3. Artem
Artem
I've always been a patient man. Even as a child, I was always good at waiting, biding my time, preparing.
I have yet to hear of any plans being effective when a person allows emotion to cloud their better judgment. Preparation means success, and there's nothing I like more than seeing a plan come to fruition.
Which is why I've spent months in the hellscape that is Queens, New York, setting up my pawns. As each piece of my plan has fallen into place, I've come closer and closer to my ultimate goal.
I shake off the pleasant sensation of potential success and focus on Pyotr, my second and best friend, who is standing before me rattling off information from Alexei's former books.
Pyotr has taken it upon himself to clean up the financial ledgers, which is good. It's given me the ability to focus on other things.
"The girls have been paid off, handsomely, and sent back home," he tells me, barely looking up. Alexei, my former brother-in-law, whose murder left a power vacuum in the New York-based Bratva—a vacuum I was happy to fill—was also too busy being psychotic to actually run his business.
And cleaning up that mess has been less than fulfilling.
"The ones who are addicted?" I ask.
Pyotr sighs. "Since you did not want to… deal with them…"
I narrow my eyes. I have a code, and Pyotr knows this. I do not see or feel the need to murder innocent women. "They were stolen from their families?—"
"Or sold by them," he challenges. "Not everyone in the Old Country can afford to live. Some of these girls?—"
I shake my head. "Either way, they did not hook themselves on drugs," I remind him. "Alexei did that to keep them compliant." Alexei. The fucker's luck held up longer than it should have. He'd been murdered by Gemma Marini, and while it had been bloody, I would have made it so much more painful.
If I hadn't appreciated the irony of his death, I would have been pissed the girl stole it from me. I take satisfaction in imagining what his face would have looked like when she stabbed him. He thought women inferior, and yet, one treasured her revenge and murdered him. Brutally.
"The girls were taken to rehab. The one Oksana runs."
I nod. "Good. Anything else?"
"The families of the men you killed have been compensated."
"Good."
Those men were simply doing their jobs. There is no need to punish their wives and children with poverty.
I expect Pyotr to leave. Instead, he shifts slightly, moving the ledger so that it sits on my desk.
"Alexei was hemorrhaging money. The trust your sister brought—" Pyotr goes on, but I've stopped listening.
There's nothing he can tell me that I don't already know.
Alexei married my sister because he wanted her trust. My father allowed it because it was demanded by the head of the Bratva, and he feared the man's reach.
And after two years of abuse, Irina took her own life.
And that money, millions, is gone.
It is not surprising considering that Alexei was more interested in cocaine and hookers than managing his business.
My fingers press into the bracelet I have wrapped around my hand. The last piece of my sister. The feeling of the gold against my skin calms me.
"The men are wondering where you go at night." This question snaps me out of my stupor, and I glare up at Pyotr, who holds his hands up. "Alexei liked to hold court, show the men?—"
"I am not Alexei," I snarl, as though he needs a reminder.
His expression doesn't change. "They are aware, but they want to see their Pakhan, and so far, you've done nothing but disappear most evenings. There's talk."
I wave it off. "Let them talk."
"Do not be stupid, Artem," Pyotr snaps. "You know that your plan requires holding onto the New York Bratva."
"Which I am," I remind him. "They fear me, and so do the other families. The Italians are scrambling to learn more about me. They are used to Alexei, that stupid fucking moron, and they grew complacent."
I respect the other families, somewhat. Mostly, they are a means to an end, like the men in this outfit. I have a larger plan, and they are simply other pieces on the board. They are expendable should they move into my space.
"You, of all people, should know how quickly power shifts. It takes one voice to be louder than yours, and next thing you know, you are eating a mouthful of poison for breakfast. And, poof—plan over because you are dead."
I bite my tongue because he's correct.
Not yet.
Not fully.
Because my single-minded focus is on Katya Popova, the lynchpin to my plans. If I cannot get to her, having the Bratva will be useless.
"If you want this to work, you need to give them something," Pyotr reminds me.
I wave my hands, getting up from my desk. "Organize a party at that hellhole of a club. I'll attend."
"With the girl?" Pyotr asks.
I raise a brow.
"You are not the only one with eyes around the city, Artem."
If Pyotr were anyone else, I would gut him. Instead, I laugh and press a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you are here, my friend."
American coffee tastes like shit.
Truly.
And yet, I sit here in some sort of hipster coffee shop, sipping this swill and waiting for Katya.
She doesn't know I'm waiting for her. I've done recon on my target for several months, and I know that every day, during her meager lunch break, she comes to this shop, orders an iced matcha latte and a bagel, sits with a book, and enjoys a moment of solitary existence.
Glancing at my watch, I smirk as I hear the door chime.
She's incredibly prompt, which I appreciate. It makes her much easier to track.
