Chapter 9
9
Mak
I sign the last document with a flourish, sliding the stack across my desk to Fedor. “The shipment details are finalized. Have Mikhail oversee the dockside transfer personally.”
Fedor collects the papers, scanning the modifications I’ve made to his original plan. His disapproval is evident in the tight set of his jaw, though he knows better than to voice it directly. “You’ve reduced the quantity by thirty percent.”
“The Colombians overestimate their distribution capacity,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Better to supply what they can actually move than create stockpiles that attract attention.”
“They won’t like it.”
“They don’t need to like it. They need to pay for it and distribute it efficiently.” I lean back in my chair, signaling the end of discussion. “Anything else?”
He hesitates, clearly weighing his words. “The Kazanovs were disappointed by your early departure last night. They felt it showed...disrespect.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us. In our world, perceived disrespect is often a prelude to conflict. Under normal circumstances, I would never have abandoned a strategic meeting for personal interests. It was a lapse in judgment that demonstrates how deeply Willemina disrupted my usual calculations.
“The Eclipse acquisition is a done deal regardless of their feelings. We already signed the paperwork and got the keys. Word will soon reach them,” I say dismissively. “Send a case of their preferred vodka with my regards. That should smooth any ruffled feathers.”
Fedor lingers, studying me with barely concealed curiosity. “The woman… Was she worth potentially compromising a territorial agreement?”
My expression hardens automatically, temperature in the room dropping several degrees with my change in demeanor. “You’re overstepping, cousin.”
“As your second-in-command, it’s my responsibility to identify vulnerabilities.” He delivers the statement in a neutral way, though I detect the subtle challenge beneath it. “Distractions can be dangerous in our position.”
“Your concerns are noted.” I return my attention to the computer screen before me, a clear dismissal. “Close the door on your way out.”
Once alone, I allow my rigid posture to relax fractionally. Fedor isn’t wrong. Personal entanglements create vulnerabilities our enemies can exploit. It’s precisely why I left the penthouse suite before dawn, and why I provided no means of contact despite the unexpected temptation to do so.
Yet I can’t seem to fully compartmentalize the night with Willemina as I’ve done with countless other encounters. Something about her lingers. Her genuine laugh, her direct questions, the way she looked at me as though seeing the man rather than the power he wields remain on my mind.
I open my laptop, navigating to a secured folder before entering a complex password. The information Rachel, my IT person, gathered on Willemina Lamb appears on screen, along with confirmation of the rosebush being delivered. I review the details with a hunger for knowledge that alarms me, but I can’t tear my gaze from the screen.
She was born in Astoria, Queens, as she said. Her mother died ten years ago from cancer, and her father is unknown/absent from birth records. She has an undergraduate degree from NYU (nursing, graduated with honors), has been employed at New York Presbyterian for five years, specializing in neonatal intensive care. Her apartment in Brooklyn is shared with a roommate, Gisele Nelson. She has no criminal record, excellent credit score despite modest income, and substantial student loans. No political affiliations listed, and she has minimal social media presence. She’s everything she claimed to be.
She lead an ordinary life, remarkable only in its careful construction and evident purpose. She saves the most vulnerable while I profit from others’ vulnerabilities. It’s a contrast that should repel rather than attract, yet it produced a connection I find myself unable to dismiss as merely physical.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. “Enter.”
Leonid appears, closing the door silently behind him. His presence usually means sensitive information unsuitable for regular channels. “The driving service transported Ms. Lamb and sent over the video of her ride as you requested. The vehicle’s surveillance captured this.”
He places a tablet on my desk, queuing a video from the sedan’s interior camera. Willemina appears on screen, carefully cradling the rose I left for her, its stem wrapped in a dampened napkin to preserve it. The gesture is small yet revealing. Sentimental in a way that suggests the night held meaning beyond physical release. I wish I had a video of her receiving the living plant instead, suspecting that will hold even more meaning for her.
I watch her gaze out the window, expression pensive, fingers occasionally touching the flower’s petals as though confirming its reality. She looks smaller in daylight and more vulnerable than I remember from our heated encounter. When the car reaches her Brooklyn neighborhood, she straightens her posture visibly, as if preparing to don the armor of her everyday identity.
“Surveillance is in place?” I ask, returning the tablet to Leonid.
“Two men rotating shifts, maintaining discreet distance as instructed. Her movements will be monitored without interference.”
I nod, satisfied with the arrangement. The surveillance isn’t about pursuing further contact. Quite the opposite. It’s about ensuring her safety, protecting her from potential threats that might emerge simply from her brief association with me. The Kazanovs have proven vindictive before, and they saw me with her last night. I simply want to ensure she’s safe before moving on. Or that’s what I tell myself.
“Something else,” Leonid continues. “The background check revealed an interesting detail about her mother’s funeral expenses. They were covered by an anonymous donation to the hospital where she received treatment.”
I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Someone was looking out for them.”
“Perhaps. Or clearing a debt.” Leonid remains expressionless, though I detect curiosity in his tone. “The timing coincides with increased Bratva activity in Westchester County.”
The anonymous benefactor might have connections to our world. “Look deeper. Quietly.”
He nods once, understanding the directive requires discretion even from others in our organization. “Will you be requiring anything else regarding Ms. Lamb?”
I hesitate, an uncharacteristic tell that doesn’t escape Leonid’s notice. “No. Simply maintain distance surveillance until we can be certain she’s not going to be targeted by the Kazanovs. No contact.”
After he departs, I remain at my desk, staring at the closed file on my screen. The rational course is clear. Forget Willemina Lamb, focus on business, and maintain the separation necessary for both her safety and my efficacy as Bratva leadership. Yet I find myself reviewing her information again, lingering on details I’ve already committed to memory.
