Damon raised one hand and Arthur stopped speaking mid-breath.
His eyes moved to Lydia slowly, with the smooth precision of a blade being unsheathed.
“Did the furniture just interrupt me?” he asked.
The room gave a strained little laugh that died instantly.
Lydia’s pulse pounded so hard it hurt. “The translation is wrong.”
Peterson shot to his feet. “This is ridiculous. She’s a server. She doesn’t know what she’s hearing.”
Damon looked at Peterson, then at Lydia, and a cruel little smile touched his mouth. He pulled the Glock from beneath his jacket and slid it across the table. It spun once and stopped between them.
“If you’re so smart, honey,” he said, “translate it.”
The mockery in his voice was deliberate. He expected her to fail. Expected her to flinch. Expected perhaps to be entertained before someone bled.
Instead Lydia set the decanter down, straightened her back, and spoke in flawless Russian.
“I know about the sniper on the roof,” she told the warlord. “Sit down, Nikolai, or you will be the one who leaves here in a bag.”
The man’s expression shattered.
The color drained from his face so quickly it looked unnatural. He froze half-risen, fingers still gripping the chair.
Damon might not have understood the words, but he understood terror. His amusement disappeared.
Lydia turned back to him.
“He said the sniper is already on the roof. He said when he stands up, your head opens. Peterson is lying to you.”
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