The Last Dinner II

_Tatiana _

Across from me, Aunt Sofia made a quiet sound. Her hand moved toward Uncle Mikhail's tie, straightening what didn't need straightening, or maybe did. He moved her hand away, gently enough that it almost wasn't a rejection. She hesitated for a breath, then adjusted it anyway. He let out a small huff and went still.

“You’re breathing on my collar,” Aunt Sofia murmured, not looking up from her peas.

“I’m sitting beside you,” Uncle Mikhail replied. “Where would you like me to put my breath?”

“Anywhere but on my shoulder.” She turned to glare at her husband.

Mother cleared her throat. “The lamb is lovely tonight, don’t you think? The rosemary makes all the difference," Mother finished smoothly, though her eyes flicked toward Sofia and Mikhail with wariness. She had refereed this particular squabble at every family dinner for the last decade. "Sofia, darling, leave the poor man's collar be. He dressed himself perfectly well this morning, I'm sure."

"He dressed himself crooked," Aunt Sofia said primly, finally looking up. "No one likes anything crooked, Misha."

Father let out a short laugh despite himself. "Twenty-three years married and still fighting over a necktie. Some things never change."

Yes, my books usually skip straight to the passion or the tragedy. They never lingered on the quiet endurance or the way two people could coexist in the same space without truly touching.

Father continued cutting his lamb with sharp movements. I’d never seen him rush a meal, laugh too loudly, or wear anything that wasn’t perfectly tailored. Being a politician apparently required absolute consistency.

Mother said appearances mattered. Tonight, she looked elegant even while reaching for the salt, her posture flawless, her dark hair swept up in a way that made her seem untouchable. So unlike me, with my rebellious auburn strands always escaping and my mind wandering into fictional worlds.

I picked up my glass and took a sip of water. The cool liquid did little to settle the strange tightness in my stomach.

Something felt off tonight. Usually, I could hear the heavy boots of the guards echoing through the hallway like a metronome of safety. Tonight? No creak of floorboards or low murmurs from the security detail. Maybe they changed shifts early, I told myself. Still, the nagging feeling lingered, like I was forgetting something important just out of reach.

“Tatiana?” Mother’s voice pulled me back to the present.

“Hm?”

“I heard added psychology to your lessons this week?” Her fingers traced the stem of her wineglass. “You shouldn’t overwork yourself, darling,” Mother said gently, her voice wrapping around me like a warm shawl.

“It’s nothing, really.” I lifted my fork to my mouth, savoring the herb-crusted lamb.

“But you already read until dawn,” she pressed, concern etching faint lines around her eyes. “You are going to burn out if you keep this up.”

Father pinched the bridge of his nose. “I worry about your sleep schedule, Tatiana.”

“I worry about yours,” I piped back just as seriously, leaning forward with mock solemnity.

Aunt Sofia burst into laughter, covering it with a cough almost immediately. I grinned triumphantly across the table.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with you,” Father said, shaking his head. Though the tension in his shoulders finally relaxed, just a fraction.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question for years,” I replied, twirling my fork.

Mother reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, her touch lingering for a second longer than usual. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, love. You have all the time in the world.” Her fingers were cool and steady, that small gesture she did every dinner. It always soothed me.

Then, the heavy dining room doors pushed open without warning.

“I believe I said we were not to be disturbed until dessert,” Father said sharply, setting his knife down with a deliberate clink.

I lifted my eyes to look at the entrance. Someone walked in. A man, silhouetted by the dim hallway light, stepped inside and quietly clicked the door shut behind him..

He was tall and beautiful, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. There was something magnetic about him, something that made my pulse stutter and heat bloom low in my stomach despite the alarm bells screaming in the back of my mind. Run.

My gaze drifted lower, helplessly tracing the expensive cut of his suit, the way it hugged his frame, until—

His hands.

He calmly wiped blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief, as if cleaning up after a minor inconvenience. In his other hand was a sleek, black pistol. 

My breath caught. Desire and a cold rush of fear, squeezing the breath from my lungs. This man is trouble in every way.

I turned sharply back toward the table in panic just as Uncle Mikhail’s voice cut through the stunned silence.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Uncle stood so suddenly his chair crashed backward with a violent thud. His hand vanished beneath his jacket, reaching into his pocket.

Crack!

A deafening shot shattered the room. Uncle’s head snapped backward with brutal force. He collapsed into a heap before he could even draw his weapon, blood already staining the pristine tablecloth.

The silence that followed was worse than the gunshot.

I froze, wide eyed in shock, heart hammering against my ribs. The novel beside my plate suddenly feeling like a child’s toy in the face of real darkness. The stranger’s eyes found mine across the chaos, and the rest of the world disappeared.