ALEXEI #2
Ivan nods slowly. “Vladimir went after the Volkov guy to deal with the witness later. Then… nothing.” He rubs his temples.
Then, the explosion comes. It was taking too long.
“It’s all Vasily’s fault!” he growls, slamming his fist on the table.
“With his crappy little secrets. ‘Strategic asset,’ what the hell kind of asset? He was just a shit manager. If he’d let me handle it in Odessa, the right way, none of this would have happened. ”
“And what would the ‘right way’ be, Vania?”
“A shot to the back of the head! End of story!”
Ivan’s initial fear begins to be replaced by something else, buried under hundreds of layers of hatred—a ruminating resentment, a desire to fix or, if impossible, to destroy whoever put him in this situation. He looks at me, seeking approval for the next step, whatever it might be.
I imagine that’s what Vasily delights in. Ivan is easy to direct.
“Why did Vasily really want to keep Kirill alive?” I say. “What do you think he was going to do?”
Ivan shrugs, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck Vasily was thinking!
He probably wanted to use the guy for some blackmail, screw someone over.
He always has a hidden card. And now look at the shit it caused.
” He takes a deep breath, leaning forward.
“And you used Karpov? Did you manage to get to that metal-armed fucker? That idiot Karpov... Letting a Volkov agent fight in our territory. He should have his head on a stake for that shit.”
I allow myself a minimal smile. I ignore the threat. “More than that, Vania.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made contact.”
Ivan straightens in his chair. “Already? Damn, Leshy... So? What did he say? Where is he? This is our chance to wipe the son of a bitch out.”
“No. In fact, we’re going to meet him for dinner—he’s just another proof that the Volkovs don’t know how to hold onto their agents properly.”
“What?”
“He’s willing to be our agent, Vania. Everyone has their price.”
Honestly, if it were anyone else, this story wouldn’t stick. An agent who turns so easily against his contractors, so conveniently. But Ivan will accept anything that frees him from guilt and moral panic, that makes him believe one of the dangers has been overcome.
Ivan’s expression is great. First, the confusion that always comes when he tries to process complex new information. Then, disbelief. And, when the penny finally drops, a tsunami of relief.
“Damn! How did you...?”
“Talking,” I lie. “In exchange for some protection, at some level. It just took a little pressure and he gave in.”
I didn’t pressure anything. Griffin doesn’t even know how to recognize a Malakov. But Ivan needs a narrative of effort to feel a deserved victory.
“That’s it! This is the chance. We’ll use the fucker to find out if Vladimir—“
“No, Vania,” I cut him off.
“What do you mean, ‘no’? We need to know what happened!”
“And we will,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “But not like this. He’s still suspicious. If we pressure him with an interrogation now, he might run. We need to solidify control first. Make him understand that there’s nowhere left to go.”
Ivan processes my words. He hates waiting, but he understands the forged strategy. “Right,” he concedes, reluctantly. “Right, it makes sense. First the collar, then the orders. And how do we do that?”
“The dinner. He needs to see us together and understand that his loyalty is now to the Malakov family, to us. After he accepts this new reality, Vania, he’ll give us everything we want.”
The idea of displaying power, of being the master of the situation, finally calms Ivan’s fury.
“Right. An initiation.” He pauses. “Are you already... protecting the guy?”
“I’ve already taken care of it, yes.”
He manages a half-smile. “So the Volkovs will be able to see that we snatched an agent at a public dinner, and they won’t even be able to kill him without going through the hell of your security. I like that.”
It’s exactly like Ivan to pull a blatant provocation like that, and, if it were true, I would be immensely against it.
Good thing it’s not.
I stand up.
“Excellent,” I say. “Until then, Vania, keep your mouth shut. Not a word about this to Vasily. No rash actions. You just wait for my command. Understood?”
He stands up too. His earlier hesitation is now a familiar arrogance. “Understood,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “First the collar, then the orders.”
The irony that he is describing himself, and not Griffin, goes completely unnoticed by him.
It’s three in the morning on a Thursday and the name “Seraphim” remains a ghost. The account Kirill gave me is real, but it leads to a series of mirror transactions that bounce between tax havens before disappearing. It’s the same dead end I found when tracing Vasily’s payments.
Kirill didn’t lie. And that is, somehow, even more irritating.
Vasily doesn’t act alone. He has a professional to do his dirty work.
