Page 76 of Emerald

Sure enough, when I stride over to the door and try to turn the handle, it swings open.

I make my way down the hallway, descending the stairs to the main level. There I find the linebacker waiting for me, along with the Armenian. They’re standing outside a set of double doors, like bouncers outside a nightclub.

The linebacker smirks at me. I’d like to smack him right in his smug face for this lump he gave me. His eyes are crawling over my body in the revealing dress. He better not have been the one who changed my clothes.

“Next time, run faster,” he grunts at me. He gives me a wicked grin, showing off his straight, white teeth.

“Next time, try not to dress like an extra inDie Hardso I don’t spot you five minutes out of Moscow,” I tell him.

His smile falls off his face and he narrows his eyes at me. His fist tightens. I know he wants to hit me just as much as I want to do the same to him.

But that’s not his orders. Not yet, at least.

So instead, he just glares at me while he cracks the door to the adjoining room.

I sweep past him, into the formal dining room.

There I find Remizov himself, sitting alone, eating his dinner.

He’s wearing a glossy navy dinner jacket and tie. His hair is combed back. Soft music is playing.

And yet, I can’t shake a feeling of deep revulsion as I approach the table.

There’s something extremely off-putting about Remizov. It extends from his person to his house. It’s all clean, elegant, orderly. But it’s also . . . blank. His house is like a hotel. Lacking any elements of personality or experience. And that’s how he is in person as well. Watching him cut his steak and take a bite is like watching an android. He chews and swallows, but he hardly seems to taste it.

He looks up at me. Holds out a thin, pale hand.

“Would you like to join me?” he says, in his soft voice.

I sit down opposite Remizov at the long, rectangular table.

There’s a plate of steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus in front of him. A covered platter in front of my own seat. Remizov is sipping from a glass of deep red wine—the exact color of my dress. My glass is empty.

“Go ahead,” Remizov says, nodding toward the platter.

I lift the lid, seeing the same well-arranged meal that Remizov is currently eating.

I’m not inclined to partake. I’ve poisoned too many people to accept a meal from a known enemy.

Remizov chuckles softly, guessing at the reason for my hesitation.

“You’re perfectly safe with me, Sloane,” he says. “While we wait for your lover to arrive.”

I don’t know what kind of weird Hannibal Lecter game he’s trying to play with me, but I always prefer to be blunt. Especially when I’m scared. And the idea of Ivan showing up here, walking right into Remizov’s trap, fucking terrifies me.

“What’s your beef with him?” I demand, forcing myself to look Remizov right in his stiff, expressionless face.

“I don’t have any ‘beef’ with Ivan Petrov,” Remizov says calmly. He blinks slowly with his strange, faded eyes. “I’m taking over St. Petersburg. I analyzed the major players in the city. I attacked those who were weakest first. Then I worked my way up the list. When it was Ivan’s turn, I targeted his weak points. Distracted him while I made alliances. Planned the final blow against him. But then you arrived to . . . complicate the situation.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” I say.

That was another favorite quote of my father’s.

Remizov frowns. He doesn’t like me impugning his planning abilities.

“Interesting that you position yourself as my enemy,” he says. “You and I have no conflict. Other than the matter of my flash drive.”

“And the fact that you blew up my apartment,” I say, “and tried to kill me.”

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