Chapter 8
My ire isn’t for Misha, but he’s the messenger, and he’s this close to being shot.
“This might be a good thing for you. If you aren’t going to fuck anyone, you can let off some steam with your other favorite pastimes. Scheming and torture.”
“Fuck you. This is bullshit, and you know it.” I do love both of those things, but they take energy. Energy that I don’t currently have.
As always, his demeanor doesn’t budge an inch.
He’s calm, relaxed in the chair across from my desk, and ready to provide me with whatever I need.
A shoulder to cry on? It’s mine. A weapon or five?
He’ll be back in fifteen minutes with a selection for me to choose from.
An ear to listen to me bitch unproductively, then try to offer a solution, even if I don’t want to hear one?
As annoying as his advice can be, he’s usually right, and he always lets me get every ounce of my frustration out before trying to fix my problems.
“I do know it, moya sila.”
Fucking fuck. As if I don’t have enough shit on my plate already, one of the board members has come to me with an “amazing opportunity” from a former lawyer of Ivan’s brother, Pavel.
Based on the way he ran things here, my guard was up as soon as we received the meeting request. Misha handled the initial contact, and without a hint of subtlety, we were basically handed a piece of paper with a giant “screw you” written on it.
It’s a joke of an offer from a syndicate that’s been a thorn in this branch’s side for years.
The fact that Pavel’s lawyer is the intermediary makes me wonder how much information he took with him when he left.
Their offer is to stop fucking with swaths of our shipping in an area that borders their territory, in exchange for us allowing shared access to one of our priority shipping lanes and extension of protection from various maritime law enforcement agencies that we pay off handsomely.
“They want us to back off territory we already own and give them access to our protection. And all we get is a couple fewer bombed shipments per quarter?”
“The last one was a pretty solid hit, and it took out one of the men who’d been here a while. He was getting ready to go on paternity leave. And they’re framing this as a welcome gift for you, the new Pakhan. It’s not a bad strategy, if you think about it.”
My hand itches with the urge to shatter my teacup against the wall, but instead I sip it, enjoying the burn on my tongue. “Hmm. So the men who lost a friend will enjoy the stability that’s offered, and anyone else will see the weakness of conceding territory for what it is.”
“Indeed. The timing is—”
“I know what the timing is.” A warning shot, right across my bow just as I’m approaching the safety of port.
Someone wants me out of here, and they have enough sway to use our rivals to do it.
Anyone willing to lower themselves to do business with these brutes will stop at nothing to see me ousted.
“Do we have any clues about men in the ranks who are this disgruntled over our takeover?”
Misha shrugs. “We’re doing our best to ease in and find out. You know I wish I had loyalty-vision goggles just as much as you do. It takes time.”
It does take time. Time that I clearly have even less of than I realized. “Who else knows we received this?”
Now he winces, and I swear. “Well, once the men in the unit that suffered the casualty found out, I think news spread quickly.”
“That’s what they wanted. Not the lanes or the protection.
They want factions in my men. Half will think we’re weak if we take the deal and cede their demands.
The others will think I don’t value their lives and view them as cannon fodder.
Whoever here is pushing this must have paid a pretty penny for the syndicate to stick their neck out like this and bet on the fact that I wouldn’t wage war. ”
“Will you?”
The grandmother clock in my office chimes before I answer. Finishing my tea, I message the chef to prepare an afternoon snack before answering Misha’s loaded question.
“I refuse to have my hand forced. Based on everything I know about the syndicate, they’re too unstable to risk provoking us much more than they have been.
I have a suspicion that they got lucky with the recent strikes, if they even consider those outcomes positive.
They may have preferred to continue to cause minor damage and shit themselves when they drew blood. ”
Of all the things I learned sitting at my father’s side, haste wasn’t one of them.
“We’ll continue with our own agenda as planned.
As you worm your way into the ranks, we’ll see who advocates heavily for a conciliatory attitude with the syndicate.
Ensure the widow and the child are provided for, and I’ll move up the announcement of the enhanced resources we’ll be offering across the board.
As far as I’m concerned, business as usual. Don’t send a response.”
“They’ll consider that a response, you know.”
“They can consider it whatever they wish. Now, I think you were right earlier. Anything good in the barn for me?”
“Of all the sick things about you, each of which you know that I love, this has to be the sickest.”
Clinking my champagne glass against Misha’s in a toast, I drain the remainder and help myself to another scone.
The chef prepared an excellent spread for my afternoon tea, inspired by a lazy summer beach day.
Citrus and mint prevail, and the tiered tray wouldn’t be out of place in the tea parlor of a five-star hotel in London.
“See, that’s where I disagree. If you can make an argument for mercy for any of these men, by all means, I’ll hear it. I see it as meting out exactly the justice that they deserve.”
Although our business isn’t saintly, I do pride myself that it’s as above board as any illegal operation can be.
My father felt the same way, as does Ivan.
We’re working to undo the worst of what Pavel was involved in first, with many of his underworld contacts already taken out.
