Chapter 7
SASHA
Ichose the meeting place myself. Neutral ground. Public enough to make a hit unlikely—messy, if he were to try. And private enough to talk. The place is a glass box of a restaurant, with white tablecloths and a view of the river. The staff knows how to be discrete. The kitchen runs like clockwork.
Bogdan walks in a half step behind me, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. I read his body language, watch his scan as he sweeps the room.
He counts bodies, doors, reflections in the windows.
He notes the couple at the bar, the pair of men in suits in the corner, the waiter with wrong shoes for fine dining.
I notice, as well, and file it all away.
“This is risky,” he says, the host stepping aside to let us pass. “Peter doesn’t like talks like this. He always thinks they’re traps. Good way to put him on edge before this even begins.”
“Good thing we’re meeting with Peter’s son and not Peter.”
“That’s another concern. If Peter finds out you’re meeting with Johan behind his back…”
“He won’t find out. Not until the merger’s gone through and there’s nothing he can do about it.”
Bogdan chuckles as we stride through the dining floor. “Risky move. It’s all very risky.”
“Please don’t make me repeat the cliché about risk and reward, my friend.”
We move through the main dining room to a back hallway that leads to the private offices. A reserved sign hangs from the doorknob, and a well-dressed waiter is there to open the door and welcome us in.
The room is set up for a private meeting. The table has two chairs on one side, two on the other. Who his second will be, I couldn’t guess. If it’s his father… I’ll worry about that if it happens.
I sit, and Bogdan takes the chair next to mine. I rest my hands on the linen. No drink yet. My body is still, but prepared. There’s a 90 percent chance this meeting goes how I expect it to. But it’s always the 10 percent one has to worry about. Much can live in that 10 percent.
“This meeting has been a long time coming,” Bogdan murmurs, gesturing to the waiter. “You ready?”
“Quite ready.”
The waiter zips in.
“Waters, please,” Bogdan says.
The waiter nods and leaves, returning with a carafe and two glasses. He pours one for me, one for Bogdan. Just as he prepares to step out again, Bogdan sticks his finger into the air. The waiter freezes. Bogdan lifts his glass, drinks it smoothly and slowly.
“Another, please.” The waiter obliges, then leaves. “This has always been thirsty work.”
“No bathroom breaks during the meeting,” I say with a wry tone.
This is our first in-person meeting with Johan on the matter at hand. I’ve sent some feelers out in his direction over the last few months, getting a sense of how he might feel about bringing Dandelion into the AngelCorp fold—and all that implies. He has appeared interested.
“Doing this behind Peter’s back,” Bogdan comments with a shake of his head. “He’d love to find an excuse to rub you out. Making moves to steal his empire out from under his nose? That’d be a good one.”
He’s right, but I’ve already thought about this. “We leave Peter in charge of the Morozov Bratva, and it’s not a matter of time before the war starts up again, only a matter of time until he decides he’s ready to step in on my territory. This is the one way to rob him of the chance.”
The war between the Orlov and Morozov Bratvas is still going on, technically. It started years ago and never truly ended. While it has been more of a cold war these days, that doesn’t mean I haven’t lost good men to pointless, stupid violence.
I want to end it, to end it before Peter decides to ramp it up again. I want it to end before more blood is spilled.
I want peace.
“Peter lacks vision,” I say. “Johan… he’s different.”
“You’ve had your eye on him for a while now.”
“Correct—through quarterly filings, market timing, tech partnerships. He’s a natural businessman. Much more suited for this type of work than low-rent Bratva thuggery. And this type of work makes money.”
Bogdan checks his watch. “It’s noon now. He’s late. You think he’s going to-”
Before he can finish his sentence, the waiter opens the door and in strides Johan Morozov. He’s late. Late enough to signal confidence, but not late enough to be an insult I would feel compelled to comment upon. No doubt his timing was carefully chosen.
“Gentlemen. A pleasure to see you.”
Johan is tall, slender, and handsome. His hair is the dull blonde of his father, his eyes a brilliant, piercing blue, his smile sharp and confident.
He’s dressed in a slim black suit, no tie for his white button-up.
His jaw is clean, his shoes polished. His accent is all-American, none of the trace of the old country, like Bogdan and me.
He holds his hand up to the waiter before sliding into the chair, pulling it out for himself. No handshakes. Not a good sign. The waiter leaves and we’re alone.
