Page 9 of The Beast of Moscow

“You already know I don’t have it or you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Hell.

Maybe the man wasn’t a total fucking moron.

“This place has been—”

“It’s not been the same since the accident,” Feliks rushed to say.

Excuses, Vaslav knew.

Still, he let the man talk because it gave him a second to steady himself again. Maybe he could push down the pain long enough to get this over with.

“We couldn’t sell a fucking ticket—every vendor in Europe canceled for the tour. There was too many problems, they said. Rumors. It practically ruined us.”

Licking at his dry lips, Vaslav then asked, “Do you really think it matters now?”

He knew of the incident the man spoke of—an injured ballerina, a favorite of the company and public. Vaguely, the details stuck out in his mind but little else because that time in his life had been a particularly hard one. Those years followed the death of his wife and almost everything surrounding finding her murdered on the front steps of his estate, a shotgun blast through her face to ensure there would be no open viewing of her body before they buried her, well ... he’d lived his days in a bit of haze.

Until one day, it all cleared.

And everybody paid.

Everybody.

And none of that changed what Vaslav intended to happen here today.

“Vas, you’ve gone white,” he heard Feliks say. “You don’t look okay.”

When had the room swayed like that? Why was it so goddamn bright? One of his hands went numb, but the bigger issue was that he couldn’t tell which.

Well, the ringing in his ears had finally started. Of that, he was sure. The second he let go of the desk, both his knees buckled. He was barely able to keep his formidable frame from crumpling to a heap on the floor.

A floor that was spinning beneath him.

Something was definitely wrong.

It was more than just the pain.

“Get Igor,” Vaslav ordered, unable to watch Feliks’ retreat from the room, but he thought he heard the footsteps receding. It was a toss-up whether the man even heard him call out, “He should be at the front.”

By now.

Fortunately for Feliks, the rest of Vaslav’s plan would have to wait.

4.

“Vas, are you even listening to me?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he heard himself snarl.

Had he pushed Igor off? He must have because from somewhere behind him, his steps stumbling one after another to propel him toward a set of large doors, his head of security shouted, “You can’t barely stand—I’m calling one! Kill me later for it.”

“Otva’li,” Vaslav barked, but he thought it came out a little too garbled. The curse didn’t have his sharp impact coming out of his mouth like it usually did.

Or maybe that was just the rest of the sounds around him that felt like they were all swirling together. He didn’t recognize the hall he entered, but he was sure a different voice had added something into the conversation he left behind.

Something that sounded a lot like, “He can’t go far. Call for help. I know he hates me, but goddammit, she’d never forgive me.”