Sleep is a waste of time, but exhaustion is starting to dull my reasoning. On impulse, I open again the security feeds of Griffin’s apartment. A form of distraction.
Clothes on the floor, an empty bottle, and Griffin, lying face down, looking more dead than asleep. He definitely drank himself into oblivion.
I grab my secure cell phone and type a short message.
8 PM. Be ready. Formal attire. A car will pick you up.
In the bedroom camera, I see his cell phone, lying on the nightstand, vibrate and light up.
The movement wakes him. Fragile sleep. He grumbles, rolls over, and picks up the device.
I watch him read the message. I see the confusion on his face, then the contained anger when he understands the implicit order.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he gives the ceiling camera the middle finger with absolute certainty.
I smile.
He really is an indulgent distraction.
The ma?tre d’ approaches my table, his stiff posture barely hiding his intimidation. Behind him, the source of his discomfort, who looks at him as if he’s a second away from breaking his neck just for the audacity of trying to guide him. Griffin.
Griffin never goes unnoticed. The suit I sent him—dark charcoal, smooth, precise Italian cut—refuses to tame his overly broad shoulders, voluminous chest, forearms that threaten to burst every seam.
A tailor might cry at the sight. He barely tolerates the white shirt underneath, leaving the collar open, the skin of his neck exposed where the beheading would begin.
And there is the silver medallion, hanging like a bad luck totem, resisting formality, even brighter under the dining room chandelier.
He doesn’t fit here. And that’s exactly what makes him the center of attention.
Griffin looks from the floor to the chandeliers, to the wood-paneled walls, to the rich, complacent customers.
Pushed into a reproduction of civilization.
He assesses the exits, the suited guards, the possible blind spots, even the path between our table and the kitchen, he looks with that expression that is half laugh, half threat at anyone who dares to stare for more than two seconds.
Most customers at restaurants like this go for business lunch, order rare steak, discuss hedge funds and market volatility.
They pretend not to look, but they look.
Women with bare shoulders and men with golden cuffs trying to figure out if he’s a billionaire’s bodyguard or some kind of performance art.
He notices, of course. Griffin registers everyone: the old man stealthily taking photos, the brunette biting her lip, the couple rearranging cutlery to avoid eye contact.
The ma?tre d’ becomes just a human shield between them. And even so, Griffin also observes him up and down, glares at him. He just doesn’t make a joke because he already understands that the joke is his very presence here.
Nothing, not the excellent service, not the Baccarat chandeliers, can soften Griffin.
Out of etiquette, I stand as he approaches the table. I extend my hand.
He stops. He doesn’t shake it. His confusion grows. He expected a confrontation, I’m sure.
“You don’t look pissed,” he says, low.
“No,” I reply. I withdraw my hand. “Please sit down.”
Griffin owes nothing to etiquette: he sits, leans forward, and spreads his elbows on the table.
The waiter approaches, trembling less than the ma?tre d’, but still visibly intimidated. He pours water into the glasses. Griffin only relaxes when the waiter moves away, giving our table privacy.
“That was an interesting spectacle last night,” I say. The effect is immediate: anger gleams in his eyes, but it’s controlled. He already expected provocation. “The camera certainly loves you. But you need to work on your angles. At times, the lighting didn’t favor you.”
Griffin just laughs. A harsh, short sound that suppresses half of what he feels.
“You really watched, huh, boss?” He speaks slowly, mocking the situation, but there’s something else underneath: authentic curiosity. “Tell me, did the lighting mess up your wank much?”
The cynicism is comforting.
The table wobbles slightly when he rests his forearm, the titanium prosthesis hitting the wooden surface. I don’t take my eyes off him.
I decide that if I’m going to play the game, I’ll play with open cards.
“Not at all,” I say. “You’re surprisingly photogenic, Griffin. Most men in your line of work don’t have that talent.”
He stares at me, trying to find the trap. “And what do you mean by that?”
“What I mean is that people can’t take their eyes off you. In the ring, here in this restaurant. No matter the setting. And the most important thing is what they see.”
“And what do they see, boss?” he asks.
“They see a sad story to pity.”
He recoils. Griffin hates the possibility of being seen as a victim. His biological hand clenches into a fist, his forearm muscles bulge, but I realize he won’t start a fight—not yet. His violence is always conditional, not gratuitous. He wants to understand where I’m going with this.