, moy droog .”
    He left me hanging and didn’t reciprocate. I could tell by his forlorn expression that he didn’t feel like “my friend.”
    Vladimir met us at the table, glanced at Dmitri, and forced a smile. Back home, he had taught me only a few Russian words. I had gotten the sense he didn’t want me to learn the language so he could converse with Boris without worrying I would catch on to what they were saying. Dmitri and I had been locked in the dungeon for only a short time, and he’d taught me how to communicate using short phrases and basic sentence structures.
    Boris joined us and set down a platter of steamy meat and veggie kabobs. While the guys praised his efforts, he took a seat at the head of the table and motioned for us to fill our plates. As the patriarch of the family, Boris exuded strength and wisdom. He wore his father figure role like a crown and seemed at ease and relaxed around his brood. In happier times, this was how I imagined my life would’ve been with Vladimir and his family.
    Pasha loaded my plate with a sampling of all the meat-free zakuski on the table. I could not fathom how this gentle giant could have been raised by Boris and still have such a docile nature. Maybe he got his sweetness from his mama, Anya.
    Once everyone had food on their plates, Boris opened a bottle of vodka. Five shot glasses were lined up in front of each of our place settings. I was seated beside Vladimir, and Pasha and Dimitri were across from us. Boris poured Pasha and Dmitri’s glasses to the rim and I flipped over my glass—the official Russian code for Not Drinking—before the bottle tipped in my direction. Vladimir followed my lead and flipped over his glass too. It had to be torture for him to resist the urge to drink with his family.
    Boris grumbled, prompting Pasha to flip both of our glasses right side up.
    “Can’t quit before you begin.” Boris tipped the bottle and filled my glass.
    Vladimir argued in Russian.
    “The girl is fine. You won’t lose control again. Drink with your family.” Boris aimed the bottle, and as alcohol pooled in Vladimir’s glass, I didn’t see a harmless drink, or social politeness, or a show of power. I saw a toxic cocktail of anger and pride that would swell with each round until it spilled over into violence and bloodshed. Despite what the Russians thought, I had learned my lesson—never put yourself in the line of fire when the pakhan was headed for an all-night bender.
    I didn’t know if it was courage or my survival instincts kicking in, but just before the glass was full, I reached over and batted the bottle out of Boris’s