Page 45 of Violent Possession
“What do you mean, ‘no’? We need to know what happened!”
“And we will,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “But not like this. He’s still suspicious. If we pressure him with an interrogation now, he might run. We need to solidify control first. Make him understand that there’s nowhere left to go.”
Ivan processes my words. He hates waiting, but he understands the forged strategy. “Right,” he concedes, reluctantly. “Right, it makes sense. First the collar, then the orders. And how do we do that?”
“The dinner. He needs to see us together and understand that his loyalty is now to the Malakov family, tous. After he accepts this new reality, Vania, he’ll give us everything we want.”
The idea of displaying power, of being the master of the situation, finally calms Ivan’s fury.
“Right. An initiation.” He pauses. “Are you already...protectingthe guy?”
“I’ve already taken care of it, yes.”
He manages a half-smile. “So the Volkovs will be able to see that we snatched an agent at a public dinner, and they won’t even be able to kill him without going through the hell of your security. I like that.”
It’s exactly like Ivan to pull a blatant provocation like that, and, if it were true, I would be immensely against it.
Good thing it’s not.
I stand up.
“Excellent,” I say. “Until then, Vania, keep your mouth shut. Not a word about this to Vasily. No rash actions. You just wait for my command. Understood?”
He stands up too. His earlier hesitation is now a familiar arrogance. “Understood,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “First the collar, then the orders.”
The irony that he is describing himself, and not Griffin, goes completely unnoticed by him.
It’sthree in the morning on a Thursday and the name “Seraphim” remains a ghost. The account Kirill gave me is real, but it leads to a series of mirror transactions that bouncebetween tax havens before disappearing. It’s the same dead end I found when tracing Vasily’s payments.
Kirill didn’t lie. And that is, somehow, evenmoreirritating.
Vasily doesn’t act alone. He has a professional to do his dirty work.
Sleep is a waste of time, but exhaustion is starting to dull my reasoning. On impulse, I open again the security feeds of Griffin’s apartment. A form of distraction.
Clothes on the floor, an empty bottle, and Griffin, lying face down, looking more dead than asleep. He definitely drank himself into oblivion.
I grab my secure cell phone and type a short message.
8 PM. Be ready. Formal attire. A car will pick you up.
In the bedroom camera, I see his cell phone, lying on the nightstand, vibrate and light up.
The movement wakes him. Fragile sleep. He grumbles, rolls over, and picks up the device.
I watch him read the message. I see the confusion on his face, then the contained anger when he understands the implicit order.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he gives the ceiling camera the middle finger with absolute certainty.
I smile.
He really is an indulgent distraction.
The maître d’approaches my table, his stiff posture barely hiding his intimidation. Behind him, the source of his discomfort, who looks at him as if he’s a second away from breaking his neck just for the audacity of trying to guide him. Griffin.
Griffin never goes unnoticed. The suit I sent him—dark charcoal, smooth, precise Italian cut—refuses to tame his overly broad shoulders, voluminous chest, forearms that threaten to burst every seam. A tailor might cry at the sight. He barely tolerates the white shirt underneath, leaving the collar open, the skin of his neck exposed where the beheading would begin. And there is the silver medallion, hanging like a bad luck totem, resisting formality, even brighter under the dining room chandelier.
He doesn’t fit here. And that’s exactly what makes him the center of attention.
