Chapter 2
KAZIMIR
Forty-eight hours earlier, Ilya called me into his office in New York.
"I need you to go to Volgograd," he'd said, not looking up from the documents spread across his desk. "I need you to investigate Iosef Gromov and his associates. They've been useful, but I'm hearing whispers."
I'd waited for the rest of the orders. Ilya didn't waste words.
“I think they’ve been double-dealing. I’m not sure with who, but I want you to find out.
" His icy eyes had finally lifted to meet mine, his left hand tapping against the desk, the light catching the platinum wedding ring on his left hand.
"Be thorough, but also be careful. These men are ambitious, and ambitious men do stupid things. I can’t afford to lose you. "
"And if I find proof?" I shifted on my feet.
"Then we'll discuss what comes next." He'd handed me a folder. "They'll be expecting you. I told Iosef I was sending my best man to discuss expanding our partnership. They'll want to impress you."
He wasn't wrong.
A car picks me up at the tarmac, luxurious and equipped with fine vodka and cigars for my trip, the former of which I indulge in. The flight was rough, and the mission is dangerous, and I want a drink.
The compound I’m taken to sits well outside the city, surrounded by forest and high walls topped with cameras and razor wire.
I’m a bit surprised by that—I’d expected to meet Iosef in the city, and I’m reminded of Ilya’s warning to be careful.
Already, it’s clear that they’re ensuring I’m kept off-balance by bringing me to a different location than I would have expected.
Although the exterior is all cold concrete and brutalist architecture, the interior is luxurious.
The floors are gleaming dark hardwood; the walls are papered with rich patterns, and expensive furniture and art are everywhere.
Iosef Gromov greets me himself when I arrive, with a smile and a firm handshake.
He's in his fifties, thick around the middle, with a reddened face from too much vodka.
His suit is expensive but doesn't quite fit right, likely tailored by someone who didn't quite understand his body type.
There's a subtle desperation in how he presents himself, like he's trying to prove something.
"Kazimir Orlov! Ilya's right hand!" He claps me on the shoulder like we're old friends. "Welcome, welcome. We're honored to have you here. Truly honored. When Ilya said he was sending you personally, I told my associates—this is it. This is our moment."
I give him a tight smile I've perfected over the years—one that doesn't reach my eyes but suggests I'm pleased. "Ilya sends his regards."
"Come, come. Let me show you around, introduce you to my associates.
We have much to discuss, but first—you must be tired from your journey.
We'll eat, drink, relax. Business can wait until tomorrow, yes?
" He's already leading me through the foyer, past guards who stare blankly ahead.
"I want you to be comfortable. I want you to see that we know how to treat important guests.
That we understand the value of relationships. "
It's a test, of course. They want to see if I'm the type who can be softened with hospitality, distracted with pleasure. They want to know if I'm as dangerous as my reputation suggests, or if I'm just another man with appetites that can be exploited.
I let them think they're succeeding.
The tour takes an hour. Iosef shows me everything—the security systems, the grounds, the garage full of luxury cars, the wine cellar, the humidor, the gym, the indoor pool, hot tub, and sauna.
He's proud of it all, and he wants me to be impressed.
He wants me to report back to Ilya that these are men of substance, men worth continuing to invest in.
"We've built something special here," he says as we walk through a corridor lined with expensive art. I can only imagine how Ilya’s wife, Mara, would feel walking down this hall. As an art curator, she’d be in heaven.
"A place where we can conduct business without interference and enjoy our pleasures without interruption. Where we can be... discreet."
The dining room could seat thirty. Tonight there are eight of us—Iosef, three of his associates—Grigory, Pyotr, and Evan—and three other men I’m introduced to as friends of his. Everyone wants a piece of Ilya's empire, and they think I'm their way in.
The table practically groans under the weight of the food.
Roasted moose, which Iosef claims to have shot himself, fresh bread, and delicacies flown in from God knows where.
There's crab, huge shrimp, and Beluga caviar served in crystal bowls on ice, and a whole roasted sturgeon garnished with lemon and herbs. Blini with sour cream, bowls of vegetables, and a rich squash soup with thick swirls of cream. It’s meant to impress me, and the food is delicious, but it takes more than that to win me over.
