1
DROGO
I'm fifteen minutes late, soaked through, and all I can think is: where the fuck is she?
If Alena doesn't show, this pitch dies. Half these investors walk, and I'm left with sketches of a haunted house no one believes in—and the sinking feeling that Klaus is already watching.
The rain isn't really rain—more like the sky spitting on you, invisible drops soaking through before you notice.
My eyes scan the street. Old habit. Crowds make me twitchy—too many faces, too many angles. A black sedan idling across the road catches my attention. Wrong plates. Tourist rental.
A guy in a gray coat two storefronts down, pretending to look at his phone. Wrong shoes for a tail. Too clean.
Not one of theirs.
Not yet.
Five years I've been watching. Five years since I learned my father's name. Klaus Müller—German-born, Russian-trained, forty years deep in the Bratva. The kind of man who makes people disappear.
Every crowd since then, I'm scanning. Waiting for the day he decides I'm worth collecting.
The sedan's still there. Engine running.
My pulse kicks.
Success makes you visible. Visibility makes you a target. And when your father runs an empire built on other people'smisfortunes, every contract you sign is just another breadcrumb leading straight back to you.
Still, I take every project like a hungry puppy preparing to starve again. Old habits. Even with millions in the bank and a penthouse in Kensington, I still check my accounts twice a day. Still keep cash taped behind the bathroom mirror.
Men like Klaus Müller don't have sons by accident—they have leverage.
"Oh my God, it's you!"
A woman's voice cuts through the drizzle. I tense, scan her face—mid-twenties, tourist clothes, phone already out. Not a threat. Just a fan.
"Oh my God, it's me!" I shoot back, forcing my shoulders to drop.
"Can we get a picture?"
"Sure." I fix my Armani suit and pose. My eyes flick past her shoulder—scanning, always scanning. The gray coat guy's moved. Good. The sedan's still idling. Bad.
"We saw you on the telly yesterday."
Right. The interview hyping the park.
"My friend in Amsterdam thinks you're very hot. She's got a poster of you next to the loo."
The loo. Great. I force the smile wider.
The sedan pulls forward. Just a few feet.
My pulse kicks harder.
"Thanks," I say, already stepping back. "I'm late—"
Then the air shifts—warmer and colder at once. The street noise fades. Time slows, like the world knows she's here.
Her car pulls up. She steps out, flipping her hair back the moment the driver opens her door. Of course, the theatrics. Rooms, streets—everything freezes when she appears.
