Page 146 of Dark King Daddy

I sat across from Oleg. The table was between us. The candles threw light across his face and left mine in shadow. He had chosen the positioning. He had chosen the room, the lighting, the seating. Every element of this environment had been arranged.

“Your father requested this meeting,” I said. “I’m here. What does he want?”

Oleg leaned back. His chair creaked under his weight. He laced his fingers behind his head—the posture of a man settling into a conversation he intended to enjoy.

“My father wants to resolve the current situation,” he said. “Cleanly. Efficiently. Without further damage to either party.”

“Either party.”

“Both parties, Daniil. Both parties. We’re not monsters.”

“Fourteen of my men were inside Shed C when it burned.”

Oleg’s expression did not change. The smile remained. His pale eyes held mine with the steady attention of a man who had been taught that stillness was more threatening than movement.

“Yes I’m sorry to hear about that dreadful accident.”

I snorted.

“Fourteen men,” I repeated.

“They survived,” he said.

“This time.”

“Yes. This time.” He unlaced his fingers. He leaned forward. His elbows rested on the white linen and his body occupied the space between us with a physical insistence that had nothing to do with the table. “Which is exactly why we’re having this conversation. My father believes—and I agree—that further incidents serve no one. The fire at Maspeth was a message. It seems that the message has been received. Now we discuss terms.”

“What terms?”

Oleg reached for the bourbon on the sideboard. He poured two glasses. He slid one toward me. I did not touch it. He picked up his own and took a slow drink.

“Simple terms,” he said. “Within forty-eight hours, you announce that you are stepping down as Pakhan. You instruct your captains to accept Voronin administration of the freight operation—the yards, the routes, the dispatch system. You leave New York. You take your family with you. You go somewhere warm and quiet and far away—Siberia, perhaps?—and you stay there.”

He set down the glass. The sound was small and precise against the linen.

“In return, my father guarantees that all hostile action against Sokolov property and personnel ceases immediately and permanently. No more fires. No more intercepted shipments. No more men standing on curbs with blankets around their shoulders.”

The room was quiet. The candle flames moved in a draft I could not feel. Nikita sat motionless beside me, his face unchanged, his hands flat on the table.

“You want me to surrender the organization my father built,” I said. “The routes, the infrastructure, the alliances. Everything. And leave.”

“I want you to make a smart decision.” Oleg’s voice was warm. Conversational. The voice of a man offering advice he genuinely believed was helpful. “Your father built something impressive. I respect that. But your father is dead, and what he built is under new management, and the new management is not as strong as the old management. You inherited a war you didn’t start and can’t win. My father is offering you a way out.”

“By taking everything I have.”

“By taking the operation. Not everything.” He paused. His smile widened. “You keep your life. You keep your wife. You keep whatever money you’ve managed to set aside. You keep the house on Dover Street if you want it—though I’d recommend somewhere less visible.”

“You’ve been to Dover Street.”

The question was flat. A statement dressed as a question. Oleg heard the difference. His eyes brightened.

“I get around. I’ve been to a lot of places,” he said. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He produced a plain white envelope. He placed it on the table between us. His thick fingers held it flat for a moment, then withdrew.

“Open it,” he said.

I did not look at Nikita. I picked up the envelope. The paper was heavy, expensive, the kind you buy at a stationery shop. I unsealed the flap and pulled out the contents.

Photographs. Five of them. Printed on glossy stock.