The vodka flows like water—Russo-Baltique—again, the sort of luxury that hardly anyone else in the world gets to taste, a show of wealth and connection meant to make me feel that Ilya’s time cultivating them is well spent.
Iosef plays the generous host, making sure my glass is never empty, that I have the best cuts of meat, that I'm comfortable.
"To new partnerships," he toasts, raising his glass. The crystal catches the light from the chandelier above. "To prosperity and mutual benefit. To the wisdom of Ilya Sorokov in sending us his most trusted man."
I drink, that smile on my lips, and I watch, engaging in enough small talk to seem polite and interested while mostly taking in the people around me.
Evan, one of Iosef's associates, is nervous.
He drinks too much and laughs too loudly at jokes that aren't funny. His eyes keep darting to Iosef and the others, seeking approval. He’s a weak link.
He's younger than the others, maybe mid-to-late twenties, with an eager energy that suggests he's still trying to prove himself.
His suit is too new, too obviously expensive—the type of thing someone wears when they've recently come into money and want everyone to know it.
"This vodka," Evan says, holding up his glass. "You can't get this anywhere. Iosef has connections. The best connections."
"Evan is enthusiastic about what we do here," Pyotr says dryly from across the table.
Pyotr, on the other hand, is calculating.
He watches me the way I'm watching them, trying to read between the lines.
He's the dangerous one, the one who might actually be smart enough to pull off whatever scheme they're running, if they are truly double-dealing behind Ilya’s back.
He appears to be in his mid-forties, lean, with cold eyes and a face that gives nothing away.
His suit fits perfectly, and he doesn't drink as much as the others.
"Tell me, Kazimir," Pyotr says, cutting into his sturgeon with precise movements. "How long have you worked for Ilya Sorokov?"
“A long time.” I take a bite of the moose. I doubt Iosef killed it himself, but it is very well-cooked, with a gaminess to it that I enjoy.
"Long enough to know all his secrets?" He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
My smile is similar. "Long enough to know that loyalty is rewarded."
"And disloyalty?" Evan interjects, leaning forward. "What happens to those who are disloyal in Ilya's organization?"
It's a test. They want to know if I'll threaten them, if I suspect something.
"Ilya values honesty," I say carefully. "He'd rather know about a problem than be blindsided by it. Men who are honest with him, even when it's difficult, tend to prosper. Men who lie..." I shrug. "Well. Those situations have a way of being resolved."
Evan laughs too loudly. "Of course, of course. Honesty is the foundation of good business. We would never dream of being anything less than transparent with Ilya."
The third associate, Grigory, is a brute.
He’s all muscle and violence, the kind of man who solves problems with his fists and doesn't think much beyond the next fight.
Useful, but not a strategist. He's been quiet through most of dinner, focused on eating, but I can feel the violence radiating off him.
His knuckles are scarred, and there's a fresh bruise on his jaw.
I wonder where he got it. In some underground fight, probably.
"Grigory doesn't talk much," Iosef says, noticing my gaze. "But he's very good at his job."
I look up from my meat. "Which is?"
"Security. Enforcement. Making sure people understand when they've made mistakes." Iosef waves his hand. "Every organization needs men like Grigory. Men who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty—who like it, even."
I nod. I've known a hundred men like Grigory. They're tools, nothing more. Dangerous tools, but predictable.
The other three men at the table are less important—local friends who've been invited to witness this meeting and see that Iosef has Ilya's favor.
They're nervous, trying not to stare at me, trying to act like they belong at this table.
One of them keeps trying to catch my eye, like he wants to say something but doesn't dare.
After dinner, they led me to what Iosef calls his "smoking room"—another exercise in excess. There’s a roaring fireplace against the chill that pervades Russia even in mid-spring, soft, wide leather chairs scattered throughout the room, a small humidor full of Cuban cigars, more expensive vodka, and brandy older than I am.
The windows overlook the grounds, the darkness hiding the cold, austere concrete outside.
"Please, please." Iosef offers me a cigar, already cut and ready. "These are special. Very hard to get. I have a contact in Havana who saves them for me."