[ There's a quiet smile from Matoba as the boy brashly makes his way through to the table, and then proceeds to puts his feet up on it in front of Moscow's most wanted. The men give the figure skater some dubious looks, but with a tilt of Matoba's chin, they make themselves scarce, stabbing out their cigarettes in the silver ashtray at the centre of the table.

The mobster turns, finally, towards Yurio, as if only now deciding to pay attention to him. ]

Perhaps you ought to be more careful of how you speak, when you don't know the nature of the company you're keeping.

[ There's something nasty in the way he watches the boy, reaching to curl his fingers around a skinny ankle, thumb stroking the dip behind that swell of bone. ]

Feet on the floor.