My phone chimes with a message from Zina: Dinner tonight? Just us?
I reply immediately.
Of course. 7p.m.?
Her response comes quickly.
Perfect, and wear something casual. Sick of seeing you in suits.
I smile, realizing it’s the first since leaving Willemina’s side this morning. Zina remains my one genuine connection, the only person who sees Makari rather than Vorobev, the man rather than the position. Perhaps that’s why Willemina’s unguarded responses affected me so deeply. They offered a rare glimpse of how interaction might feel without the incumbrance of fear and calculation that usually defines my relationships.
I close the laptop a little too hard, turning my attention to more pressing matters. By the time the sun starts to make it’s descent, I’ve resolved most of the urgent business and delegated the remainder to my appropriate lieutenants.
A rare free hour appears in my schedule. It’s time typically spent reading or checking numbers. Instead, I’m drawn to the garage, selecting keys to the matte black Aston Martin rather than summoning Pavel and the usual motorcade.
“Sir?” The security team leader appears instantly, concerned by my unscheduled movement.
“Personal errand,” I say, offering no further explanation. “I’ll drive myself.”
His discomfort is evident. “Protocol suggests?—”
“I’m aware of protocol.” My tone ends further discussion. “I’ll take a sidearm. No tail.”
Minutes later, I’m navigating through midday Manhattan traffic, enjoying the rare freedom of movement without security details or observation. The vehicle responds precisely to my commands, powerful and controlled. It’s a fitting extension of my carefully calibrated public persona.
I have no conscious destination until I find myself approaching New York Presbyterian, slowing as I pass the imposing medical complex where Willemina spends her days saving lives too new to have accrued the stains of this world. I don’t expect to see her.
The impulse to drive by is irrational, serving no strategic purpose. Yet something compels me to confirm the physical reality of her workplace, to visualize her moving through those halls in scrubs rather than the borrowed black dress, and view competent hands that traced my scars now tending to society’s most vulnerable members.
A text from Fedor interrupts this unproductive line of thought.
Meeting request from Colombian connection. Urgent response needed.
The real world intrudes, as it always must. I send a brief acknowledgment before turning the car toward Vorobev Holdings, the legitimate business front that occupies the top floors of a Midtown skyscraper. Back to negotiations, territory management, and the endless calculation of risks and advantages that defines my existence.
As I navigate back through crosstown traffic, my thoughts continue returning to Willemina. Not merely to our physical encounters, though those memories remain vivid, but to our conversations. Her directness, her evident passion for her work, and the way she seemed to recognize something in me beyond the carefully constructed facade I present to the world are difficult to forget.
I force my attention to the road, to the business awaiting my return, and to the responsibilities that define my identity far more concretely than fleeting connections with someone from another world. Makari Vorobev doesn’t have the luxury of personal entanglements or emotional indulgence. The organization, the family legacy, and Zina’s safety are the priorities that must govern every decision.
By the time I return to the office, I’ve successfully compartmentalized thoughts of Willemina, relegating her to a pleasant memory rather than an ongoing distraction. The Colombian representative awaits my arrival, nervous energy evident in his too-bright smile and excessive gestures. I slip into the familiar role of intimidating authority with ease, my expression revealing nothing of the morning’s uncharacteristic sentimentality.
Three hours of negotiations, veiled threats, and eventual compromise follow. By late afternoon, revised agreements are drafted, territorial boundaries clarified, and profit expectations have been adjusted to realistic levels. I maintain perfect focus throughout, the momentary lapse into distraction firmly corrected.
Only after the Colombians depart does Leonid approach with another tablet, his expression carefully neutral. “The surveillance report from Ms. Lamb’s residence.”
I accept it without comment, scanning the contents efficiently. Willemina returned safely, spent time tending her plants, and received her roommate approximately forty minutes later. No unusual visitors, no suspicious activity near the building, and no indication of threat or outside interest in her movements.
Relief settles in my chest. It’s unwarranted given the low probability of immediate danger, yet present, nonetheless. I return the tablet to Leonid. “Maintain the surveillance for seventy-two hours, then we’ll reassess.”
He nods, hesitating briefly before adding, “She placed the rosebush beside another one in her home that seems to be the center of her collection.” Rachel must have mentioned the rosebush when she passed on critical background information to Leonid.
The detail shouldn’t matter. It changes nothing about our situation and offers no strategic advantage or relevant intelligence, but I store this information carefully, a small confirmation that last night held meaning beyond the physical for both participants. “Thank you, Leonid.” I dismiss him with a slight nod, turning to the window overlooking the city as evening approaches.
My phone buzzes with another message from Zina.
Still on for dinner? Made reservation at that Italian place you pretend not to like but actually love.
I smile despite myself.
I’ll be there. Finishing up now.
The night ahead offers a brief escape in the form of dinner with my sister, which I’ll take any time I can get it. Honestly, this business is more of a burden than a gift at times.
As I gather my things to leave, I suddenly wonder if Willemina is working tonight, and if tiny lives depend on her steady hands and compassionate care. The thought accompanies me into the elevator, a brief diversion from business concerns that typically occupy such transitions.
The momentary lapse into sentimentality is uncharacteristic but containable. By morning, thoughts of Willemina Lamb will fade further, relegated to occasional memory rather than active distraction. The surveillance will confirm her safety, absolving me of responsibility for potential repercussions of our brief connection. Life will continue as it must, in divergent separate paths never designed to intersect beyond a single night of unexpected recognition.
This is the logical conclusion, and the necessary outcome for both our sakes. Still, as I exit the building into the cool evening air, I find myself glancing toward Brooklyn, toward a modest apartment, where a rosebush lives on a plant shelf of a woman who should never be in my world. The plant is a small but permanent bridge between worlds never meant to connect.