Page 132

From: Kir Lazarev

To: All Employees

Subject: Announcing the Lazarev Global Strategic Innovation Initiative

My thumb hovers over the screen. Whatever this is, I already don’t like it.

I open the email.

Team,

I’m thrilled to announce the launch of LGSII, a new cross-functional initiative designed to identify and develop the next generation of leadership talent within our organization. This program will bring together a select group of high-potential employees from across departments to work directly with senior leadership on strategic projects.

After careful consideration, the following individuals have been specially selected for the inaugural cohort...

There’s a list of names. I skim it without really reading, because I already know what I’m going to find.

And sure enough, there it is, third from the bottom:

- Rae Everett, Executive Assistant, Office of the Chairman

I read it again, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. But no, my name is definitely there, black pixels on a white screen, officially pulling me back into Kir Lazarev’s orbit.

This isn’t a coincidence. It can’t be. This is me becoming a chess piece in whatever twisted game the Lazarev men are playing with each other.

I think about Lukas on the plane, ignoring me completely, and I think about Kir in the stairwell, warning me that no one leaves his father, not even him.

And now, this.

Specially selected.

For what, exactly?

44

LUKAS

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

NYT STAFF DIRECTORY

Jillian Pierce | Metro / Investigations

Columbia '18. Polk Fellow. Covers crime, corruption, and power in NYC. Recent work includes an ongoing investigation into one of New York's most prominent families.

Contact:[email protected]

Confidential sources protected.

I watch as Rae stalks down the steps of the jet, gets into the waiting car, and disappears. The car becomes nothing but another anonymous black smear lost in the gray sprawl of the city.

She’s gone.

Good.

But not entirely gone, is she? Because I can still smell her on my clothes. Sulfur from the grotto. The cheap vanilla shit she puts in her hair. Her sweat, sweet and fragrant.

My cock stirs. Even now, standing on a private tarmac with my phone vibrating in my pocket and a dozen fires waiting to be put out, my body betrays me.