I was drinking alone. That much I remember. Whiskey, neat. Three glasses, maybe four. A deal had collapsed that afternoon. Six months of negotiation destroyed because the other party got cold feet at the last minute.
There was a woman. Dark hair. I remember that clearly now that I’m looking for it. She was with a blonde friend. They were laughing about something. The dark-haired one caught my eye. Or I caught hers. The details blur together.
“Luca?” Dmitri’s voice pulls me back. “Do you agree with the revised percentage?”
I have no idea what he just said. “Send the proposal to Pavel. He’ll review it.”
Dmitri looks confused. Pavel handles enforcement, not logistics. But he doesn’t argue.
The meeting ends thirty minutes later. I return to my office and close the door.
Five years ago. March or April, based on when the twins were born. I pull up my calendar from that period. Meetings, negotiations, shipments. My schedule was packed. Which deal fell through?
I scroll back through emails. Find one dated March 18th, five years ago. Subject line: “Volkov - RE: Partnership Termination.”
That was it. The Bulgarian shipping contract. Boris Markov backed out two days before signing. Cost me millions in projected revenue. I went to a hotel bar that night. The Metropolitan. Drank until the anger dulled. There was a woman in a red dress.
Did I ask her name? I don’t think so. She didn’t ask mine. We went upstairs. The sex was good. Intense. I left before she woke up because I had an early meeting.
Two months later, I made the vow. No more random encounters. No more distractions. The next woman I touched would be my wife.
I might have gotten someone pregnant before that vow ever took effect.
My phone rings. Maxim.
“What?” I answer.
“Are you busy? I need to discuss the Kozlov situation.”
“Not now.”
“It’s time-sensitive?—”
“I said not now.”
I hang up.
The Kozlov situation can wait. Everything can wait until I have those test results.
I stand and walk to the window. The city spreads below, thousands of buildings, millions of people. Somewhere down there, Lina Petrov is probably congratulating herself on whatever she thinks she accomplished by coming to my office.
Or she’s terrified I’ll retaliate for wasting my time.
Both options have merit.
My office door opens. Pavel walks in without knocking.
“The hotel footage doesn’t exist,” he says. “Metropolitan purges security recordings after eighteen months. There’s no visual evidence from five years ago.”
“What about credit card records? Would they show if I paid for a room that night?”
“I checked. You didn’t pay for a room, but the bar tab shows you were there. March 18th, five years ago. You spent three hours at the bar and charged eight drinks to your personal card.”
Eight drinks. That explains why my memory is fragmented.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“The background on Lina Petrov. She works as an administrative assistant at a medical supply company. Salary is forty-two thousand annually. She has eighteen thousand in credit card debt, and her rent is overdue by three weeks.”
