Page 144 of Dark King Daddy

I picked it up. Nikita.

“Morning,” he said. His voice carried the particular crisp efficiency of a man who had been working for hours and was annoyed that I hadn’t been. “We have a development.”

“Talk.”

“Oleg Voronin contacted our dispatch office forty minutes ago. Not through intermediaries. Direct call. He requested a meeting on Viktor’s behalf.”

I sat up. The bed creaked.

“Where?”

“Meridian Hotel. Atlantic Avenue. Private dining room, second floor. Two o’clock this afternoon.”

“What did he say the meeting was about?”

“He said his father wants to discuss ‘the current situation.’ Those were his words. The current situation.”

“Oleg called personally.”

“Personally. Left his name with the dispatcher. He wants you to know exactly who you’re sitting across from.”

I looked at the door. Ksenia had stopped in the hallway. I could see her silhouette through the gap—standing still, listening, the sweater hanging from one shoulder.

“Tell them I’ll be there,” I said. “You accompany me. Arkady handles security for the building and the route.”

“Arkady’s going to love being left outside the room.”

“Arkady will do what I tell him.”

“He will. He’ll also make sure I know about it for the next six months.”

“Take that up with Arkady. I want a full brief on the Meridian—layout, exits, who owns it, who else uses that dining room—before we go in.”

“Already started. I’ll have it at your desk in an hour.”

I hung up. Ksenia stood in the doorway. Her arms were folded. The sweater had slipped further off one shoulder and she hadn’t fixed it, which meant she was focused on something else entirely.

“The Voronins want to meet?” she asked.

“Oleg. Viktor’s son. He called this morning.”

“After Maspeth.” Her voice was flat. Not a question. “They burn your yard and then they ask for a meeting. Yóbanyye súki!”

It was the first time I’d heard her swear in Russian. I kind of liked it.

“Fucking bitched indeed.”

“What could they possibly want to discuss?”

I stood. I pulled on my trousers. I looked at her—the bare feet, the oversized sweater, the arms folded across her chest, the expression that was not fear and not anger but the controlled readiness of a woman who had spent twenty-eight years learning to read the intentions of dangerous men.

“They’ll probably tell me the price of making the attacks stop,” I said.

She held my gaze. The grey light from the window fell across the hallway behind her. The house smelled of Galina’s cooking—something with dill, something warm.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Always.”