"Vera!" I shout, standing, moving toward my door. Maybe I'm stupid for speaking up, but if this is true, then?—
A single long chime resonates down the hall and up the stairs, stopping me cold.
The door bell brings a flurry of activity—squeals from the sisters, a shout from Vera that doesn't sound pleasant, and the clicking of heels on the stone floors. Someone is here, and I think I know who it is and what they want.
And I'm not very eager to speak to him again.
He's probably really pissed off.
4
ROMAN
Nobody steals from me. That's not a rule I've had to write down or explain or enforce more than once, because the people who test it don't get a second opportunity to spread the word. It's simply a fact about the world, the way gravity is a fact or the way winter is a fact, and the girl who just walked out of my fight club with my signet ring in her fist is about to understand when I rock up to her door in a few minutes.
Yegor drives and says nothing. He's worked for me long enough to know what my silence means, and right now, he knows he should face forward and let me think. The city moves past the windows and I turn my bare right hand over in my lap and look at the pale strip of skin where the ring I've had since I took over as head of my family normally is, and I feel rage boiling and simmering in my chest.
Anton Radin's daughter sat beside me in that chair with the whole fight club below us, told me her name and her father's name, and looked me in the eye without flinching the entire time she was stealing from me. I've had men try to steal from me. I've had rivals attempt to take my territory, my money, my fighters,my contacts. I've had people lie to my face and smile while they did it. None of them tried it while shaking my hand.
I'll give her this much. She has nerves that most men I know don't have. But nerve doesn't protect you from consequences. It just makes the consequences more interesting to deliver.
The Radin name means nothing particular to me. Anton Radin ran a weapons operation on the eastern side of the city, but I never had dealings with him. I've only learned about his organization in the past fifteen minutes based on what Yegor could deduce while I spoke with Ms. Radin. Anton's death was useful news in the sense that any reduction in competition is useful news, and that was the extent of my interest in the family until his daughter decided to make herself my problem.
It's such a shame too. I'd never count myself among the lucky men who'd be on her radar, but Mila is a gorgeous woman in her own right. And as an heiress, she stands to inherit her father's entire fortune and all that power. Any man would be lucky to marry her, but they'll never get the chance now. The Radin fortune will fall to succession rules after tonight, because Mila has earned her place alongside her father's grave.
"We're here, sir," Yegor grunts stiffly. He rolls up to the security gatehouse, and I sit silently as he announces my presence. The security guard takes a moment to make a call, assumingly to the main house, and then he returns and waves us through as the gates open.
The drive is long and gravel and lined with trees, and the house at the end boasts candles in every window facing the street. Yegor parks near the front entrance, and I get out of the car and walk to the front door.
It's not enough to be my enemy in the vague sense that every organized crime family in this city is. Mila had to go and make herself my personal enemy, which clearly she was unaware was a dangerous thing. But a woman like Vera is smart enough to understand such things and never warned the girl? It doesn't sit right. I may have a bigger problem than I think, and I'm not one for procrastinating.
The minute I ring the bell, I know I'm not leaving here until I get to the bottom of this and know what sort of situation I’m dealing with.
The door swings wide to reveal a tart-looking woman in a black dress with a white apron on. Her face is wrinkled with age, and her lips even more so. She nods and backs away into the house, then bows and gestures in a sweeping manner as squeals of delight hit my ears like fingernails on a chalk board.
The foyer is high and wide and Vera Koval-Radin is already standing in the center of it like she's been arranged there and put on display just for me. Her black hair is pulled back, pale blue eyes fixed on me, and two young women stand with her, one on either side of her—both her spitting image.
She's composed, waiting on me to enter, but I look at her and see exactly one thing, which is an obstacle between me and what I came here for.
"Mr. Kuzin." She steps forward with her hand out and a warm but manufactured smile and says, "What an unexpected pleasure. You're very welcome in our home." The pageantry is disgusting. I wonder if she's always like this or if it's all on my account, which seems even more rehearsed if it is.
I look past her toward the staircase. "Where is she?"
"I'm not sure who you mean. If you'd like to sit down, I can have something brought?—"
"Mila." I let the name carry through the foyer and up the staircase and through every door standing open off this hall. I'm not shouting, but the name lands in every corner of this house the way I intend it to. "Come here now."
Vera steps into my sightline. "Mr. Kuzin, please. This is a family home and there are people?—"
"Your girl stole from me tonight." I keep my voice level because it's more effective than being loud with women like this. I've dealt with her fanfare enough times in my life to know how to handle her. "I would like my item returned, and there is a matter of recompense to be discussed, but not until I have what belongs to me."
"She acted alone," Vera rushes out, already making excuses for herself and any part she played in this by deflecting all blame to a woman who's barely more than a child. "Whatever she did tonight, she did without my knowledge or my blessing. I sent her to make an introduction on behalf of our family, and if she behaved badly, I am deeply, genuinely sorry for it."
"Then put her in front of me. Now," I growl, and I watch the other two cower. Pretty girls in their own right, but neither of them have the looks Mila has. When I turn my eyes on them, they back into the shadows, though I know they're there listening. Probably gossip whores who intend to take this to social media and leverage my visit to their home as something to be envied.
"What I'd like to propose," Vera says, and the tone is almost seductive in its nature, "is an arrangement that makes all of thisunnecessary. You're a man who recognizes value when it's in front of him. My daughters" —she gestures slightly behind her without breaking eye contact with me— "are both unmarried. Well-connected. This family has infrastructure, contacts, and territory that would complement your operation in ways that make one evening's grievance look very small by comparison."
I step around her toward the staircase. I'm not interested in her "offer" because I have unfinished business already.
