Page 23 of The Tsar's Obsession
10
Losing Control
Kirill
Iwaslosingcontrol.Of the whole texting situation with Mia, of my emotions, of my own fucking mind.
I loved fucking you into bed.
I actually sent that. What a fucking idiot. Autocorrect betrayed me in the worst possible way. Editing the message would have made everything worse, so I left it alone, sitting in my own grave. A Freudian slip at its finest.
But then, I sent another text, telling her that I was into her—communicating my feelings openly—and she never replied to it.
Maybe that was too straightforward. But at the same time, it had to have been obvi—
Jesus fucking Christ. I was thirty-four, sitting on literal billions in coke money we hadn’t been able to clean yet, trying to keep the cartel happy, my men loyal, and my image clean—and I was sitting here, deciphering fucking text messages!
My brain was melting out of me at an alarming speed, and I decided that there would be no more texts. I could wait.
It was Tuesday, a wholeseven dayssince the last text. Mia and I spoke on the phone over the weekend, neither one of us bringing it up, as if it didn’t happen.
We discussed the offer, and without a hitch, Mia submitted thepaperwork and negotiated the deal. The apartment we met in would be mine—ours—in a month. Mia was sharp and methodical, delivering exactly what I wanted with unwavering professionalism.
I floated in my imagination of serving her drinks in that pool and fucking her on that patio. But my reality was very different.
I leaned back in my chair, scrolling through our text exchange while the real world faded into a dull hum. Dmitry, Polina, and Yuri sat around the meeting table as we discussed the details of our new problems sprouting up here in New York.
Domenic, the Italian Don, was rightfully pissed. We were the newcomers here, blatantly infringing on his territory. His groups pressured ours to back down, and tensions were high. Instead, we doubled down, consolidating every single branch of Russian and most of the ex-Soviet groups. This significantly reduced the Italians’ reach but also the Chinese, which was a classic one step forward, two steps back scenario.
But then there was the question of the Colombian cartel. On second thought, there were no questions; the way was clear—I was the only one negotiating the price and product, but there was someone else who really wanted in on that meeting.
“…if we all meet the Colombians, it will present a stronger front. We can ensure a lower price, better terms, and faster and safer shipment. Three is better than one. Reconsider, Kirill.” Dmitry’s voice jerked me awake.
Something was eating away at me, but I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Dmitry and I were alike in so many ways. Besides his black hair and brown eyes, even our physical appearance was similar—he was just as tall and large as me. We always saw eye to eye on business. But here, in New York, there was a change. Imperceptible, hidden, but Ifeltit.
The room fell silent after his proposition. Both Polina and Yuri knew it was out of the question. They never, not once, had spoken to me about changing how I did business, but Dmitry…had become bold.
“Does the current arrangement not satisfy you?” My voice was ice, my fist ready to swing at his jaw, but as I said, I was fucking losing control of my own emotions.
He closed his eyes and shook his head in submission. That’s what I fucking thought. “No, I just–”
“We have the price we want—even lower than what we hoped for. Terms are favorable. Shipment is secure. What more do you feel you can add to the discussion?” I waited for an answer, but Dmitry remained silent, and everyone else waited. Vicious irritability brewed inside me from his proposition, but I turned to Yuri and motioned for him to start with his update.
Yuri droned on about the security details for the trip and our upcoming charity gala, adding in a personal tidbit at the end. “Lastly, your request from last week? It’s done.” I lifted my eyes to him and caught his knowing glance. Ari. Perfect.
Yuri exited, leaving us three alone. The tension stretched between us, and I fucking hated that. But then, Dmitry decided to raise the stakes. “Kirill, have you thought about moving The Skhodka?”
Again, this discussion about the fucking meeting—Jesus Christ, I was about to pop a vein in my forehead!
I was out of sorts.
I needed to seeher. Needed to look into her eyes, to see her smile, to drown in her energy, and then, as if God himself arranged it, my phone buzzed in my pocket with a text.
An electric fucking current ran through me.From a fucking text notification.It was her; I didn’t even have to look. I knew.
Mia:K? May I have my clients back please?:)
This was what I needed. I just needed something from her. Hatching a plan in my mind, I dismissed Dmitry’s concerns while I typed. “No. We’re not moving the location.”
