6. Vadim
VADIM
I spend the first twenty minutes of the meeting thinking about Sloane Mercer’s mouth.
This is not ideal.
Across from me, three men are arguing over access to two shipping terminals and pretending the disagreement has anything to do with percentages, when the real problem is that one of them believes I have become easier to negotiate with because I agreed to meet in person.
He’s wrong.
I know that. Anton knows that. Marek, sitting near the windows with one ankle resting over his knee, certainly knows it.
The only people who don’t appear to understand are the men on the other side of the table, which means somebody has failed to explain me properly.
Ordinarily, I would be paying close attention to every word.
Today, however, my mind keeps returning to an aircraft restroom barely large enough for one person and the woman who stood inside it with her hands pressed against my chest, looking at me as though she could not decide whether she wanted to slap me or kiss me.
I wanted both.
Possibly in that order.
I look down at the document in front of me.
Twelve percent. Control over the eastern terminals. Independent access to cargo inspection. They have changed nothing important since the flight.
“Sorin,” I say.
The man speaking stops.
He is perhaps fifty-five, heavy through the middle, expensive suit stretched across his stomach, with the particular confidence of someone who has spent too long being important in rooms where nobody more dangerous was present.
“Yes?”
“You are repeating yourself.”
His expression changes. “I’m explaining why the additional percentage is necessary.”
“You explained it twenty minutes ago.”
“I don’t think you understand the exposure on our side.”
“I understand it perfectly.”
He glances toward the other two men, looking for support. That’s his first mistake.
The second is continuing.
“You are asking us to take on risk without appropriate compensation.”
“No. I’m allowing you to use infrastructure you could not access without me, and you have decided that somehow places you in a position to demand more.”
His mouth tightens. “We have alternatives.”
“Then use them.”
Silence.
Marek shifts slightly in his chair. I don’t look at him because I know exactly what expression will be on his face.
Sorin clears his throat. “That is not what I meant.”
“It is what you said.”
“We would prefer to continue the arrangement.”
“Then the terms remain unchanged.”
The younger man beside him leans forward. “Mr. Chernovar, perhaps there is room for compromise.”
“There is not.”
“There is always room.”
I look at him. He stops.
The silence stretches until he leans back again.
I turn one page of the contract, and my thoughts betray me immediately. Sloane standing with the champagne bottle in her hand. The expression on her face when she realized I was going to make her clean the shirt. The moment turbulence pushed her into me.
Her breasts against my chest.
Her fingers in my shirt.
The way her eyes dropped to my mouth before she caught herself.
I have been with women who made careers from being desirable. Women whose faces covered buildings and magazines. Women who understood exactly how to sit, how to smile, how to touch a man without ever revealing more of themselves than they intended.
Sloane did none of that.
She poured champagne on me because I insulted her. Then she became aroused while trying to clean it. There was something almost offensively honest about every reaction she had.
I want to see it again. That’s the part I have been refusing to examine too closely. I don’t merely want to sleep with her. That would be simple.
I want another flight.
Another argument.
Another opportunity to watch her struggle to maintain that calm professional expression while I deliberately make it difficult.
I want to know what she looks like when she laughs without trying to hide it.
I want to know whether she’s always that reckless when someone wounds her pride.
I want to know who she goes home to.
That thought changes something in me.
I close the contract. Sorin looks relieved, assuming the meeting is finally moving toward resolution.
It is. Just not the resolution he wants.
“The offer is withdrawn.”
All three men stare at me.
Sorin blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He sits forward. “Vadim, there is no reason to make this personal.”
“It is not personal.”
“We have been negotiating for six months.”
“And during those six months, you were given terms far more generous than anyone else would have received.”
“We can accept the original percentage.”
“No.”
His face pales slightly. “You just said the terms remained unchanged.”
“They did.”
“And now?”
“Now they no longer exist.”
Marek lowers his head. I suspect he’s hiding a smile.
Sorin looks genuinely stunned. “You cannot pull access this late.”
“I can.”
“We already committed resources, Pakhan.”
“That was premature.”
“We have contracts dependent on those terminals.”
“You should have considered that before attempting to renegotiate an agreement you needed more than I did.”
The younger man speaks again. “This affects hundreds of people.”
“Then I suggest you explain to them why your chairman decided twelve percent was worth losing everything.”
Sorin’s hand comes down on the table.
Not hard. Still a mistake.
“You think you can simply shut us out?”
Anton moves before I need to. One step. Nothing more.
Sorin notices him and slowly removes his hand from the table.
I lean back. “Yes.”
He stares at me.
“Leave,” I say.
Sorin looks at the others. Nobody moves at first.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I say quietly. Moments later, there’s the sound of chairs scraping as the room empties. The door closes behind them.
Marek waits approximately three seconds. “That went well.”
I open another file. “They wasted my time.”
“They also lost access to two terminals because Sorin asked for twelve percent.”
“He asked three times.”
“Ah. Then obviously death was the only proportionate response.”
