Chapter 23
SASHA
The air inside the casino is too warm, heavy with perfume and desperation. Bogdan and I move through the crowd like wolves—suits sharp, eyes sharper. Heads turn away, as if people can sense something without knowing what it is.
Danger. A quiet sort of danger, the sort that doesn’t announce itself.
We’re here under a polite pretext—numbers to review, a Morozov accountant to “consult.” But it’s a thin lie. I didn’t come here for paperwork. I came here for Peter.
“Where is the fucker?” Bogdan asks. “You know for certain he’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. This is where he likes to show off how powerful he thinks he is.”
Right after I say the words, I spot him.
Peter Morozov lounges at a private baccarat table beneath a chandelier so bright, it seems to wreath him like a false god.
His hair has long turned to silver, but his eyes—those pale, shark-gray eyes—are as cold as I remember.
He’s dressed in black slacks, a cream turtleneck, and alligator-skin loafers.
Two guards stand behind him on either side, bracketing him like parentheses.
He lifts his eyes to me as I approach. Peter’s old, the years weighing on him, but his mind is still sharp. And that means he’s dangerous.
“Orlov,” he drawls as I approach, his accent thick. “So glad to see you.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. I slide into it. Bogdan stays close. “You know,” he says, “you look more and more like your father with each day that passes. And just like you, he never smiled either.”
“He smiled when he had a reason to.”
A strange feeling comes over me as I sit near Peter. First, I want to kill him. I want to reach over and wrap both hands around his neck and snap it. I could, too. But such a move would be hasty, to say the least.
The would-be assassin did name him, but the information could be bad. The late gun-for-hire might’ve panicked and thrown out the biggest name he could think of in an attempt to save his life.
I have to be sure.
Peter gestures lazily to the dealer, who melts away. A server brings him another cocktail, then turns to me after he gives Peter his drink. I wave my hand, and he leaves.
“You know, I was just thinking about you. You and AngelCorp. We’ve both come a long way, haven’t we? We’ve been coexisting for so long. It’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Civilized behavior among the Bratvas at long last.”
“Civilized,” I repeat. “Hard to think of anything we do as civilized, knowing what it was built upon.”
Peter chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “Another similarity to your father. He was always talking about history, legacy, all of that. You know, our families almost merged. Imagine such a thing.”
“Almost, until you decided to go to war.”
Peter’s eyes narrow slightly. “Speaking of history, funny how it has a way of being rewritten. If I remember correctly, it was because your father stole what was mine that started this little conflagration of ours, the one still burning to this day.”
For a moment, I drift. I think about that night so many years ago. I was twenty, watching my father and Peter meet in Peter’s penthouse. The two men were seated at a massive table, both sides lined with their men.
I was seated at my father’s right-hand side. It was supposed to be a meeting like any other—a discussion of logistics, borders, all that. Little did I know it was the final meeting my father and Peter would have before declaring war.
I remember the elevator ride down after the meeting, the nervous look in my father’s eyes—so unlike him. I remember the words he spoke to me that seemed so cryptic at the time.
“Remember, Sashenka—there are few things more dangerous than mercy.”
I didn’t understand. Not until I learned that Louisa was gone, and why.
Louisa. The woman who vanished from Peter’s life with my father’s help, the woman who unknowingly left behind a war in her wake.
“You can’t steal someone,” I reply. “But you can prevent them from leaving.”
“And that’s what I was doing?” he asks, pretending to be hurt.
“Don’t bullshit me, Peter,” I say. “You would’ve killed her, if she’d asked to leave.”
He narrows his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have. Because I know why she left.”
I leave it there. Does he know why she left? Does he know she carried his child? My father never filled me in on that, and he died before he could.
If he doesn’t know, God only knows what Peter would do if he learned the truth.
He finishes his drink and beckons for a new one. “Two please, sweetheart,” he says, and the waitress dutifully places a drink in front of me.
“Not tonight,” I say.
He gently pushes the scotch toward me. “Come now—be a sport. Just because we’re in a cold war doesn’t mean we can’t share a drink.”
