Page 7 of Nemesis

“I watch everyone,” I respond simply. “It’s good to know which direction the threats are rolling in from.”

She turns, studying me for a moment. I take the opportunity to examine her, as well. We may all have to weigh the same, but that doesn’t make us uniform, despite the director’s wishes. Her figure is even lither than most, but her cheeks are round and lovely in a way that betrays her youth. I don’t want them to thin out like mine.

“You know, I was just thinking you weren’t as crazy as people say. Then you had to go and say something like that.”

I huff out a breath. They might keep their distance, but I’m all too familiar with what names the others call me. She picked the most tame iteration. I do find it curious that she watches me, of all people.

“Crazy is an outfit, Bambi.” I wind the last curl into place with a pin. “I just throw it on when the situation calls for it. I suggest you find your own version if you want to survive this horrible career.”

I’ve barely had time to crack open a fresh bottle and settle in with my liquid dinner when my phone finally rings with the call I’ve been dreading all day.

I let it ring twice. Let the fucker wait.

“Hello, Uncle.”

His response is immediate. Pleasantries are unnecessary, after all.

“I’ve been waiting for an update since your plane landed hours ago. Did you meet with Solokov?”

Unfortunately.

“Yes. He sends his regards.”

He most definitely did not.

“And you were respectable?”

I sigh, lifting my glass to my lips. The vodka burns a track down my throat. Shittier than what I’m used to, because the apartment I’m renting is shittier than what I’m used to, along with everything else about this situation. Three rooms, a window that faces a brick wall, and a radiator that groans like it’s dying a slow, miserable death in the wall and wants company. I can afford better, but wasting money on a fancy apartment I never get to actually enjoy seems pointless.

“Best behavior. Didn’t even blow anything up this time.”

“Vasiliy.” His tone crystallizes, emphasizing the syllables of my name the same way he used to whenever I spoke out of turn as a child. I guess sarcasm wasn’t a trait that passed through the family gene pool. Once, as a child, I rolled my eyes at the dinner table in front of his second-in-command. My thumb brushes the lifted scar on my palm, stretched into my adult skin.

“Don’t forget the reason you’ve been selected for this assignment. You’ve practically dragged the Morozov name through the dust and spat on its honor. Your blood is the only reason I haven’t bothered to press a barrel to your skull.”

“You said to complete the assignment by any means necessary. And that’s exactly what I did.”

I know it isn’t wise to argue with the Morozov Pakhan, even if he is my own flesh and blood, but I can’t stop the excuse from spilling free. It never does any good. He’s been batting it back across the net for decades, and his backhand hasn’t weakened. Still, it’s difficult to find a single thread of resentment for my actions in Druzhaba. I suppose the only string leads to my voyage here.

“What you did, boy, is turn our stable hold of power into a volatile playpen our enemies think they can topple at any moment.” He pauses, no doubt to take a sip of his drink before continuing his barrage. “Those people you killed were my allies. Do you understand how much it costs to settle up your failures?”

Allies my ass.

The Abelevs were assholes. My only regret is not waiting for more of them to show up to their shitty little club before tossing the grenade. The contract it destroyed had been worth more than my entire decade of service, or so my old Pakhan made sure I understood in the hours after.

“You are twenty-seven years old. It’s time to stop acting like a child, and that starts with your diplomatic presence in Solokov’s Bratva.”

Child. It’s not surprising to hear the condescending term. Back in Russia, my role was to walk around like a good little soldier, interrogating and exterminating whoever my uncle condemned in the cool dead of night. To the public, I was a clueless playboy haunting clubs and gambling halls in search of short-term pleasure. In the harsh hours before dawn, after the city went quiet, I assumed my primary function.

Obliteration.

I was good at it. I am good at it. In my field, they say the best victims make the best interrogators. My uncle started my education early, tossing me into the basement with his enforcers before I was old enough to understand what I was being shaped into. It made me stronger. I’ve never managed to decide if that’s the objective or the tragedy.

“Well, Uncle, this specific assignment appears a bit more permanent than the others.” I move to refill my glass, realize I’ve been gripping the bottle for the last two minutes, and put it down. “Maybe you won’t have to deal with my volatile choices any longer.”

I can practically feel the back of his knuckles itching to connect with my cheek.

“You are a Morozov first. Don’t forget your loyalties, boy. You’ll stay with Solokov as long as he’ll have you. A show of good faith for our alliance.”