The old man’s a relic. Nine years since Papa’s gone, and he still thinks his word carries weight. The last time he pulled me into one of his “important discussions,” I nearly walked out. But I’m here now. Because he wouldn’t stop calling—texting me with his same tired tricks, dropping Papa’s name like that would change something.
“Leonid, Andrei, thePakhanknew how to balance the business. You should come hear me out. ThePakhanwould have wanted it.”AlwaysPapa. The guilt trip never changes. I clench my fists, jaw tight.Blyat’,the old bastard still knows how to push my buttons.
“Your private room, sir,” the manager says, stopping in front of a door at the far end of the hallway. It’s different from the others—taller, darker wood, with intricate patterns carved into the frame. Not some basic corporate design but something traditional, almost ceremonial. A deep red lacquer, polished so smooth that the light from the ceiling glints off it.
Tap, tap.
The manager knocks twice softly and waits, eyes flicking toward me like he’s wondering if I’m impressed by the theatrics.
I’m not.
He slides the door open with a smooth, practiced motion. The shoji screen door glides into the wall with hardly a sound, a small gesture that feels more dramatic than necessary. I catch the faint scent of incense, mixing with the sharp smell of soy sauce and something sweet.
I look around, scanning the room. High-pitched giggles hit my ears first—some arm candy at the far end of the table, leaning in close to whatever Aleksei’s saying to the businessman beside him.
Suka! Looks like…
I catch the tail-end of whatever flowery bullshit Aleksei’s saying to the businessman sitting beside him.
He hadn’t told me much when he called earlier. Just that there was “a very important matter” to discuss.
Last time he said that, I ended up in a room full of aging mobsters trying to sell me on some idea about expanding into real estate. Waste of time then, and I have no doubt this is going to be just as painful.
I step inside and let the door slide shut behind me, my eyes narrowing on the setup.
This screamsonething—Aleksei is trying to rope me into another one of his grand schemes.
At the far end of the table, Aleksei is deep in conversation with a man whose body shape catches my attention—short and pudgy. I don’t recognize him at first, but something about his posture, the way he hunches forward like he’s trying too hard, pisses me off.
As I move closer, the recognition clicks. FuckingKensington.He’s the same guy whose company has been dancing on the edge of bankruptcy for years. The Feds have been sniffing around him, too—he’s dirty but not smart enough to cover his tracks. The kind of trouble that attracts more trouble, not someone I want to deal with.
Aleksei turns his head slightly, catching my entrance.
“Ah, Leonid,” Aleksei says, waving me over like this whole thing was my idea.
My blood boils at the thought of all the precious seconds being wasted on this bullshit.
“Come, sit. We were just getting to the important part.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I don’t sit. I stand there, towering over the table.
Kensington beams at me like I’ve just walked on water. “Mr. Kuznetsov,” he says, rising halfway out of his seat, hand extended. “It’s an absolute pleasure. I’ve heard nothing but incredible things about you. Your reputation, your… discerning taste.”
I glance at his hand but don’t bother taking it.
Discerning taste?
A soft giggle breaks through my thoughts. I blink, my eyes flicking toward the sound, and realize the two women sitting beside Kensington are whispering to each other. Their heads are close together, eyes darting toward me like I’m some exhibit they’re dying to see up close.
Zaebis’. Now I know what this is. A fucking match-making session.
Kensington isn’t alone.
The two women sitting beside him are both angled toward me like they’re the main event at this circus. The younger one, maybe early twenties, is wide-eyed like she’s just seen a rockstar. Her makeup is layered thick, trying too hard to look older, but there’s still that fresh-faced cluelessness about her. The other one is late twenties, and it shows. There’s something sharp about her features, but it’s buried under the layers of fake tan, too much filler, and more Botox than any human should have. Her lips, over-plumped, curl into what I assume is supposed to be a sultry smile, but all I see is desperation.
Aleksei motions again for me to sit.
Poshol na khuy.
