“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 usher.”
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.
