Nemesis (The Fallen Empire #2)

1. Vasiliy

The American Dream is a towering monument of horseshit.

The foreign city blurs from my car window in a sea of grey and yellow. No powdered white snow or eroded brick in sight. I never thought I’d miss the view of piled slush muddying the pavement.

One of Uncle’s foot soldiers back in Moscow visited New York a few years ago.

The asshole was insufferable upon his return, getting on everyone’s last nerve with his collection of lewd stories and detailed descriptions.

The energy was exhilarating, Vasiliy. The food, the women…

I nearly sliced off a finger for emotional reparations, and I always considered myself the most carefree of the bunch.

Really, I think, staring out the glass. You like this place?

The road changes when we cross the bridge, tall dwellings stretching into buildings that scrape the clouds. Despite the pleasant weather, pedestrians on the street are bundled up in scarves and jackets so puffy they resemble marshmallows waddling across the crosswalk.

The stiff leather seat creaks as I shift my weight.

I’m sick of sitting still. Thirteen hours on that tiny plane with nothing to do except flip through the shitty in-flight entertainment and speculate on my impending demise.

My finger fumbles with the controls on the door, desperate to let some fresh air into the confined space, when the driver intercedes.

“Sir, it’s freezing,” he hisses from the front seat. “Please close the window.”

Tired eyes squint in the rearview mirror, meeting mine with a challenge he wouldn’t win. I wish I had never learned his idiotic language. Maybe, then, I would’ve been disqualified from this assignment in the first place.

The window zips back up.

It takes a lot to shake me. I am accustomed to punishments that carve out their own pound of flesh.

I’ve been stabbed, shot at, and verbally flayed by men who’ve made competitive careers out of brutality.

Somehow, none of the conditioning I’ve withstood in the last twenty-seven years prepared me for the painful shock of stepping onto that patchy New York tarmac.

There’s something uniquely humiliating about being gift-wrapped and shipped across the world.

It’s much easier to pretend the agony is environmental.

For example, the long, silver dumpster wagon that came barreling down the street the second we managed to wrangle free from the airport traffic.

A Cybertruck, the driver told me. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

“We’re here,” the man mumbles from the wheel, pulling over to a busy street corner. The other cars honk and swerve in irritation, fighting their way around the obstacle. With a sharp tug, the door swings open.

The swanky building rises so high that I must crane my head to catch a glimpse of the top.

Panes of glass meet the sidewalk, displaying the expansive lobby within.

Solokov Industries could pass as a bank or an upscale department store if it weren’t for the line of security guards standing in front of the entrance.

Not regular security guards, I note as I step onto the sidewalk.

You won’t find a sparkly pink taser under that bulge in Blondie’s suit jacket.

Best behavior, Vasiliy. You know what’s at stake.

Irritation tugs at the memory. If Uncle wanted a well-mannered diplomat, I’m the last person he should’ve sent. Of course, that’s not the real reason behind this permanent field trip.

I shat the bed.

All that’s left is to settle up.

Thankfully, the guards step aside without a word, allowing me to slip through the shiny glass doors without incident. Three shadows follow me inside. Perhaps they, too, are weighing the likelihood of this whole shindig turning hostile.

The air holds the scent of cleaning solution. I wouldn’t be all too surprised to see a bloodstain lingering on the sleek flooring. One of the four guards at my back grunts and pats me down at the threshold, confiscating my last hidden blade with the casualness of a coat check.

I let them.

Two exits: the tall, glass doors at my back, and a service entrance peeking out beside the elevator on the far wall. Both lock into my memory. Behind the reception desk sits an older woman who looks offensively delighted to be alive.

“Hello!” She waves me over. “How’s your day going, handsome?”

“Shitty.” It’s been a while since I’ve spoken conversational English, and the word twists in my mouth, sounding a little too thick.

A guard’s elbow jabs my ribs. It’s a conscious thought to keep my hands from balling into fists.

“Mr. Solokov does not tolerate disrespect toward his staff.”

