Page 1 of Nemesis

The American Dream is a towering monument of horseshit.

The foreign city blurs from my car window in a sea of grey and yellow. No powdered white snow or eroded brick in sight. I never thought I’d miss the view of piled slush muddying the pavement.

One of Uncle’s foot soldiers back in Moscow visited New York a few years ago. The asshole was insufferable upon his return, getting on everyone’s last nerve with his collection of lewd stories and detailed descriptions. The energy was exhilarating, Vasiliy. The food, the women… I nearly sliced off a finger for emotional reparations, and I always considered myself the most carefree of the bunch.

Really, I think, staring out the glass. You like this place?

The road changes when we cross the bridge, tall dwellings stretching into buildings that scrape the clouds. Despite the pleasant weather, pedestrians on the street are bundled up in scarves and jackets so puffy they resemble marshmallows waddling across the crosswalk.

The stiff leather seat creaks as I shift my weight. I’m sick of sitting still. Thirteen hours on that tiny plane with nothing to do except flip through the shitty in-flight entertainment and speculate on my impending demise. My finger fumbles with the controls on the door, desperate to let some fresh air into the confined space, when the driver intercedes.

“Sir, it’s freezing,” he hisses from the front seat. “Please close the window.”

Tired eyes squint in the rearview mirror, meeting mine with a challenge he wouldn’t win. I wish I had never learned his idiotic language. Maybe, then, I would’ve been disqualified from this assignment in the first place.

The window zips back up.

It takes a lot to shake me. I am accustomed to punishments that carve out their own pound of flesh. I’ve been stabbed, shot at, and verbally flayed by men who’ve made competitive careers out of brutality. Somehow, none of the conditioning I’ve withstood in the last twenty-seven years prepared me for the painful shock of stepping onto that patchy New York tarmac.

There’s something uniquely humiliating about being gift-wrapped and shipped across the world. It’s much easier to pretend the agony is environmental. For example, the long, silver dumpster wagon that came barreling down the street the second we managed to wrangle free from the airport traffic. A Cybertruck, the driver told me. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

“We’re here,” the man mumbles from the wheel, pulling over to a busy street corner. The other cars honk and swerve in irritation, fighting their way around the obstacle. With a sharp tug, the door swings open.

The swanky building rises so high that I must crane my head to catch a glimpse of the top. Panes of glass meet the sidewalk, displaying the expansive lobby within. Solokov Industries could pass as a bank or an upscale department store if it weren’t for the line of security guards standing in front of the entrance. Not regular security guards, I note as I step onto the sidewalk. You won’t find a sparkly pink taser under that bulge in Blondie’s suit jacket.

Best behavior, Vasiliy. You know what’s at stake.

Irritation tugs at the memory. If Uncle wanted a well-mannered diplomat, I’m the last person he should’ve sent. Of course, that’s not the real reason behind this permanent field trip.

I shat the bed.

All that’s left is to settle up.

Thankfully, the guards step aside without a word, allowing me to slip through the shiny glass doors without incident. Three shadows follow me inside. Perhaps they, too, are weighing the likelihood of this whole shindig turning hostile.

The air holds the scent of cleaning solution. I wouldn’t be all too surprised to see a bloodstain lingering on the sleek flooring. One of the four guards at my back grunts and pats me down at the threshold, confiscating my last hidden blade with the casualness of a coat check.

I let them.

Two exits: the tall, glass doors at my back, and a service entrance peeking out beside the elevator on the far wall. Both lock into my memory. Behind the reception desk sits an older woman who looks offensively delighted to be alive.

“Hello!” She waves me over. “How’s your day going, handsome?”

“Shitty.” It’s been a while since I’ve spoken conversational English, and the word twists in my mouth, sounding a little too thick.

A guard’s elbow jabs my ribs. It’s a conscious thought to keep my hands from balling into fists.

“Mr. Solokov does not tolerate disrespect toward his staff.”

I raise a brow.

I wonder what Uncle would do if he heard that rule.

Laugh, probably. Then reach for his gun.

Back home, the Morozov syndicate offices stood as a formidable, gated expanse just outside town, making no apologies for what they were. The community developed a superstition about the structure, steering clear of the twisting road that runs up to the compound. No one pretended it led anywhere but a tombstone. At least that felt honest. No sparkly floors or grinning desk attendants.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The receptionist pouts, ignoring the tension that hangs in the air. “Anyways, Mr. Solokov should be ready for you. You are Mr. Morozov, right? We’ve been expecting you, and with the guards and all—but I never want to assume…”