Page 37 of Emerald

“Ivan Petrov,” he says. “Why don’t you join us?”

There’s an empty chair pulled up to the table, directly across from Remizov.

Almost as if it was put there just for me.

Remizov must have assumed that his assassin was unsuccessful when Sloane failed to check in after she tried to kill me.

So he killed Karol instead.

He sent his head to my doorstep.

And then he sat here waiting for me to arrive. Timing it to the minute, I’m sure.

He’s manipulating me like a pawn on a chessboard.

And like a trapped chess piece, I can only move forward one square.

I sit down in the chair, my gun resting on my lap, pointed at Remizov’s stomach from beneath the table.

I’m so angry that my hands are shaking, my jaw rigid. My men are standing behind me, ready to open fire at my command. But I know they recognize the minister, the commissioner, and the governor. They know as well as I do the almighty shit storm that would reign down upon us if we start shooting.

Remizov has human shields alright, but it’s not the waitresses and college students I anticipated. It’s the three most powerful men in the city.

Remizov fixes me with his cold, pale eyes.

“I was just speaking with the governor about the terrible rise in crime rates St. Petersburg has been experiencing,” Remizov says. “The conflicts in Moskovsky. The shootings in the diamond district. The fire at the docks.”

Of course, Remizov is responsible for all of those things, including, to my mind, the fire at the docks—which I set, but only after he stole my guns.

“It’s not good for tourism in St. Petersburg,” the governor says, looking sternly in my direction.

“Moscow is starting to take notice,” the commissioner says.

“The Bratva are becoming unruly,” Remizov says, his voice soft and sibilant. “I think we’re all in agreement that it’s high time that the families of the city come under centralized control.”

“Under whose control?” I laugh. “Yours?”

“That’s right,” Remizov says, unembarrassed.

My finger is itching to pull the trigger, to blast a hole in his guts right where he sits, smug and smiling.

But I know these men aren’t sitting at the table with him simply to enjoy the expensive drinks. Remizov has made some kind of deal with them. He’s paid them, or else he has leverage. Or both.

If I kill Remizov, I’ll bring down the wrath of the men who run St. Petersburg. I’ll lose more of my Bratva. I might not make it out of here myself.

My brother is right—I’ve sorely underestimated Remizov.

“This is the only time I’ll extend the olive branch to you, Petrov,” Remizov says. “I suggest you accept my offer.”

“Was Karol’s head an olive branch?” I say through gritted teeth.

There’s a lot of things I might have forgiven, for practical reasons. But I will never forgive that.

“You’re out of your mind if you think the generations old Bratva families are going to submit to some thug with no house, no name, no history,” I tell him.

I can see the minister shifting uncomfortably in his seat on my left-hand side. He’s from an old Bratva family himself, on his mother’s side.

“The Stepanovs and the Veronins have already agreed to my terms,” Remizov says calmly.

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