“No bathroom breaks during the meeting,” I say with a wry tone.
This is our first in-person meeting with Johan on the matter at hand. I’ve sent some feelers out in his direction over the last few months, getting a sense of how he might feel about bringing Dandelion into the AngelCorp fold—and all that implies. He has appeared interested.
“Doing this behind Peter’s back,” Bogdan comments with a shake of his head. “He’d love to find an excuse to rub you out. Making moves to steal his empire out from under his nose? That’d be a good one.”
He’s right, but I’ve already thought about this. “We leave Peter in charge of the Morozov Bratva, and it’s not a matter of time before the war starts up again, only a matter of time until he decides he’s ready to step in on my territory. This is the one way to rob him of the chance.”
The war between the Orlov and Morozov Bratvas is still going on, technically. It started years ago and never truly ended. While it has been more of a cold war these days, that doesn’t mean I haven’t lost good men to pointless, stupid violence.
I want to end it, to end it before Peter decides to ramp it up again. I want it to end before more blood is spilled.
I want peace.
“Peter lacks vision,” I say. “Johan… he’s different.”
“You’ve had your eye on him for a while now.”
“Correct—through quarterly filings, market timing, tech partnerships. He’s a natural businessman. Much more suited for this type of work than low-rent Bratva thuggery. And this type of work makes money.”
Bogdan checks his watch. “It’s noon now. He’s late. You think he’s going to-”
Before he can finish his sentence, the waiter opens the door and in strides Johan Morozov. He’s late. Late enough to signal confidence, but not late enough to be an insult I would feel compelled to comment upon. No doubt his timing was carefully chosen.
“Gentlemen. A pleasure to see you.”
Johan is tall, slender, and handsome. His hair is the dull blonde of his father, his eyes a brilliant, piercing blue, his smile sharp and confident. He’s dressed in a slim black suit, no tie for his white button-up. His jaw is clean, his shoes polished. His accent is all-American, none of the trace of the old country, like Bogdan and me.
He holds his hand up to the waiter before sliding into the chair, pulling it out for himself. No handshakes. Not a good sign. The waiter leaves and we’re alone.
“Orlov,” he says. “And…” He flicks his eyes to Bogdan.
“I’m not here,” Bogdan replies. “You two have your chat.”
“Greetings, Johan. Thank you for taking the time.” I glance at the empty chair next to him. “No second?”
“No second,” he confirms. “But I could always call my father and have him swing by if you’d like?” He holds his eyebrows up for a long moment, as if it’s a genuine question he’s waiting for the answer to. “Joking, of course.”
I don’t smile. “Your father finding out about this meeting wouldn’t be a joke.”
“Just dialing down the temperature a bit,” he says, reaching forward and pouring himself a glass of water. “You two look like you just got back from a funeral.” He sips his water.
“Funny you should say that,” I reply. “Because if we can pull this merger off, there will be many fewer funerals to attend in the coming years.”
Johan scratches his face. “Going right for the heavy stuff, eh? Well, might as well get it out in the open. You want to merge.”
“I want to merge,” I repeat. “And I can make a very strong case as to why.”
“Go on then.”
“First, we can end the war.”
“The war, right.” He nods, looking away for a moment. “You mean, the war your father and my father started, and now the responsibility to end has fallen to us? That war?”
“That war.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “And here I was thinking we were going to talk business.”
“We are.”
