7

Benyamin nods. "He refused to do business with me so long as I keep doing business with you. His allies have followed suit."

"I think I more than make up for the loss," I point out. "I give you a lot of business, Benyamin."

"You give me half," Benyamin replies. "But the other half is supplied mostly by the Ivanovs. I need their share to keep my business afloat."

I recline in my seat and regard him carefully, making sure he can see the threat in my posture. "If the business is split fifty-fifty between me and the Ivanovs, then it comes down to a matter of loyalty."

The boy pales. He gives his fear away by looking at his father. Now that I understand why they're here, I'm surprised Benyamin brought him along at all.

He's too green. Far too naïve for this. He reeks of fear.

"I'm here, Anton," Benyamin protests. "I'm here talking to you, aren't I?"

"Something tells me that Rodion made that decision for you," I say.

"He's mourning his daughter."

"Her death had nothing to do with me."

Benyamin looks uncomfortable. "That's not what he believes."

"He's mistaken," I say, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Are you asking me to prove myself, Benyamin? Are you saying my word isn't enough?"

He's still for a long time. Long enough that I'm able to count the individual beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he shakes his head.

"Of course not. I am, as always, loyal to the Stepanovs."

I give him a curt nod. "Smart choice."

He snorts. "You're implying I have a choice."

I smile. "And that right there is why I've always liked you, Benyamin. You get it."

JESSA

From the moment I walk back through the doors after my "break" with Anton, all eyes stay riveted on me. No one wants to ask. No one is brave enough—or dumb enough.

Well, maybe one person.

"So," Molly says, cornering me the moment I send out the last dessert plate, "what did he want with you?"

I look up, realizing that I'm standing at the center island and everyone else has formed a loose circle around me. Anders and Cory avoid my eyes disapprovingly, Lisa is enthusiastic for details, but the envy in Molly's fisted hands is hard to miss.

"Nothing," I mumble casually, wiping down the countertop. "He just wanted to see if everything was in order for dinner."

Anders snorts loudly. "Right. Nothing sus about that."

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"I've worked with Chef Anatoly a dozen different times on this yacht," Anders tells me. "Not once was he called up to the deck during a dinner service. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sure he woulda gotten his ass kicked if he'd set one toe above board."

I look around at the five of them. "Why does it feel like I'm being interrogated right now?"

"Oh, pish, ignore the clucking hens," Lisa says, waving away my concern. "Those two just love that surly old goat Anatoly. Don't pay them any mind. Typical men, unhappy when a capable woman is in a position of power."

I glance at Cory and Anders to gauge their reaction. Anders is staring daggers at Lisa, but Cory is looking directly at me.

"You don't want to get involved with someone like Anton Stepanov," he warns quietly, for my ears alone. "The man is dangerous."

"What did he want with you?" Lisa asks again.

"Nothing."

I don't even understand why I'm feeling this guilt. I owe these people nothing, right? We're just crossing paths temporarily. In the very near future, we'll be nothing but distant memories to each other. No obligations. No responsibilities.

But that's not it. Maybe it's not guilt after all.

Maybe it's fear.

"Isn't it obvious?" Anders drawls. "He wants to bang her. Maybe he already has."

My jaw sets firmly. "Seriously, what is your problem? Even if that were true, it would be none of your business."

"Oh my God!" Molly gasps. "Did you have sex with him?"

I ignore her completely. Thankfully, so does Anders. "Like Cory said, the man is dangerous. We may work for him, but it's only so we can collect the fat paycheck at the end of the night."

"Which is exactly what I'm doing, too."

"Except none of us were invited above deck," he points out.

I roll my eyes. "Jealous, are you?"

He shakes his head. "More like disgusted. Disgusted that women can be so easily blinded by a little charm and a handsome face."

His bitterness is palpable. But if I look past that, I can see some genuine concern there, too. I'm not the only one who's afraid of Anton.

"There's nothing going on between us, okay?" I insist. "I took this job last minute because I needed a distraction."

"I'm sure he gave you a good one," Anders mutters cruelly.

"Anders," Cory barks. The younger man falls silent almost immediately.

"That's a neat trick," I say to him with a grateful grin. "You gotta show me how you did that sometime. Does he sit and roll over, too?"

He gives me a tired smile back. "Just be careful, kid. Those men up there are involved in some pretty heavy stuff."

I drum my fingers on the counter anxiously. "Listen, I'm not stupid. I know that Anton is no Boy Scout, but… he just doesn't seem like the bad guy to me."

