Chapter 123: Buttons to Push
The private jet touched down in Nice under a sky the color of washed denim, the Mediterranean sun hammering the tarmac. Beth watched the coastline blur past the window, her stomach a tight knot of familiar dread. Damien, sitting opposite her, nursed an espresso, his eyes missing nothing.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” he said, his voice calm over the whine of the decelerating engines.
“Am I?” She forced her jaw to relax, offering a thin smile. “It’s the altitude.”
“It’s the Russians,” he corrected, unblinking. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet since they’d left New York, absorbing her terse briefing on the flight. The Novak family motto wasn’t engraved on a crest somewhere; it was lived. If you had a thought, you are about to hear about it. Loud, passionate, violently loyal, and with a vodka-soaked lack of filter that made his own family’s operatic intensity seem refined.
“Just remember,” she said, collecting her handbag as the plane rolled to a stop. “They’ll prod you. They’ll question your business, your intentions, your taste in wine. It’s not an attack. It’s… conversation.”
“I’m a Rossi. I understand conversation as a contact sport.” He stood, straightening the cuffs of his linen shirt. He’d dressed down, but the effort was visible—the casual elegance, the watch that cost more than most cars, the easy confidence that was both armor and weapon. “You breathe, cuore mio. I’ll be charming.”
“God help us all,” she muttered, but took the arm he offered.
Novak Manor wasn’t a home; it was a statement carved into the cliffs of Saint-Tropez. Ivory stone, obsidian trim, all sharp angles and gleaming windows reflecting the relentless blue of the sea. It looked less like a place for a family barbecue and more like the headquarters of a particularly successful supervillain. The air, when they stepped from the car, smelled of salt, blooming bougainvillea, and immense, old money.
The grand foyer was a cavern of marble and gold leaf. A chandelier like a frozen waterfall dominated the space, its light dancing across mirrors that made the room feel infinite, and infinitely watchful. Voices echoed from deeper within—a rolling thunder of Russian, laughter that sounded like breaking glass, the clink of heavy cutlery.
And then, him.
Dimitri Novak emerged from a shadowed archway, not hurried, but with a silence that absorbed the room’s noise. He was in his late sixties, built like a retired welterweight, with a close-cropped silver beard and eyes the pale, unforgiving grey of a winter sky. He wore a simple black linen shirt, tailored trousers. No jewelry save for a heavy silver signet ring on his right hand.
“Betsenka,” he said, the Russian diminutive rolling out rough and soft at once. He opened his arms.
Beth went into the embrace, and for a moment, the tension drained from her shoulders. However complicated this world was, this man had been a constant. After her father’s murder, after her mother’s incarceration, he had been the steel spine in the shadows. He kissed her firmly on both cheeks, then held her at arm's length, his gaze assessing.
“You look tired. The Texan sun is for cows, not for you.” His English was precise, only a faint gravelly accent marking his origins.
“It’s good to see you too, Dyadya,” she replied, slipping into the familiar Russian for ‘Uncle’.
His pale eyes shifted past her, locking onto Damien. The room’s temperature seemed to drop a degree. Dimitri released Beth and took a single step forward, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “And this is the Italian.”
Damien extended a hand, his smile all polished charm. “Damien Rossi. A pleasure, Mr. Novak. Beth has spoken highly of you.”
Dimitri looked at the offered hand as if it were a curious specimen. After a beat that stretched just long enough to become a statement, he took it, his grip crushingly firm. “She has spoken of you also. Many words. Few of them polite, ten years ago.” He released the hand. “Come. The others are eating. We saved you the noisy end of the table.”
The terrace was a sprawling expanse of stone overlooking the dizzying drop to the sea. A long table groaned under platters of smoked fish, dark bread, pickled vegetables, and carafes of vodka standing in ice buckets. Two dozen people—cousins, second cousins, associates whose familial status was ambiguous—talked, argued, and laughed with a volume that physically vibrated in the air.
Introductions were a blunt-force barrage. A hulking nephew who was “in logistics.” A sharp-eyed aunt who “handled finances.” All of them studied Damien with open, unnerving curiosity. Damien absorbed it, smiling, nodding, pouring Beth a glass of water before taking the seat beside her.