“He is alive.”
“For now.”
Anton returns to his seat.
Marek says, “You were distracted.”
I look at him. “No.”
Marek smiles. “Right.”
“What exactly are you trying to imply?”
“The problem.”
“I have no problem.”
“Dark hair. Approximately this tall.” He holds one hand somewhere below his shoulder.
I stare at him.
Anton looks away. Coward.
Marek continues. “Very calm voice until she’s pouring champagne on expensive clothing.”
“Do you have work?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
“I’m doing it. I’m also wondering how many meetings you intend to destroy because a flight attendant nearly kissed you.”
“She didn’t nearly kiss me.”
Marek’s eyebrows rise.
I messed up. He knows that too.
He leans forward. “So something happened.”
“No.”
“You answered that too quickly.”
Anton opens his phone. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re staying,” I tell him.
“I would prefer gunfire.”
Marek ignores him, but his smile widens. “You liked her.”
“I found her entertaining.”
He rolls his eyes at my flimsy excuse.
My phone vibrates before I decide whether throwing Marek through a window would create unnecessary paperwork. I glance at the screen.
Anya.
Everything in me changes immediately.
Marek sees the name and sits back. “At least one woman is safe from your mood.”
I answer. The screen fills with half of my niece’s forehead.
“Uncle Vadim!”
“Move the phone away from your face.”
There’s rustling. Then one eye.
“Anya.”
“I’m trying.”
Another violent adjustment finally reveals her entire face, along with part of the ceiling and what appears to be a stuffed rabbit hanging upside down beside her. She is six years old and believes video calls are best conducted while constantly moving.
“What happened to Boris?”
She looks at the rabbit. “Nothing.”
“He is upside down.”
“He likes it.”
“I doubt that.”
“He told me.”
“Boris speaks now?”
“Yes.”
“That is concerning.”
She grins.
Marek, from across the room, mouths something about my dignity.
I ignore him. “Where is your mother?”
“Mama says I can call you because you promised.”
“I did.”
“You forgot yesterday.”
“I was working.”
“You always work.”
“I know.”
“That’s boring.”
“It pays for the horse.”
Her expression brightens.
“That is bribery,” Marek mutters, too loudly.
I turn slightly so Anya can’t see him.
“What is bribery?” she asks.
“Something you are already alarmingly good at.”
She considers this. “Can I have a pony instead?”
“No.”
“A little pony?”
“No.”
“One that stays outside?”
“Anya.”
“Okay.”
She goes quiet for perhaps two seconds. Then she holds Boris closer to the camera. “His ear is broken.”
I can see the seam coming apart. “I will have someone fix it.”
“No. You fix it.”
“I don’t sew.”
“You can learn.”
Apparently, that settles the matter.
I look at the rabbit. “Bring him when I come home.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
I glance toward Anton. He gives me a rough estimate with his fingers.
“Three days.”
Anya smiles. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Promise properly.”
I know what that means.
I lift my hand. She does the same against the screen.
“I promise.”
Satisfied, she begins telling me a story about a girl at school who stole someone’s purple pencil and then denied it despite apparently still having the pencil in her hand.
I listen. I ask questions. I tell her that physical evidence generally makes lying more difficult, which earns me a look from Anton suggesting that perhaps criminal-investigation advice is unnecessary for a six-year-old.
Eventually, Nadia appears behind her. “You have tortured your uncle enough.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Anya grabs the phone closer. “Remember Boris.”
“I remember.”
“And pony.”
“There is no pony.”
“There might be.”
“Goodbye, Anya.”
She laughs.
The call ends. For a few seconds, I stare at the dark screen.
Marek is looking at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That expression is never nothing,” he says. In response, I just flick him off and walk away. But as I do, I’m already dialing a number. Marek isn’t wrong about this. I do want to see her again.
I call the head of operations. He answers on the second ring.
“Mr. Chernovar.”
“Who handles cabin assignments for my aircraft?”
There’s a pause. “Several coordinators, depending on the route.”
“I want one attendant assigned consistently.”
“Camille?”
“No.” Another pause. “Sloane Mercer.”
He’s professional enough not to react audibly.
“The new contractor from the Teterboro flight?”
“Yes.”
“I would need to check her availability.”
“Do that.”
“And if she is unavailable?”
“Make her available.”
There’s a slightly longer silence.
“We cannot force an independent contractor to accept a flight.”
“I’m aware.”
“Of course.”
“Offer whatever rate is necessary.”
“Understood.”
I look at the schedule again. “All future flights on my aircraft. If her legal rest requirements allow it, she is offered the assignment first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t tell her the request came from me.”
This time, I hear the hesitation.
“May I ask why?”
“No.”
“Understood.”
The call ends. I remain standing beside the window with the phone in my hand.
There. Problem solved.
She is competent. She already knows the aircraft. Continuity among cabin crew is useful. There are at least five perfectly reasonable explanations for what I have just done. None of them involve the fact that I want to see her again.
I tell myself that until I almost believe it.