"Oh Jesus," Anders groans. "Is anyone else hearing this shit?"

"Did you guys talk?" Molly interjects. "What did you talk about?"

"Just, you know, life stuff," I hear myself saying. "I talked about my cheating ex-fiancé and my backstabbing best friend. And he told me about the heartbreak in his own life. He's not as scary as you all are making him out to be."

"He told you about his wife, did he?" Anders asks.

"Anders, behave," Lisa sighs. "Nothing was proven."

"Don't gimme that crap! Take one look at him and tell me you don't think he did exactly what everyone says he did," Anders spits.

I blink and look around for someone to explain something to me. "Wait, what am I missing here?"

"How did he tell you his wife died?" Anders asks.

I frown. "He said… well, he said she died by—"

"Suicide?" Anders interrupts. "I'm sure that's what he said. 'Murder' is more like it. Her body turned up three months ago, and according to Marina's daddy, Anton is the one who should be held responsible. His own wife's blood on his hands. Some people are just sick and there's no curing them."

"We shouldn't be talking about this," Cory mutters, glancing towards the staircase.

I shake my head. This just doesn't square with the man I spoke to on the bow of the ship. He was ruthless, yes, maybe even a little dangerous. But a cold-blooded wife killer? No, that can't be right.

I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, aware of what a target I've made myself. I drop my voice and ask, "Are you being serious right now?"

"It wouldn't be the first murder he's committed."

As I glance around the kitchen, I realize that no one here is arguing that fact. In fact, they all seem a little surprised that I seem so shocked.

"Do you even know who he is?" Anders asks, breaking the heavy silence.

"I… well—"

He rolls his eyes. "See what I mean? Blinded by a pretty face."

"Can you stop being such a condescending ass for two seconds and just tell me who he is?" I snap.

"Anton Stepanov," he says, speaking slowly like I might not understand otherwise.

"Am I supposed to recognize that name?" I drawl sarcastically. "I let my Financial Times subscription lapse, unfortunately."

"He's not a businessman, Jessa," Anders says impatiently. "He's a fucking Bratva don."

"Bratva?" I parrot like a moron.

"Bratva," Anders repeats again. "As in the Russian version of the mafia. The significantly more hardcore version."

I shudder as Anton's cryptic words float through my head. I'm the maker of sad stories. That's what he told me.

I'm starting to understand what he meant.

But when he was in front of me on the beach actually saying it, it was too easy to get lost in those gray eyes of his.

Maybe Anders was right—maybe a pretty face is all it takes to distract me. It sure made me believe Dane was a good guy. It made me miss the obvious fact that he and my best friend were fucking for years right under my nose.

I feel my stomach twist, but if I give myself over to defeat, I know I won't be able to pick myself back up again. So I swallow the bile rising in my throat and get my shit together.

"It doesn't matter what he is," I say with as much force as I can muster. "Because after tonight, I'm never going to see him again. I plan on collecting my paycheck and disappearing."

Anders gives me a disbelieving look. "I hope, for your sake, he lets you disappear."

"Why wouldn't he?" Molly asks, her tone turning sour. "It's pretty obvious he already got what he wanted from her."

I barely feel the sting of her words. I'm a little busy still processing the whole Bratva don-slash-murderer part of the equation.

"We need to clean up," I say in a shaky voice.

"Sure, but—"

"Silently," I hiss.

She throws me a sharp glance, but follows the order. Thank God for the kitchen hierarchy.

I return to wiping down the counter. One swipe at a time, taking away grease and crud and leaving clean, shining steel in my wake. It's pleasing work. Makes me wish I could fix my whole life like this.

But even as I try to unclench, it takes all I have not to throw up right on top of all those acres of countertop.

Keep breathing, girl, I tell myself. When you get back to land, you'll start a whole new life. Things will be okay.

For a little while, I even believe myself.

* * *

By the time the kitchen is sparkling clean, I feel slightly more composed. The panic has given way to uncertainty. Of course the staff of a rich man would gossip, right? I've been in enough kitchens to know just how much. People who work in hospitality talk like old birds at a nursing home.

More often than not, the gossip is blatantly false or at least grossly exaggerated. So is it really fair to take the word of four strangers over a man I shared a real and deep conversation with?

No. I have to trust myself.

Though God knows my track record in that department is looking a little bit spotty as of late.

I remove my borrowed chef's whites and stow them back in the little storage cupboard where I got them. I pull out the thick black jacket he lent me earlier on the bow of the ship.