I raise a brow.

I wonder what Uncle would do if he heard that rule.

Laugh, probably. Then reach for his gun.

Back home, the Morozov syndicate offices stood as a formidable, gated expanse just outside town, making no apologies for what they were.

The community developed a superstition about the structure, steering clear of the twisting road that runs up to the compound.

No one pretended it led anywhere but a tombstone.

At least that felt honest. No sparkly floors or grinning desk attendants.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The receptionist pouts, ignoring the tension that hangs in the air. “Anyways, Mr. Solokov should be ready for you. You are Mr. Morozov, right? We’ve been expecting you, and with the guards and all—but I never want to assume…”

The woman continues prattling on. My skull throbs. I try not to visibly wince, shifting my attention to the baffling bowl of candies sitting on her desk. Bright pink squares fill the container, and an encouraging sign leans against it, written in pink marker.

Such a strange fucking place.

After what feels like a small eternity, she waves us through to the elevator with a cheerful goodbye. I’m going to need to find a back entrance to this building. There’s absolutely no world in which I become accustomed to small talk on my daily commute.

The heavy elevator doors slam shut, sealing me into my prison sentence. I shift without thinking, reaching for the weight at my hip that isn’t there anymore. Old habit. The walls of muscle shift closer.

A shiny S is embossed across the metal doors, swirling over the split in the middle.

Regardless of the circumstances, I can admit that I’m more than a little curious about the mysterious New York mob boss.

Mikhail Solokov has carved out a brutal name for himself through the years.

With the current monopoly on international black-market arms deals, he’s also richer than God.

I reach forward, scratching the golden S on the back of the doors. Looks cheap. My hand is smacked down with the flick of a guard’s wrist. When I glance over, the guy’s wearing a bored expression.

The elevator stops.

My muscles tense automatically, bracing for the looming threat.

Initiation rituals are tedious and common in this line of business.

I’ve seen my uncle take everything from a vow to a limb in exchange for loyalty.

My right hand twitches against my leg. I’d rather like to keep my limbs intact, thank you.

But when the doors slide open, I stop short, because the room is already in absolute chaos without me so much as lifting a finger.

“Mikhail, you can’t be serious! This is how we got into that situation in the first place—”

“The last thing we need is to bring in an outsider.”

“Exactly. We’ll end up in the same shitshow Lev left us in! What are you doing, bringing in some psycho kid from the Morozov Bratva?”

A genuine grin twitches my lips. I stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, taking stock.

There are six of them, and they argue without a single care for professional hierarchy or personal safety.

A bulky man near the window, red-faced and gesturing.

A few younger ones by the far wall, practically finishing each other’s sentences.

Another hovering at the desk like a fuming guard dog.

And at the desk itself, completely silent as he watches his men unravel, sits a man who can only be Mikhail Solokov.

After hearing so many stories of the brilliant negotiator and business savant, I’d expected some cocky old man half dead in his seat.

This guy looks to be mid-thirties and far from death.

He hasn’t glanced at me yet, but somehow, I know he’s taken note of my presence.

I’ve seen his type before. I bet he pulls the trigger with unsettling composure and then sleeps a twelve-hour night.

Someone clears their throat, and six pairs of eyes leap to the doorway. Showtime, baby. I straighten up to my full height and stroll in.

“Morozov psycho, reporting for duty.”

Silence. Not one of them even cracks a smile.

I fold my arms behind my back, holding still under the weighted scrutiny.

I hadn’t been paying attention to the rising floors in the elevator, but from the spectacular city view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, we must be near the top of the skyscraper.

The high sun bounces off Solokov’s icy blue gaze, which finally meets me and completes a long, unhurried assessment, top to bottom.

Then he settles back in his chair with an unimpressed click of his tongue.

Rude.

“You must be Vasiliy Morozov.” His voice is low and American through and through. Not even a ghost of an accent.

“Correct.” I clear my throat. “And I suppose you are my new Pakhan?”