I don’t feel like pushing the matter. I take the glass, raise it. “And to what are we drinking, Peter?”
He smiles. “Old friends, new friends, health, whatever gets the booze in my belly fastest.”
I snort, tapping the rim of my glass with his. We sip. The scotch is good. Very good.
“Now,” Peter says, leaning forward a bit. “Why are you here? I know the pretext. But I’m more concerned about the real reason.”
No sense in tiptoeing around it. “One of my employees was nearly killed. A young woman. Twice now.”
“Is that so? Perhaps she should be more careful.”
“Not like that, and you know it. Two assassination attempts.”
Another sip. “Dreadful business. What’s this girl done to walk into such a streak of bad luck?”
“She’s important for current business affairs. Best guess I have. But I managed to get ahold of one of the would-be assassins in the latest attempt.”
I watch Peter carefully as I speak. He sips, glances away. Hard to tell if I’ve rattled him.
“And?”
“He mentioned your name.”
Another snort, another sip. He shakes his head. “And you decided to come all the way here to accuse me in person? I could have you killed where you sit, boy.”
Bluster. Not a chance he’d follow through on it. He’s throwing up smoke. So far, nothing to lead me one way or another.
“Easy,” I say, raising my palms. “I didn’t say I believed him. Could’ve just been throwing names against a wall hoping something stuck.”
“Perhaps.”
“But I figured I might as well ask, see if you’d heard anything about small-time pricks around town making moves. Could be it was a setup.”
“Could be. Very well could be,” his tone terse. “But no, I haven’t heard anything.” He narrows his eyes, smiles a bit. “And what would make you think I’d tell you, even if I had?”
“Maybe I’m hoping there’s a part of you ready to put this cold war on ice for good. Maybe it’s a stupid, sentimental part, but it’s there.”
He laughs, throwing back the rest of his drink, signaling for another.
He sighs, shaking his head as if he doesn’t quite know where to begin.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Sasha. AngelCorp wasn’t much when your father built it, just a little logistics project that served a single function—to move product without attracting the wrong eyes.
But you’ve truly turned it into an empire, a spotless little empire.
Logistics, finance, hell, even crypto. It’s almost charming how clean you’ve managed to make dirty money look. ”
He narrows his eyes until his gaze is as sharp as broken glass. “But you forget: Every empire has a heartbeat. Find it, press on it, and the whole thing stops.”
I lean forward. “Are you threatening me?”
He sits back and smiles, satisfied with the effect he’s having on me. “No. Just reminding you that this city was mine before you were born. And it will remain mine, regardless of whatever machinations you have going on at your little AngelCorp.”
Interesting. What does he know, exactly?
He looks away thoughtfully. “The girl being targeted, it’s not your assistant, is it? I’ve seen her with you—pretty thing. Blonde. Gray eyes. Body to die for. You always did have your father’s tastes, Sasha. She reminds me of the sorts of skirts he used to chase.”
I say nothing. Rage courses through me. With each word he speaks, it becomes clearer that he knows more than he’s letting on. Peter’s shrewd, understands just how to dance around the edges, maintain plausible deniability.
“Anyway,” he says, finishing his drink, “step carefully now. As good as it was to see you, Sasha, keep in mind that cold wars have a way of heating up, especially if boundaries are overstepped. Take care, Yunosha.”
He rises, flashing me one more smirk before nodding to his guards, who flank him as he leaves. I watch him go, melting into the crowd.
I rise, too, Bogdan appearing at my side. We walk out in silence, not saying a word until we’re back in my car, away from prying ears.
“He knows,” Bogdan says. “Not a doubt in my mind. He’s teasing you, giving you just enough to keep you from acting.”
“Taunting me,” I confirm. “Drive.”
He does. I watch the glittering casino lights fade as Bogdan drives off. Peter’s words are fresh in my mind. The way he talked about my company, the way he talked about Gabriella… it all suggested he knows what’s going on.
And that he was the one who set up the hits.