He muttered near my shoulder, “It’s just an initial meeting.”
“What are we talking about here? Construction? Real estate?”
“No. It’s a different kind of deal.”
Konstantin glanced at me as we threaded between the tables, the flare of his blue eyes giving away his dismay at being shepherded away.
I bent my neck to talk to Michel. “I amnotgetting mixed up with anything blatantly illegal.”
“Christ, Nico. It’s not illegal.”
His dismissive tone was insulting. “And yet all the hush-hush and clandestine meetings. I’m not dragging family money into anything disreputable, either.”
“Just listen to what they have to say.”
“Have you committed us?”
“There’s room to back out, probably.”
“Fuck, Michel. I’mnotdoing this, whatever it is.”
“Just come over and listen. I don’t want to force this deal.”
And my uncle could commit some of the family money without my consent if he convinced a few other family members to co-sign for authorization. My father had never known me as an adult, so he didn’t know whether I’d turn out to be at least somewhat responsible or one of those hard-partying drunkards I attended school with when he’d signed the generational family trust nearly twenty years before.
At the dark corner booth, Michel presented us to three men with a flourish like he’d won us at a golf tournament. “Gentlemen, may I present Nicolai and Konstantin Romanov, my nephews.”
The men stood as much as the booth would allow and offered their hands for shaking. Formality around us was common, especially with Russians who yearned for the old stability.
I am nothing if not regally polite, so I reached across the table and shook their hands in turn. Konstantin followedmy example as Michel continued the introductions. “These are Anisim Popov, Leonty Fedorov, and Demyan Volkov.”
Revulsion popped through my skin, and my handshake stuttered as I overrode an instinct to yank my hand away.
Demyan Volkov, the trim, silver-haired man with a mild gaze holding onto the other end of my arm, was as malign a criminal as had ever existed. Since infighting had rotted the Solntsevskaya bratva from within a few years before, Volkov’s organization had risen into the power vacuum. The Tambovskaya bratva now ruled the St. Petersburg area and was notorious for dismembering anyone who interfered with their business.
Volkov wore a slim-fitting dark suit and tie. His sharp expression was neutral, neither a smile in any fashion nor a snarl, as neutral as concrete.
His eye-flick appraisal of my clothes and mannerisms suggested he’d served in Russia’s intelligence services.
The other two men were known to be his associates and also subtle with their attention to everything about me and Konstantin.
The most surprising thing was that three high-level Russian gangsters had managed to pass through US immigration, but private flights were subjected to less scrutiny, and American officials were now notoriously amenable to bribery. A few off-brand crypto coins here or there, and one could import or export almost anything. It was becoming like the Soviet Union around here.
No matter what Michel had promised about the negotiations tonight, my family business would not become tangled up with the Tambovskaya organized crime group.
No deals could be closed without my signature, and I just would not sign anything. Staying out of it was that simple.
However, Volkov was not known for taking no for an answer.
Then again, neither was I. John Borbon told me I was arrogant as fuck at every opportunity, and I supposed I earned it.
If anyone could stand against a bratva mobster, a tsar could.
However, I didn’t want to piss off the Russian bratvas. Russia’s secret service assassins casually trying to end me whenever the opportunity presented itself were bad enough.
So, I would proceed with grace.
My usual smile lifted the corners of my mouth, and I thought pleasant but unapproachable thoughts. “Pleased to meet you.”
