I close the violin case with a strong click. I flatten my hands on the velvet lining instead and hold still. Stillness and control. The only armor I have that works around Vadim.
“Chemical weapons,” she answers herself, when I stay quiet. Her fingers are already straightening my collar with hands that smell faintly of Krasnaya Moskva. She’s been wearing that perfume longer than I’ve been alive. “Trafficking draws too much attention now, too many task forces. But compounds? Chemicals? You can send those as ‘samples’ and call it research.”
She looks up at my face and watches it. I keep my expression blank.
“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 inmychair. 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 wouldbe 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.”
