Young-gi Sokolov
I hold my phone to my ear, listening and occasionally making approving sounds.
“We’ll have the numbers for you by tomorrow,” my chief of development promises. “We’re getting the grant together, and we have several interested investors.”
All things are in order, then. Just as I prefer them. That fiasco with the Acardi family a few weeks ago had unsettled me, made me reassess all of my employees and business partners, and made me scrutinize everything even more carefully. And good thing, too, because I’ve caught another fucking rat.
Slipping my phone into my suit pants pocket, I take a moment to straighten my cuffs. Business never stops. I’ve always got something else to do, even now in the dead of night.
I turn and face my office. It’s expansive, elegant and not too flashy, but the understated wealth is clear to anyone with a discerning eye. My desk dominates the room, and a rug worth more money than most people’s apartments is rolled off to the side, revealing a drain cut into the seamless, glossy floor. Above the drain, Yosef–my trusted right hand–holds a man on hisknees, a knife in his mouth, making sure he stays quiet while I’m on the phone.
I lean against my desk and wave Yosef back. He removes the knife, nicking the crease of the captive man’s lips. The man on his knees is trussed up, unable to hurt me even if he wanted to, so Yosef backs up to give me some space to work if I choose to get my hands dirty.
“So,” I said quietly. “Uriah. Tell me everything.”
“Y–” he gulps. “Young-gi, sir–”
My jaw ticks when he attempts to call me by my Korean given name. That name is for family only. Specifically, one family member: my niece, Kira.
“Mr. Sokolov is fine,” I say. That name, my Russian name, is from my father, and it’s the name that inspires fear.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sokolov, sir.” He’s pale and shaking. “I– I don’t know what this is about, I’ve been a loyal employee–”
I laugh–if the sound I make can be called a laugh. It’s a small, scoffing thing, barely a huff. But it’s enough to convey my lack of belief. Uriah pales further, his trembling growing more pronounced.
“I think you can be honest with me now, Uriah,” I invite calmly. “I already know how much, and when. What I want to know now is why. What did you do with the money you stole from me?”
Uriah blubbers a bit, but manages to speak. “I’m, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t take much. I didn’t take much from you, a-a-and I’ll never do it again! I swear!”
I raise my eyebrow at him. He takes a long, nervous minute to understand my silence, clearly not a clever man, but eventually he answers my earlier question. “I g-gambled it,” he whispers. “I lost it, but I’ll get it back! I’ll win it all back, I swear it, I always do! I just need a little more to start with and buy-in to the table, and I’ll win it all back!”
I knew he gambled it, but I needed to hear it from him. Because there was always the chance he’d surprise me somehow, and reveal something I didn’t know. But no, he’s just stupid.
“You stole from me, and you’re asking me for a loan?” I ask. “You couldn’t just stay the fuck away from the poker tables? Or the hookers? Or the drugs? Do you want to know how I know you gambled it? Because your wife came to my men and asked us to kill you for beating her and your kids, since they get the short end of your temper when you get home. What do you think of that?”
He shudders, then his eyes go to the drain beneath him. He knows why it’s there. He bends over and presses his head into the floor, prostrating himself as best he can while tied up. “D-don’t kill me, please, Mr. Sokolov. Or cut me up, or anything–I’ll never do this again, I’ll never steal from you, my loyalty is yours! I–I never would have done it if I didn’t think I could return it twice over! My plan was always togiveyou money, not to steal it!”
Sure.It’s a flagrant lie, but I don’t bother to point that out. Instead, I tilt my head and reach into my jacket.
“If you’d taken that money to a competitor,” I begin, getting his attention. “We’d have a problem. If you’d used the money to pay someone to harm me or my people, or to make moves against my organization or my businesses, we’d have a problem. But you’re just stupid. I don’t have problems with stupid people.”
He relaxes so fully that he ends up back on the floor, face down, thanking me. Before he sits back up, I pull my small-caliber pistol from my holster and put a bullet in the back of his head. He jerks, spasms, and falls still.
I don’t have problems with stupid people,I finish my thought as I replace my gun.But I won’t allow them to fuck me over, either.
It was a quick, clean death. I didn’t draw it out; no need to torture someone for being an idiot. His wife would probably say it was an easier death than he deserved. Personally, I figured that was as much time as I wanted to devote to such a useless waste of space.
There’s a speck of blood on my shoes and I sigh. I go to my desk and sit, pulling some disinfectant wipes from a drawer. Yosef opens one of the side doors and beckons, and a team of quiet, discreet employees shuffle in with a roll of plastic. They pack away the body, and Yosef follows the team so he can oversee the transportation to one of our dumping sites, while one of the cleaners bends and begins washing the blood and brain matter down the convenient drain.
By the time Yosef is back, the rug is unrolled again, covering the drain, and I’m back on the phone. After getting confirmation that my next shipment will be on time and won’t be getting skimmed by stupid gambling addicts, I hang up and lean back in my chair.
“I have the jet prepared for Monday morning, sir,” Yosef says quietly. I look over at him curiously, taking in the large Russian-born man with a raised eyebrow. He is everything my father wanted in a son, so it’s devastating that Yosef is of no relation to me at all. Instead, dear old dad got me. His only son, born to his Korean mistress: an illegitimate child with a foreign first name and an Asian tilt to my features. Handing his business over to me when he retired was so painful for him that I’m half convinced that was what spurred the heart attack that finally killed the old bastard.
“Why?” I ask.
“Your niece, sir. Kira. She’s hosting the Young Leaders Summit at your estate in California.”
Shit.“I forgot about that.” I steeple my fingers in front of my face and think. “I’ll need to shuffle things around. Unless you’d like to handle a few things for me?”