“Orlov,” he says. “And…” He flicks his eyes to Bogdan.
“I’m not here,” Bogdan replies. “You two have your chat.”
“Greetings, Johan. Thank you for taking the time.” I glance at the empty chair next to him. “No second?”
“No second,” he confirms. “But I could always call my father and have him swing by if you’d like?” He holds his eyebrows up for a long moment, as if it’s a genuine question he’s waiting for the answer to. “Joking, of course.”
I don’t smile. “Your father finding out about this meeting wouldn’t be a joke.”
“Just dialing down the temperature a bit,” he says, reaching forward and pouring himself a glass of water. “You two look like you just got back from a funeral.” He sips his water.
“Funny you should say that,” I reply. “Because if we can pull this merger off, there will be many fewer funerals to attend in the coming years.”
Johan scratches his face. “Going right for the heavy stuff, eh? Well, might as well get it out in the open. You want to merge.”
“I want to merge,” I repeat. “And I can make a very strong case as to why.”
“Go on then.”
“First, we can end the war.”
“The war, right.” He nods, looking away for a moment. “You mean, the war your father and my father started, and now the responsibility to end has fallen to us? That war?”
“That war.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “And here I was thinking we were going to talk business.”
“We are.”
“It seems to me that you view my company as merely a means to an end—a symbolic gesture we can use to bury the hatchet. Not to mention, piss off my father.”
“And that’s where you’d be wrong. This is bigger than Bratva affairs.”
That catches his attention; he lifts his eyebrows in interest. “Bigger than Bratva affairs? Now, this is something I never thought I would hear from you, Sasha. I’d always figured AngelCorp was a smokescreen, a logistics network to make Bratva affairs run more smoothly.
And now you’re telling me it’s the opposite? ”
“Different times,” I say. “You want to survive in the world that’s coming, you go legitimate. I want to make AngelCorp run clean. And I want Dandelion to be the technology powering it.”
He nods slowly, considering my words. “I hear you have quite a bit in crypto holdings you’re looking to splash around.”
“Correct. My key financial assistant is overseeing it.” Just thinking about her is enough to send a rush of heat through me. I put her out of mind as quickly as I can, though it’s not easy. “And she’s preparing my official merger proposal.”
Johan drums his fingers on the table. “A merger. That would change the world indeed, Sasha. We’d merge companies, merge Bratvas, end the war… give my father a heart attack.”
“And make ungodly amounts of money,” I add.
“And make ungodly amounts of money.”
“And become legends, if such things interest you. You’d be known as the man who made the Morozov and Orlov names into that of a true empire. AngelCorp is international, as I’m sure you know. Dandelion could follow the same path.”
He nods again. “It’s tempting. But there’s the little matter of giving my life’s work over to you.”
“It’d still be there,” I say. “You’d still oversee it. And besides, you’re how old?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine.” Quick flashes form in my mind’s eye, of meeting Johan when he was just a child and I was barely a teenager. There was a time when his family and mine were close enough for such things. “You’re young—make another life’s work. Make two. You’ve got the talent and the time.”
“I can’t believe there was a time when your father and mine settled things with bullets. Now you and I are talking about international tech empires.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “Violence is still a tool in my arsenal—one I’m not afraid to bring out, if necessary, or if your father decides he wants to test me. Or if you get any ideas about being the hot shot Bratva leader your parents intended you to be.”
He snorts. “You’re honest.”
“Honesty is easier and faster. For example, we’ve been talking for only fifteen minutes, and I think you already see the shape of this thing.”
“I do. But elevator-pitch me.”
“Of course. I present you a merger. We discuss. We merge. We do it fast, move too quickly for the market to react until we’re ready.
On the street, our people stop fighting.
In the market, we both make money—legitimately.
You get my distribution and logistics, I get your tech. That’s the size of it.”
He shifts in his seat, processing. “There’s still the matter of the Orlov council. You’ve got to convince them, unless you’re planning on going over their heads.”
“I’m planning on letting them know what happened by showing them the additional millions in their bank accounts they didn’t have to lift a finger to earn.”
“So you are planning on going over their heads. Risky, risky, risky.”
“Even your father will get paid,” I say. “And if he makes too much of a stink about it, we can have him shipped out of the city.”