“Polina and Isaak are coming tomorrow,” Dimitri said, settling at the head of the table and filling a small glass with crystal-clear vodka. “Business in Vienna delayed them.”
Beth felt a genuine wave of relief. “That’s fine.” She didn’t elaborate.
“You never liked your cousins,” Dimitri stated, knocking back his vodka in one smooth motion.
“We have different perspectives,” Beth said, selecting a piece of smoked salmon.
“She means they’re arrogant pricks who blame her for being half-American,” called a red-haired woman from down the table, raising her glass in a mock toast.
“Thank you, Anya,” Beth said dryly. “Subtlety is truly dead.”
The meal was a marathon. Toasts were made to everything from absent friends to the quality of the olive oil. Damien matched them drink for drink, his color barely changing, his Italian charm dialed to a maximum that seemed to both amuse and irritate their hosts. He discussed Tuscan wine with a man who imported ballistic missiles, and Florentine art with a woman who specialized in cyber-theft.
Through it all, Dimitri watched. He said little, his responses mostly grunts or short, probing questions. “Your father, Vittorio. He is well?” “The shipping lanes in the Adriatic are congested, I hear.” Each query was a small tile being placed in a mosaic only he could see.
As the sun began to bleed into the horizon, staining the sea orange and purple, the crowd gradually dissipated, moving inside for coffee or cigars. Dimitri finally stood, gripping Damien’s shoulder. “Come. We will walk. The men can talk without the screaming.”
Beth tensed. Damien gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I’m fine.
They walked along the cliff path, the roar of the surf below swallowing the last echoes of the party. The air was cooler now, laced with brine.
“Your operation is… robust,” Dimitri said after a long silence. “For a regional enterprise.”
“We manage,” Damien replied, his hands in his pockets.
“My sister, Elena, she liked you. Did you know that?” Dimitri stopped, facing the darkening water. “She thought you had spine. That you loved her daughter with a fire that was good. And you let your family treat her like a pariah. You let her walk away for ten years.”
The words hung, sharp as knives in the salty air.
Damien didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“A simple answer.”
“It’s a simple truth. It was the greatest failure of my life. I am spending the rest of it correcting that failure.”
Dimitri turned, his grey eyes catching the last of the light. “Failure is a luxury not all of us survive. Bethany is not just my niece. She is my legacy. Elena’s blood. The only part of my sister that walks free in the world.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly pitch. “The message from Juárez was a courtesy. A demonstration of capability. Do not mistake it for a promise of continued assistance. If you become a problem for her, if your world, your family, ever threatens her peace again…” He smiled, a cold, thin thing. “You will find I lack the Rossi fondness for subtlety.”
The threat wasn’t shouted. It was laid between them like a buried mine.
Damien met his gaze, the charming facade gone, leaving only the cold calculation of the Don. “Understood.” He paused. “And if your world threatens her? Polina?Isaak? Their… perspectives?”
A flicker of something like respect crossed Dimitri’s face. “Then you will do what is necessary. And I will watch.” He clapped Damien on the shoulder again, the gesture somehow more threatening than friendly. “Good. We understand each other. Now, come. There is better vodka inside. The one for family.”
Back on the terrace, Beth was waiting, sipping a coffee, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She looked at Damien’s face as he approached, reading the subtle shift in his eyes, the set of his jaw. She said nothing.
Later, in the cavernous guest suite, the sounds of the house finally stilled, she spoke into the darkness. “Well?”
Damien lay beside her, an arm thrown over his eyes. “He’s what I expected. And worse.” He turned his head to look at her. “He loves you. Fiercely. It’s the only thing that matters.”
“And the audition?”
“I passed. I think.” He pulled her close, her back against his chest, anchoring himself in the feel of her. “He warned me off. I warned him about your cousins. A delightful dance.”
She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “They arrive tomorrow.”
“I know.” He kissed her shoulder. “Let them come.”
Outside, the Mediterranean wind picked up, howling against the cliffs. The real test, they both knew, hadn’t even begun.