Chapter 19: Dessert

Fourteen guns came up along the walls, and every elder at the table went still.

The only sound was a candle guttering.

"Nobody stands," Viktor said pleasantly. "Nobody speaks. We will finish dinner as a family should."

"Papa," said Luka.

"Sit down, my son."

Luka did not sit down.

He stood beside his chair with his hands open, and his eyes found mine along the cloth.

I understood him. He was asking, for once, instead of telling.

I gave him the smallest nod I have ever given anyone.

Then I picked up my glass of milk and threw it into the face of the nearest gunman.

He yelled and clawed at his eyes. I was already on the table.

The long white cloth was under my knees, and I took hold of it with both hands and pulled.

Plates and candles and the roast went into the air.

Every elder went down under the table with the cloth, which was what I wanted.

The oldest one hit the carpet with his cane held over his head.

The first shot cracked from the wall.

It took a candlestick off the sideboard where I had been sitting.

I rolled across the bare table, and the pistol came out from under my cardigan.

I shot the man with the milk on his face before he could wipe it.

The second I took through the arm.

The third was reaching for Luka.

I never got my gun up.

Luka put a dish of mashed potatoes into the man's teeth and took the pistol out of his hand.

"Down!" I shouted.

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