Chapter 6 #2
“Make her believe you’re different from your uncle,” she says. “Ne lomay. Let her think she’s saving the world while she’s loading the gun.”
“That’s the plan,” I say.
“Khorosho.” She smooths my collar one last time, her knuckles brushing the tattoo on my throat. “Because if she figures out what she’s really building before you lock down her loyalty…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
We both know how that story ends.
A body in the Moskva.
Me back at square one with blood on my hands and nothing to show for it.
Luchshe ona, chem ya. Better her than me.
The thought sits wrong in my throat, but I swallow it anyway.
The door opens again.
Vadim comes in trailing his usual cloud of oud and gun oil. His smile is already on his face. Sergei follows, glasses in hand, polishing them with a silk cloth. That’s his tell. He does it when he’s nervous and knows something ugly is about to happen.
“Roman,” Vadim says. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He walks straight to the desk, fingers tracing the edge of my violin case. “Stradivarius. Your mother’s, da? Shame she didn’t live to hear you play it.”
He taps the latch twice. Click, click. Then he reaches for the contract, lifts it and smiles bigger when he sees my signature.
“Already signed,” he says. “Ochen’ effektivno. Efficient. Almost like you want this marriage instead of me shoving it down your throat.”
He sits in my chair. My father’s chair. The one with carved wolves on the arms. That throne should have passed to me when the Chechens put a bullet through Viktor Volkov’s heart. Instead, Vadim slid into it while my parents’ bodies were still warm, and I was too young to put him down.
My vision tightens. Heat creeps up my neck. The Makarov tucked under my ribs feels heavier by the second.
I push the rage down. Count to three in my head. One. Two. Three. Killing him now hands everything to Yuri.
“You made the terms clear,” I say.
“Did I?” He picks up the fountain pen, twirling it between his fingers the exact way my father did. The habit doesn’t belong to him, but he’s wearing it anyway. “Refresh my memory.”
“Marry her or Yuri sits in my chair,” I say. “Simple math.”
“Ah.” He smiles slowly. “Civilized, isn’t it? A nice, clean business arrangement.”
He puts the pen down and reaches for my decanter. Macallan 25. He pours himself a large measure, nodding his head in disapproval.
“Bozhe moy, Roman,” he says, holding the glass up to the light. “You drink like some British banker. Your father would be ashamed. Viktor bled for this family and his son drinks Scottish.”
The words hit exactly where he wants them to. I don’t give him the reaction he wants.
He drinks, grimaces, and sets the glass down too gently.
“Of course,” he says, “her value is more than eight million and a pretty face.”
“MX-42,” I say. I meet his gaze and don’t look away. Petty, but it’s what I have. “You need her brain.”
“Exactly.” He spreads his hands, ings flashing. “MX-42 is a beautiful thing. It just has… side effects.” His mouth twists like this amuses him. “Too much screaming. Too much mess. I want something clean.”
“I read the report,” I say.
“Did you?” He stands up, walks around the desk toward me. Three slow steps. “Then you know why she matters.”
“She won’t knowingly build a weapon,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. He reaches out and adjusts my lapel, pretending to fix a crease that isn’t there.
His touch feels like a snake coiling. “That’s why you’re going to tell her she’s saving lives.
MX-42 in the heroin supply. Poor addicts dropping in the street.
You need her to create an antidote.” He smiles.
“You and she will make something good out of all this violence. Very noble.”
My hand itches for my gun.
“This us where you want to drive this Bratva? Trafficking chemical weapons,” I say.
“I’m expanding,” he answers. His hand drops to my shoulder and grips hard. “Your delicate feelings about trafficking have been noted, plamenniy malchik. I won’t touch that side of business in front of you. But this?” He squeezes once. “This is science.”
“It’s the same,” I say. “People die.”
“People die anyway,” he replies. “MX-42 just decides which ones and how fast. Soldiers. Terrorists. Spies. Where is the moral crisis in making killers die cleaner?”
“Civilians die too,” I say. “Sieges don’t stay neat.”
He shrugs. “Acceptable losses. Every revolution needs sacrifice. Our revolution—turning this Bratva from street bandits into a global concern—needs capital. MX-42 gives us that. Your marriage gives us her.”
I step back, breaking his hold before I do something that ends with his brains on the wall.
“What if she refuses?” I ask.
“She won’t.” He smiles with all his teeth, none of the warmth. “Her brother lives or dies based on how useful she makes herself. And you will make sure she understands.”
My vision tunnels in on his throat. Three steps. Maybe four. I could be on him before Sergei breathes.
I force my shoulders to loosen instead and try to remember: survival always cost something. Right now the price is my soul. It’s been on sale for years.
“If she’s so valuable,” I say, “why don’t you marry her?”
“Excuse me?”
“You need MX-42 stable. She’s the only one who can do it. Marriage gives you full control over her work. Her brother. Everything.” I move a step closer, watch his pupils tighten. “So why give that power to me? You’re fifty-eight, not dead. You could manage some pillow talk.”
Sergei stops fidgeting with his glasses. I can hear Galina breathing somewhere behind me.
“Unless,” I add, “you don’t think you can control her. Or break her too fast. You need someone she might actually trust. Someone fucked up enough that she thinks she can fix him while he’s lying to her.”
My heartbeat is loud in my ears.
Then Vadim laughs. Low. Genuinely amused. It’s worse than if he’d hit me.
“There’s your father’s son,” he says. He drains his whiskey and slams the glass down harder this time. “I was starting to think all that violin playing turned you soft.”
He straightens his jacket, satisfaction all over his face.
“You’re right,” he says. “You are perfect. Attractive. Ruthless enough to do what I need. Just broken enough that she’ll see something worth saving.” He heads for the door. “Congratulations, Romochka. You’re bait.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask.
“You won’t.” He doesn’t even turn around. “If you do, Yuri gets your seat, and you get a bullet. We both know you’re not that stupid.”
Rage burns in my throat with nowhere to go.
“Ponyal,” I say. Understood. My voice sounds dead even to me.
“Molodets.” Good boy. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame.
“She arrives in thirty minutes. Chapel at ten. I expect you to be convincing.” He glances back, eyes cold.
“If she gives us trouble, I’ll put her in a lab and let men with guns stand over her until she cooperates.
The brother will have an accident. And you will watch.
Then I’ll hand your chair to Yuri anyway. ”
The door closes behind them.
I’m alone with the contract.
Thirty minutes until I meet the woman I’m supposed to seduce.
The woman whose mother I helped kill seven years ago.
My throat tightens and I force air through it. Sentiment is a luxury I can’t afford. Guilt is just another weakness I learned to bury at twelve in that church crypt.
The windows look out over territory that’s only mine as long as I keep playing Vadim’s game and stay more useful to him alive than dead.
I plant my palms on the desk and feel the solid weight of it under my hands. If I don’t, I’m going to put my fist through the glass and bleed over this neat contract everyone keeps pretending is a solution instead of another fucking problem.
Anya Nikolayevna Morozova.
I say her name under my breath, testing how it feels in my mouth. Formal. Respectful.
The contract feels light when I pick it up. There should be a weight to turning a woman into a weapon and aiming her at a target she doesn’t know exists. To making myself into the exact kind of monster I swore at twelve I’d never become.
I cut that thought off before it finishes.
She’s walking into my life, and I’m going to make it look safe until it’s too late for her to run.
The edge of the contract bites into my palm. A thin line of blood appears, dark against the cream paper. One drop slides toward her empty signature line and soak in.
Maybe if I bleed first, it’ll feel less like murder.
It doesn’t.
Time to meet my wife.