Page 2 of Nemesis

The woman continues prattling on. My skull throbs. I try not to visibly wince, shifting my attention to the baffling bowl of candies sitting on her desk. Bright pink squares fill the container, and an encouraging sign leans against it, written in pink marker.

Such a strange fucking place.

After what feels like a small eternity, she waves us through to the elevator with a cheerful goodbye. I’m going to need to find a back entrance to this building. There’s absolutely no world in which I become accustomed to small talk on my daily commute.

The heavy elevator doors slam shut, sealing me into my prison sentence. I shift without thinking, reaching for the weight at my hip that isn’t there anymore. Old habit. The walls of muscle shift closer.

A shiny S is embossed across the metal doors, swirling over the split in the middle. Regardless of the circumstances, I can admit that I’m more than a little curious about the mysterious New York mob boss. Mikhail Solokov has carved out a brutal name for himself through the years. With the current monopoly on international black-market arms deals, he’s also richer than God.

I reach forward, scratching the golden S on the back of the doors. Looks cheap. My hand is smacked down with the flick of a guard’s wrist. When I glance over, the guy’s wearing a bored expression.

The elevator stops.

My muscles tense automatically, bracing for the looming threat. Initiation rituals are tedious and common in this line of business. I’ve seen my uncle take everything from a vow to a limb in exchange for loyalty. My right hand twitches against my leg. I’d rather like to keep my limbs intact, thank you.

But when the doors slide open, I stop short, because the room is already in absolute chaos without me so much as lifting a finger.

“Mikhail, you can’t be serious! This is how we got into that situation in the first place⁠—”

“The last thing we need is to bring in an outsider.”

“Exactly. We’ll end up in the same shitshow Lev left us in! What are you doing, bringing in some psycho kid from the Morozov Bratva?”

A genuine grin twitches my lips. I stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, taking stock. There are six of them, and they argue without a single care for professional hierarchy or personal safety. A bulky man near the window, red-faced and gesturing. A few younger ones by the far wall, practically finishing each other’s sentences. Another hovering at the desk like a fuming guard dog.

And at the desk itself, completely silent as he watches his men unravel, sits a man who can only be Mikhail Solokov.

After hearing so many stories of the brilliant negotiator and business savant, I’d expected some cocky old man half dead in his seat. This guy looks to be mid-thirties and far from death. He hasn’t glanced at me yet, but somehow, I know he’s taken note of my presence. I’ve seen his type before. I bet he pulls the trigger with unsettling composure and then sleeps a twelve-hour night.

Someone clears their throat, and six pairs of eyes leap to the doorway. Showtime, baby. I straighten up to my full height and stroll in.

“Morozov psycho, reporting for duty.”

Silence. Not one of them even cracks a smile.

I fold my arms behind my back, holding still under the weighted scrutiny. I hadn’t been paying attention to the rising floors in the elevator, but from the spectacular city view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, we must be near the top of the skyscraper. The high sun bounces off Solokov’s icy blue gaze, which finally meets me and completes a long, unhurried assessment, top to bottom. Then he settles back in his chair with an unimpressed click of his tongue.

Rude.

“You must be Vasiliy Morozov.” His voice is low and American through and through. Not even a ghost of an accent.

“Correct.” I clear my throat. “And I suppose you are my new Pakhan?”

The temperature in the room plummets. Fingers drift toward poorly concealed weapons. Faces redden. Touchy.

“Forgive my men.” Solokov’s voice doesn’t change, but something in those blue eyes sharpens. “We’re still repairing the damage from an old betrayal. Some of my men are reticent to accept an outsider into such a high position.” A pause, precisely weighted. “It seems like a good time to mention the consequences of such actions, should they be repeated.”

“I would expect nothing less.” I know the cost of betrayal better than most. After all, the act of punishing defectors often falls to me.

I clasp my hands. This is the fragile moment I’ve been practicing in my head ever since that plane ticket hit my palm. Uncle refused to look me in the eye as he handed it over, as though I were just another asset being shuffled offshore. The only problem is, out of all the simulations I’d conjured up in the hours since, not one seems to fit the peculiar room I find myself in.

“Well. Given the circumstances of my predecessor, we might as well acknowledge the obvious.”

Solokov tilts his head a fraction.

I step forward. “The alliance between our syndicates holds only so long as Morozov blood runs through your payroll. I’d imagine that’s a reasonable deterrent to collusion.”

I watch Solokov’s expression for a reaction, but find almost none. A slight shift, maybe. A tiny recalibration. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Not many people can make my skin crawl under their rapt attention, but there’s something about his silence that burrows beneath my skin.