It's noon, on the dot, and she walks in, dressed in a pale pink sweatsuit, her hair in a low bun at her neck, and her exercise bag slung across her shoulder.
I study her from my space at the back of the shop. Even when she's not dancing, there's a gracefulness about her movement. It's almost like she's floating through the air as she walks, smiling softly as she takes her drink.
I'm looking down, pretending to be on my phone, when I hear her stop.
I look up, feigning surprise.
"Mr. Orlov?"
I arch a brow. "Miss Popova?"
Her grip tightens slightly on her book, just enough to turn her knuckles white, and I hold back a chuckle. She's annoyed. Katya Popova does not like her routines disrupted, and I've managed to do that twice in less than twenty-four hours.
"What are you doing here?" There's an accusation in her voice. She's suspicious. Good girl. Last night she threw me off by calling me out on the line I used. She surprised me, but I'm better prepared now. I lie for a living.
"Getting caffeine," I respond, holding up my coffee.
"I mean here," she gestures, "at my coffee shop."
I pause, raising a brow again. "You own this place?"
Her cheeks pinken. "No," she stutters, "I just mean," she takes a deep breath, "I've never seen you here before."
"I just had coffee with one of the board members," I explain, lying with effortless ease. "They picked this place. I imagine it's because it's close."
Immediately, I see her shoulders relax. I gesture to the empty seat across from me. "Would you like to join me?"
She shakes her head. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
"Please," I stand, using all the courtly manners my mother drilled into me. "I insist."
She sits immediately, and I'm once more impressed by how deliciously obedient she is despite the bit of fiery defiance she's displayed.
I watch her squirm over the rim of my cup.
I may hate what she represents, but I can't ignore her ethereal beauty. There's a slight mole under her left eye that the stage makeup covers. Without it, she looks younger than she is. Unguarded.
"You're Russian," she blurts out, and I laugh, unable to stop myself.
"As are you."
"How do you know that?" The accusation is back in her voice.
I chuckle. "Your name is Katya Popova."
"And? There are a lot of Americans with Russian surnames."
"Jonathan told me you trained in Russia until you were ten and moved to Paris, and then the U.S." He didn't. I knew that because I'd run reconnaissance on her. I could tell you how many boyfriends she's had—two—and her favorite ice cream—vanilla.
She deflates. "Sorry, I don't mean to be accusatory. It's just..." She blushes again. "You seem very interested in me."
"I am."
Her mouth drops open, and I wonder why more men aren't banging down her door in attempts to woo her. It's probably for the best considering, but still—a travesty.
"It's been a long time since I've met someone from the mother country." I take a sip of my coffee. "It's nice to be able to connect."
This softens her eyes, and I know she is concocting some sort of backstory for me. One where I am a hero marred by loneliness.
It reminds me of Irina, and I swallow a large, hot gulp of acrid liquid, trying to ignore that thought.
"I've been gone for so long, it's hard to remember certain things."
I nod, pretending to understand.
"Are you from Moscow?"
She shakes her head. "I spent most of my time in St. Petersburg, but my grandparents lived in Moscow, so I would visit during breaks." She closes her eyes, falling into a memory. "That's where I first saw the Bolshoi."
"And wanted to become a ballerina?"
She smiles shyly. "What little Russian girl doesn't?"
I laugh, but it sounds a bit hollow because she's not wrong.
I look down at my watch, pretending to be surprised by the time. "I apologize," I chuckle. "The time has gotten away from me, and I have another meeting."
She smiles politely as I get up. I make a show of it, grabbing my phone and fixing my jacket. After a minute, I glance down at her.
"Would you like to have dinner with me?" I ask. "You can tell me all about St. Petersburg, and I'll tell you about the time I took a train into Serbia by mistake."
She laughs but looks away. "I'm sorry, but I don't date."
"You don't do dinner?"
She shakes her head. "No." I watch as disappointment mars her face, and I have to admit that I'm surprised by the response. She clearly likes me. I watched how her breath hitched when she saw me, how her eyes roamed my body.
She should have agreed.
"It's been lovely to meet you, Mr. Orlov, and I hope you'll find a bit of home in New York soon."
That's all she says before she exits the coffee shop.
I sit back down in my chair, watching through the window as she disappears down the street, her pink sweatsuit bright against the gray November day.
Interesting.
I tap my fingers against the table, replaying the conversation, trying to figure out where the cracks were.
Most women would have said yes. I'm handsome, wealthy, and charming when I need to be. I felt her pulse racing under my thumb when I kissed her wrist last night.
And yet, she turned me down.
I pull out my phone and text Pyotr: Change of plans. Moving to Phase Two earlier than expected.
His response comes immediately: Problem?
No. Opportunity.
She's just accelerated my timeline.
Too bad for her.
No is not an answer I accept.
But she'll discover that soon enough.