Page 55 of Filthy Little Fix
She didn't think I was dealing with a security problem. She thought I was dealing with apersonalproblem, an obsession that could cost the family dearly.
Perhaps she wasn't wrong.
I ordered the acquisition of the company right after that conversation. We offered double what it was actually worth, and there was no negotiation beyond an enthusiastic acceptance of the best possible offer they could ever hope to receive.
Victory was supposed to taste better.
I spent the next day in my office. The acquisition was finalized before lunch. Every second of his mundane life now passed through a Volkov filter—the surveillance on his terminal was set up before he even arrived for work.
I had prepared myself for his reaction. If he got angry, if he tried to retaliate with one of his ridiculous pranks, we had reinforced all our systems while he was working on Svetlana's list. I have no doubt he could still tear down our defenses, but not without delaying him long enough for me to put him in his place before any real damage was done.
A pull of his hair worked miracles. Who knew what else would.
But no.
The secure phone rings late in the afternoon. One of the lookouts assigned to follow him—Dmitry had insisted an entire task force for a 23-year-old kid was overkill, but just like Svetlana, his view of the situation was colored by naivety.
I answer without a word. The first thing I hear is, "He's left the building, boss."
I check the clock—six in the evening. His clock-out time. Throughout his entire workday, he had worked like a civilian. Part of me expected him to refuse to be planted in front of a computer while being watched, but that's exactly what he did.
He showed nothing. And that had irritated me long before this call.
"Where is he going?" I ask, straightening in my chair. I drop the files I was reviewing—I can't even concentrate on them.
"Stopped at a convenience store on the corner."
This has to be it. The retaliation. What is he doing? Buying a burner phone? Making a secret contact?
I wait for the next step, one carefully woven to get inside my head and destroy everything within. I expect more of the same behavior that led him to put a ridiculous song on a loop, blasting from every Volkov speaker.
"What is he buying?"
"Uh... cigarettes, boss."
Cigarettes.
I frown. The kid lived on frozen food and energy drinks; cigarettes weren't part of the profile I had forced myself to read after Svetlana's jab about his name, and during his entire time here, he never once put a cigarette to his lips.
"Cigarettes?"
"Yes, boss. He paid and he's leaving."
"Follow him."
I wait, motionless.
"He's getting in the car, sir."
Fuck.
I hang up. He did nothing but buy cigarettes he doesn't smoke before deliberately getting into the car that would bring him back to me with no detours. As if it were normal, as if this level of control was part of his routine. Is he going to start smoking now? Is that the act of rebellion I've been waiting for?
I'd like to say he was just a passing thought and that, after checking on him, I could get back to work. But this son of a bitch has taken root in me, so instead of resuming my life, I wait for him. I wait for the report, for anything that tells me heisn't simply accepting our move. This doesn't feel right, it feels suspicious, and Nyx has always done what he could to make his protests heard. I'm sure he'll do it now.
The car arrives. My security guards escort him into the mansion, and I follow every movement on the cameras. I see him stop in the middle of the hallway and talk to my men, gesturing.
Then I get a call from security telling me he wants to see me.