The temperature in the room plummets. Fingers drift toward poorly concealed weapons. Faces redden. Touchy.

“Forgive my men.” Solokov’s voice doesn’t change, but something in those blue eyes sharpens.

“We’re still repairing the damage from an old betrayal.

Some of my men are reticent to accept an outsider into such a high position.

” A pause, precisely weighted. “It seems like a good time to mention the consequences of such actions, should they be repeated.”

“I would expect nothing less.” I know the cost of betrayal better than most. After all, the act of punishing defectors often falls to me.

I clasp my hands. This is the fragile moment I’ve been practicing in my head ever since that plane ticket hit my palm.

Uncle refused to look me in the eye as he handed it over, as though I were just another asset being shuffled offshore.

The only problem is, out of all the simulations I’d conjured up in the hours since, not one seems to fit the peculiar room I find myself in.

“Well. Given the circumstances of my predecessor, we might as well acknowledge the obvious.”

Solokov tilts his head a fraction.

I step forward. “The alliance between our syndicates holds only so long as Morozov blood runs through your payroll. I’d imagine that’s a reasonable deterrent to collusion.”

I watch Solokov’s expression for a reaction, but find almost none. A slight shift, maybe. A tiny recalibration. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Not many people can make my skin crawl under their rapt attention, but there’s something about his silence that burrows beneath my skin.

“The last operations manager was practically family for twenty-nine years before he turned on us,” a new man says, stepping out of the window’s light. The guy rivals my own muscle mass, built like a trained enforcer. Now that would be an interesting fight.

“Don’t bring Lev into this,” the blond guard dog at the desk snaps.

“It’s been four years, Ivan,” another says with a sigh.

I glance back and forth, trying to keep track of the continuing argument. Maybe I should have spent more time researching his inner circle on the flight, and less on reaching level ten-thousand on Candy Crush.

“I don’t see why we should trust an outside hire,” the big guy continues. “Especially one with an inconsistent reputation.”

I grin. “So you’ve heard of me.”

“I wouldn’t be flattered. Our sources called you reckless. Uncontrollable. Volatile.” He spits the traits like he’s reading off a rap sheet.

My brows lower.

“It’s just like the Morozovs,” another man mutters, “to send us their most unstable soldier.” He’s the shortest of the group, and by the way he folds his arms and narrows his eyes up to mine, I’m pretty sure he’s got a complex about it.

It would only take a few steps to size him up.

Three seconds to knock him out. A good brawl is exactly what the doctor ordered today.

“I think the word you’re looking for,” I say, “is effective.”

“Enough.” The room goes quiet at Solokov’s intrusion. He looks at me steadily. “Martyr or not, you belong to me now.”

I bite down on the reflex to roll my eyes. It takes genuine effort.

“Just because you’ve been hired under such a high title doesn’t negate the fact that you are young and untried here. Trust is earned, wouldn’t you say?”

Here we go.

What will it be this time? Finger? Ear? I got off easy with Uncle’s family discount. All I had to do was withstand a week in the basement with his most aggressive enforcers. Other than a few scars and seared images that wake me in the dead of night with a cool sweat, I got off scot-free.

“I’ve heard great things about your work, Vasiliy.” Solokov taps his index finger against the desk. “As well as less than positive reviews of your temperament. Nevertheless, we have use for your particular abilities. I think you can find a place for yourself here, regardless of how you came to us.”

Every muscle in my body goes taut as I prepare…for a shoe that never drops.

The guards at my back dissolve with a gesture from Solokov’s hand. For the first time since I walked into this building, I feel the room expand around me. My lungs inflate. Mikhail’s attention has already disbanded, returning to the papers littered across his desk.

“He’s done with you, Morozov,” the blond man beside him says, spurring me from my confused stupor.

Done with me?

It’s almost generous. I was prepared for something sharp and demonstrative. I have no idea what to do with this.

“Welcome to the Solokov Bratva,” the same guy says with a cheeky grin that confuses me even more. “Don’t fuck it up.”