17. Mat
MAT
The Pierre dresses up nice for a bar association dinner. That’s about all I can say about the place tonight.
The ballroom’s been done up in warm gold lighting and white linens, dotted with centerpieces of hothouse roses. Needless to say, there’s crystal fucking everywhere.
I’ve been here for an hour already, and it’s quickly found a home at the top of my rankings for Longest Hours of My Fucking Life. The Glock is tucked into the small of my back, under my jacket, nestled against a slick of sweat.
Raymond is in rare form tonight. He’s on his fourth bourbon, and it shows.
“—and I told the kid, ‘Look, son, if you don’t know the difference between a 10b-5 claim and your own asshole, you’ve got no business in this room.
’” He cackles and slaps the table so hard that the ice in everyone’s glasses jumps.
“Right, Matvei? Tell them. Tell them what I told the kid.”
“You told the kid,” I say evenly, “that he had no business in the room.”
“That’s right!” Raymond smacks the table again. The two other partners at our table, Bill Oglethorpe and a withered old fossil named Zimmerman, laugh on cue. “That’s exactly right. No business. None.”
I sip my soda water. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all night. I need to be at my sharpest for what’s to come.
Across the table, Cass is laughing politely at something Bill’s wife Susan is saying. The laugh is a little too bright to be real, though. She’s performing every bit as much as I am.
She looks like a fucking vision. She’s wearing a black silk dress with long sleeves to the wrist and a high neck. The bruise is gone from her cheek and the stitches have healed to a thin pink line you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
Afon’s voice echoes in my head: She is a door we walk through. That’s all I can afford for her to be.
The roles for tonight’s performance are clearcut. I am the protégé, the rising star, the well-dressed Russian with the killer billable hours and the deferential laugh. I am the man Raymond likes to point at when he wants to brag about his eye for talent.
Cass is the wife. Pretty, quiet, and above all, decorative. She is there to be seen, not heard—and she knows it.
We’ve made eye contact a grand total of three times all night.
The first was when I came in and Raymond waved me over to the table. I shook her hand like a stranger, addressed her as Mrs. Snyder , and she called me Mr. Satyrin back. Her fingers were like ice.
The second was when the soup came. A server reached between us and she had to lean back. As she did, her eyes found mine for half a second, no more. And then they were gone.
The third was during Zimmerman’s toast, when Raymond wasn’t looking. She met my gaze over the rim of her glass and held it for one beat, two, three. I gave her the smallest nod I could manage. Her throat moved. Then she looked away.
That was twenty minutes ago. Now, the salads are gone and the waiters are clearing for the entrée. Raymond’s bourbon is going down faster than the food. Everything is proceeding according to plan.
“Cassandra.” Raymond snaps his fingers in her direction without looking at her. “Eat your bread.”
“I’m not hungry, honey.”
“Well, eat something, for fuck’s sake. You look like a coat hanger in that dress.”
My hand tightens around my glass. I force myself to ease it, finger by finger.
After tonight, I tell myself, no one will ever say things like that to her again.
The plan is simple. Raymond will drink himself into a bourbon coma, like he does at every one of these events. At some point, he’ll stumble to the bathroom. I’ll wait a beat before I follow him. In there, I’ll do what I came to do.
And a man who deserves to die will meet his grisly end at my hands.
“Satyrin.” Raymond elbows me roughly. “You’re awful quiet tonight.”
“I’m listening and learning, sir,” I say in a cool voice that I know will please his ego.
Sure enough, he nods with satisfaction. He turns to Zimmerman. “You know what this kid did last month? Made Greg Gordon cry. Cry. In a fuckin’ deposition. Real tears, on the record. I almost framed the transcript.”
“He’s a peach,” Zimmerman agrees, not really listening.
“He’s better than that. He’s the future of this damn firm.” Raymond reaches over and grabs the back of my neck with his bourbon-warm hand and shakes me. “This kid is going places. Mark my words.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Cassandra, are you listening? Don’t be rude. Matvei is the future of the firm.”
“That’s wonderful,” Cass says to her plate.
“Look at him when you say it, Cassandra. Jesus.”
She lifts her face and gives me her hostess smile. “That’s wonderful, Matvei. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Snyder.”
Her eyes hold mine for a second too long. I tilt my chin half an inch— easy, easy —and her smile widens by a millimeter before she goes back to nibbling at her bread.
The entrées come. Steak for Raymond, of course. Something with truffles for Bill. The fish for Cass, which she pushes around with her fork without really eating. I get duck I can barely taste.
I cut. I chew. I swallow. I check my watch.
8:42. We’re so fucking close.
“Excuse me a minute, gentlemen.” Raymond shoves his chair back and stands. He sways for half a second, then catches himself on the table. “Need to drain the lizard.”
“Charming, Ray,” Bill mutters.
Raymond winks, then claps me on the shoulder before he sets off, weaving and stumbling through the tables toward the side hallway where the restrooms are.
I count to twenty in my head. Then I set the napkin on the table. “Will you all excuse me for a moment?”
I intentionally resist the urge to look at Cass. Instead, I push my chair back, straighten my jacket so the gun stays flush and hidden, and walk.
Across the ballroom.
Past the quartet.
Around a knot of associates from another firm who tip their drinks at me as I pass.
The hallway opens off the side of the room behind a half-drawn velvet curtain. The lighting drops as I step through, gold giving way to a dimmer wall-sconce amber. The carpet absorbs my footsteps.
The men’s room is at the end of the hall on the right. I can hear the muted thump of the bass from the ballroom behind me, the rasp of my shoes, my own controlled breath.
My hand drifts back, casual, and brushes the grip under my jacket. Still there, right where it should be.
He’ll be at the urinal. The bathroom will be empty, or close to it, since we’re mid-entrée. I’ll go in, lock the door behind me, and it will be done in fifteen seconds. I’ll come back out and pretend like all is well, and let someone else suffer the nasty shock of finding his body.
Cass will wake up tomorrow a widow. The only thing she has to do is cry on cue. I get the feeling that won’t be too hard. No one but us will know that they’re tears of joy.
Five more steps. Four. Three?—
A hand closes around my wrist.
It comes out of the alcove on my left where the women’s bathroom door is and yanks. I let it, because the alternative is breaking it, and I already know whose hand it is from the second it touches me.
The door swings shut behind us. There’s a clunk as she throws the bolt.
“Cass—”
“Don’t talk yet. Someone might hear you.”
I let her push me back. The women’s bathroom at the Pierre is a parlor before it’s a bathroom.
There’s an antechamber with a velvet bench and a dish of mints resting on top of a vanity, then a doorway through to the actual stalls.
She backs me into the restroom proper, then lets go of me and stands there, breathing hard, her chest going up and down, a pink flush climbing her throat above the high collar.
“I have to tell you something,” she says. “Before you do it, I mean.”
Now?! Has she lost her mind?!
I’m fucking livid. I was so close to the end of this bullshit. To freedom. “What the fuck are you?—”
“I’m pregnant.”
… What did she just say?