He pauses at the door. He doesn’t look back and he doesn’t say anything else and neither do I. But for as long as he stands there, it’s just the two of us again: the Izotov boys huddled in a dark room.
That one smelled like truffles. This one smells like menthol cigarettes, smoke, and the rot of things that would’ve been better off staying buried.
Then he leaves. When he’s gone, I sink into my chair—still warm from him sitting in it—and stare at the wooden box. My hands are shaking, I notice, and I loathe that he still has this effect on me. Sixteen years of distance, and one visit is all it takes to make me feel like that scared kid again, caught between two worlds.
I crack the lid, just enough for a whiff of the truffle aroma to emerge. Then I slam it shut and hurl it across the room.
I press my forehead to my desk and let the coolness calm me down. Counting backwards from ten, one for each breath, I urge my heartbeat to slow, my shaking to still, my incandescent rage to give up its heat, degree by degree, until finally, I’m myself again.
I am Bastian Hale.
Semyon Izotov is dead.
14
BASTIAN
con·tam·i·na·tion: /k?n?tam?'naSH(?)n/: noun
1: when foreign matter ruins a clean preparation; cross-contact between raw and cooked.
2: when the past you’ve sealed away bleeds into the present you’ve carefully plated and just fuckingruinsit.
I lose myself in work for a while, long enough for the sun to march across the sky and settle down beneath the horizon. It’s only when a calendar reminder dings on my computer that I look up from the papers scattered across my desk.
INVESTOR WINE TASTING AT CORUSCANT in 60 minutes.
“Blyat’,” I snarl—then I blink. I haven’t cursed in Russian in almost a decade. I thought I’d purged myself of that habit. Grimacing, I snatch up the phone and dial Patricia.
She answers immediately. “Yes, sir?”
“Two things. First, make sure my uninvited guest has left the building. I don’t want anyone to talk to him—just make sure he gets the fuck out of here. Second, what’s this item on my calendar? I don’t remember putting that there.”
“We spoke about it yesterday, sir. The limited partners are gathering at Coruscant for a wine presentation from the Olympus sommelier team. You’re supposed to join them. Your date confirmed that she’ll be ready to be picked up in twenty-five minutes, outside of?—”
“Date?” I interrupt. “What date?”
“Ms. Francesca Morrow, sir. I believe you met her when you hosted the dinner for the ballerinas of the Joffrey Ballet last month. She seemed very eager for tonight.”
This time, I manage to restrain myself to sayingBlyat’in my head instead of out loud. But fuck, this is not what I want to be doing right now. Wining and dining investors, making sure they’re all pleased as punch with our progress, that they keep signing the checks I need to make my dreams into a reality—it’s sickening, groveling work, but someone has to do it.
A date, though? That can’t possibly be necessary. The thought of charming this ballerina makes me sick to my stomach.
I stand, fix my cuffs, and do my best to shake off the residue of Aleksei’s visit. But the air still reeks of menthol and his words linger in the air right along with the smoke:Everything decays eventually.
Through my office window, I can see into the cubicle area. Most of the staff have gone home, but as I watch, a familiar head bobs along the row and turns the corner. Eliana’s copper hair turns fiery red under the fluorescent lights. I see someone catchher attention and she smiles, hazel eyes flash as she returns the greeting, and?—
Everything decays eventually.
She’s decaying. I’m decaying. We’re all fucking decaying and trying to pretend we’re not.
Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’m storming out of my office and barking into the phone to Patricia, “Call and cancel my date. Tell her something came up. Lie if you have to—I don’t give a shit.”
“Uh, sir?”
“I’m bringing someone else.”
“Should I?—”
