Chapter 18: Seven Chairs

Viktor's house on Friday night smelled of roast lamb and floor wax.

Two men stood inside the front door. One of them patted down Luka, thoroughly, from collar to ankle.

Then he turned to me.

His hand came up toward my ribs, where a small pistol lay under my cardigan, and stopped an inch short.

"Not the lady," he muttered, and stepped back red in the face.

"Thank you," I said, and meant it very much.

Luka's arm tightened under my hand. He did not look at me.

The dining room was set as it always was, down to the white cloth and the tall candles.

The same long table ran down the middle. Seven old men sat along it in their dark suits.

Viktor sat at the head, in his chair, with his hands folded.

Along the walls stood fourteen men from his own household, hands loose at their sides.

At the far end, in the guest's place, sat a heavy man with a gray beard.

An anchor was tattooed across the back of his hand.

Behind his chair stood the fifteen from the harbor crew, filling the doors.

I took in the room in a single sweep: the guns, the windows, the clear line from the sideboard to the kitchen.

"My son," Viktor said warmly. "Nika. Come in. Sit."

He rose, and he came around the table himself, and he pulled out my chair.

On my plate there was already a glass of milk.

I took the chair. I smiled at him. I lifted the glass and drank half of it.

It was cold and sweet.

It was the last glass he would ever pour me, and I drank it slowly.

"The table is called," Viktor said, sitting. "My son called it. He has a charge to lay. We will hear him."

"I didn't call it, Papa."

"The word went out in your name."

"I know who sent it."

A murmur went along the elders.

"The table will hear a charge," Viktor said, still gentle. "It has already heard one."

Keep reading free with an account. Start She Played Sweet for Her Boyfriend, He Learned Who She Really Was from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.