I nod. I've known a hundred men like Grigory. They're tools, nothing more. Dangerous tools, but predictable.
The other three men at the table are less important—local friends who've been invited to witness this meeting and see that Iosef has Ilya's favor. They're nervous, trying not to stare at me, trying to act like they belong at this table. One of them keeps trying to catch my eye, like he wants to say something but doesn't dare.
After dinner, they led me to what Iosef calls his "smoking room"—another exercise in excess. There’s a roaring fireplace against the chill that pervades Russia even in mid-spring, soft, wide leather chairs scattered throughout the room, a small humidor full of Cuban cigars, more expensive vodka, and brandy older than I am. The windows overlook the grounds, the darkness hiding the cold, austere concrete outside.
"Please, please." Iosef offers me a cigar, already cut and ready. "These are special. Very hard to get. I have a contact in Havana who saves them for me."
I take it and let him light it for me with a gold lighter. It doesn’t hurt to allow sycophants to do their thing, now and then, and I’m not used to excess or being waited on in my typical life. The smoke is smooth and expensive, with notes of leather and spice, and I breathe it in with pleasure. I settle into one of the chairs and let them think I'm relaxing.
"You have good taste," I say, and Iosef smiles indulgently.
"A man in our position must appreciate the finer things, yes? Life is too short for bad vodka and cheap cigars." He settles into his own chair with a satisfied sigh. "I want you tounderstand, Kazimir, that we're serious men. Professional men. We understand how to conduct business at the highest level."
"Ilya will be pleased to hear it."
"We've been working with him for three years now," Pyotr says, swirling brandy in his glass. "Small operations at first. Testing the waters. But we're ready for more. We have the infrastructure, the connections, and the discretion."
I sip my vodka, letting it slide smoothly over my tongue. "What kind of expansion are you thinking?"
They exchange glances. This is what they've been building toward all night.
"The southern routes," Iosef says. "We have relationships in Georgia and Armenia. We can move product through channels that are... less scrutinized than the traditional routes."
I raise an eyebrow. "Product?"
"Whatever Ilya needs moved. We're flexible." Evan leans forward eagerly. "We have trucks, warehouses, and people on the payrolls of the right agencies. We can guarantee safe passage."
I take a slow drag from the cigar, letting them wait. "That's ambitious."
"We're ambitious men," Pyotr says. "But not reckless. We understand the risks. We understand the need for discretion."
"And you understand that Ilya doesn't tolerate mistakes."
"Of course." Evan nods vigorously. "Which is why we've been so careful. We've built slowly, methodically. We're professionals."
Iosef smiles. “But of course. I promised we would talk business tomorrow. Tonight is for pleasure!” He claps his hands, and the doors swing open, and six women come into the room.
They’re all young and beautiful, dressed in clothes that leave little to the imagination—silk and lace, high heels, skin showing everywhere. They drape themselves over the men,giggling, pouring drinks, their hands wandering. Two of them head toward me, while the others only get one. A blonde and a brunette, one in pink and the other in red, one curvy and the other slender. The blonde has large breasts, the brunette small, barely a handful. The blonde’s hair is long, cascading everywhere in thick curls; the brunette’s is cut in a cyberpunk-style asymmetrical bob.
Both of them have empty eyes and smiles, moving like dolls who know their choreography.
"For you," Iosef says, gesturing magnanimously. "They will do anything you want. We want you to be comfortable, to enjoy yourself. These girls are clean, tested, and submissive. They will not say no to whatever you desire."
I let the blonde sit on the arm of my chair, her hand on my shoulder. Her perfume is expensive-smelling, thick, and floral. I don't touch her. "You're generous hosts."
"We take care of our friends." Pyotr leans back, a brunette on his lap, his hand on her thigh. "And we hope to be very good friends with Ilya Sorokov. The best of friends."
The conversation continues as the women sit in laps and massage shoulders, nothing too lewd just yet, but their presence heats the room, thickening the air with tension. There’s more business talk, though it’s disguised as casual discussion, everyone dancing around what they really want to say. They drop hints about their operations, their connections, their ambitions. They're fishing, trying to figure out how much I know, what Ilya might be willing to offer.
Evan mentions a shipment that went through last month without any problems. Pyotr talks about a customs official who's "very reasonable." Grigory grunts something about a competitor who "won't be a problem anymore."
I give them nothing concrete. Just enough to keep them talking.
"The Kyiv operation has been sniffing around," Evan says suddenly, emboldened by vodka. "Trying to move in on territory that's been ours for years."
Pyotr shoots him a look. "That's being handled."
"How?" I ask casually.
