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It’s small and ovoid, daffodil yellow, stamped with a lightning bolt. That’s all they could manage, since I took the custom press.
Heat spreads through my chest. Adrik is selling my product—myfucking invention.
I look at Krystiyan. He has to snap his eyes back to my face. He was trawling his gaze over my damp bikini bottoms, the little droplets of water gathered in my navel, and the points of my nipples poking against the triangle top. I want to pull on a robe, but I won’t give Krystiyan the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
Nor will I correct him when he calls Adrik my boyfriend, or Ilsa my girlfriend. He wants to be contradicted.
I’m beginning to believe that Krystiyan’s fixation on me is nothing of the sort—it’s Adrik who obsesses him. He talks incessantly of how they were rivals at school. Every conflict, every interaction, is dug up and recited. Or at least, Krystiyan’s version of events. Unfortunately for Krystiyan, I spent a lot of time with Adrik. The Adrik Krystiyan portrays—overconfident, arrogant, easily bested by Krystiyan’s machinations and Krystiyan’s aspersions—bears little resemblance to the man I know.
Stealing me away from Adrik is Krystiyan’s greatest achievement.
The only thing that could top it is running Adrik’s business into the ground.
“How do we stop him?” Krystiyan demands.
I roll the baggie between my thumb and index finger, making the yellow pill twist back and forth.
“We sell ourMolniyacheaper.”
“Cheaper?” Krystiyan frowns. “We’re barely making money as-is.”
“Neither is he. Adrik has to buy materials at top dollar from the Chechens and he has no cash reserves. We can undercut his price. Drive him out of business.”
Krystiyan pretends to consider the idea, like he’s the one in charge. I can tell from his smirk he’s already on board.
He has the money to do it, flush with cash after inheriting from his father. Davyah Kovalenko was a broker, facilitating the sale of construction contracts to oligarchs. He had a heart attack while fucking his favorite mistress on a yacht in Sochi. He might have survived it if the mistress had called for help instead of robbing his body of watch, rings, credit cards, and cash. Krystiyan told me that he slit the girl’s mouth on both sides when he tracked her down, as punishment for the theft.
He should have thanked her. Krystiyan loves playing boss, ordering around his motley mix of mercenaries. A few areKachki,a few Ukrainian, a few Bratva, though from lesser, lower families. He pays them generously, but they don’t respect him. I hear their muttered jokes. I see the looks they give each other behind his back.
“How long do you think it will take to drive him out?” Krystiyan asks.
I shrug. “A month or two, maybe.”
It’ll cost Krystiyan a fuck-ton of money, not that he’ll notice. He reminds me of a trust-fund kid who purchases a night club or a clothing line, hemorrhaging money because they understand nothing about business.
I’ll stop the bleed when it suits me.
After I’ve cut Adrik’s legs out from under him.
Krystiyan drops into a squat next to me. Russians have the most remarkable ability to hold that position, even while wearing dress pants and loafers.
“What about the new drug?” he says, looking at me from under his thick, dark brows.
He has an unpleasant way of speaking, as if everything is an insinuation or a double entendre. Especially with me, he uses a soft, intimate tone that makes me want to smack him upside the head.
“It’s ready,” I say. “I tested it last night.”
Krystiyan sticks out his bottom lip in a pout.
“Why didn’t you invite me?”
“Maybe next time,” I say, with zero sincerity.
Krystiyan rests his palm on my thigh, looking in my eyes.
“You’d be surprised how helpful I can be …”
“Krystiyan …”