I’m under no illusions that we make the world a better place, but I don’t traffic humans or animals, and I also offer…
closure to some of our agents in law enforcement who scratch our backs as we scratch theirs.
For some crimes, the American justice system is just too soft.
Too lenient. Although I hope I never set foot on Russian soil again, it’s impossible to escape the fact that many of my most formative years were spent there.
Perhaps the only way I feel more Russian than American is in my belief in justice.
The men we’re watching are both child predators, and when they were sentenced to a non-life sentence, a few of our agents staged their deaths in a prison brawl and brought them to me for what they actually deserve.
Sometimes these men are used to train recruits in the art of information extraction or intimidation.
The bodies are useful after death to train our in-house physicians and forensics investigators, so really, we’re just recycling the trash the earth has given us.
A scream tears through the glass barrier, pulling my attention away from a delectable cucumber sandwich that I’ll have to ask the chef to put into regular rotation.
The older man is yelling and sobbing about how unfair this is, and begging for his life.
The younger man is sitting silently, watching the display with a cold, psychopathic calm.
They’re father and son, and they were in cahoots to prey on children using a “friendly neighborhood grandpa” shtick.
The intercom crackles as I key it to give my final reminder. “Both of you know the rules.”
The fun part is, they have different rules.
The son’s instructions were that if he could stay calm and not speak to his father, I’d spare his life once his dad lost his mind.
The father was told that only one of them was making it out alive.
Neither is allowed to speak, although the elder man has started to crack.
Every time he vocalizes, the room is enhanced.
The sprinklers were on for hours overnight, and now it’s a breezy sixty degrees.
“You’ve always been worthless, and now you’re making this worse for us by talking. Shut the fuck up!” The son launches a diatribe at his father, who finally snaps and attacks. “He’s lost it! Come get me, I win! He’s totally lost it!”
Before long, he’s too busy fighting for his life to waste his breath on anything else.
Misha and I watch them claw at each other for a few minutes, but I’ve finished my tea, and the fun’s mostly over anyway.
As we make our way back to the house, storm clouds approach from the west. Perfect.
A stormy afternoon will be an excellent backdrop to my office hours.
“What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day?”
He chuckles. “Oh, my usual. Gym, tan, laundry, attempting to manage your boytoy who you refuse to toy with.”
“If you wouldn’t constantly mention him, I’d forget he was here, and my life would be much more peaceful.”
“I don’t think I constantly—”
“And why does he need managing? Can he not entertain himself? He can spend all day in the gym, you said he liked working out with the men.”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I’ll attempt to manage him. He’s not the best listener, though, I can tell you that. It’s like trying to train a puppy.”
“You’ve never been firm enough when you train men. He probably needs a shorter leash and a good spanking, and he’d be sitting at your feet behaving.”
Misha’s diabolical laugh as he heads into the house makes me realize what I’ve said. I call after him, “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. Just keep him out of my way!”
“Of course, moya tsaritsa. I’ll certainly try. But you should think more about what I said. Three things you enjoy more than anything, and two of the three today haven’t sated you. I can still see it in your eyes.”
See it in my eyes. He’s never more annoying than when he’s right.
A thunderclap tempts me with the simple pleasure of staying outside in the rain.
My office work can wait a bit…Lightning strikes a bit too close for comfort as the clouds part, and although the odds of being struck are in my favor, perhaps it’s not the best idea to push my luck today.
Moving quickly inside, I reconsider my options.
Maybe a bath to reset, then back to the office.
“Ahh!”
The scream pierces the air as I open my bathroom door, and my gun is drawn on instinct, pointed at…Thatcher, naked except for bubbles, holding a rubber duck?
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” In here being in my bathroom, in my bathtub, with my bubble bath, and…well, he must have supplied his own rubber duck.
He sinks back down into the water, recovering quickly from being held at gunpoint and flashing an apologetic smile. “When I turned on the jets in my tub, black gunk came out. I don’t think it’s been used in a while—”
“Gunk?”
“Black gunk.”
“You breached the threshold of my space, uninvited, because of gunk in your tub?”
“It’s still there. If you go look at it, you’ll feel differently. It is nasty.”
His cheeks are pink, either from the heat of his bath, getting caught, or something else I refuse to consider. His ass should be pinked too, for barging in here and violating the sanctity of my space.
“Leave. Call maintenance if you have a problem with your plumbing.”
When he rises from the water this time, his smile is cockier, but I turn after a glimpse of his Adonis belt. Whatever he’s cocky about isn’t my business. Finally, he wraps himself in one of my towels and is gone, trailing water the entire way.
This is fine. I’ll drain and rinse the tub, have myself a bath as I planned, and there won’t be any evidence that Thatcher was ever here.
By the time I’ve gathered my things, the tub is empty…
of water. Perched near the drain, however, is a memento to ensure I don’t forget about my guest in his absence.
Upon closer inspection, I have to laugh.
The duck is wearing a hockey jersey with “Prescott 19” proudly printed across the back.