Page 42

Seven minutes. Six.

His companion returns, sliding into the booth gracefully. She says something that makes him laugh, his irritation forgotten. His hand returns to her thigh, possessive.

Four minutes. Three.

I signal the waiter for the check, preparing my exit. Timing is everything now. If Novikov doesn’t move soon, I’ll need to create a reason for him to visit the restroom.

Two minutes. One.

Novikov stands abruptly, murmuring something to his companion. He moves toward the back of the lounge, toward the restrooms. Alone.

Fucking perfect.

I wait until he disappears from view, then send a text to Vasya:Now.

Thirty seconds later, I follow Novikov’s path to the men’s room. I hear the sink running as I push the door open. He stands at the counter, washing his hands, his back to me.

I count silently.

Three.

Two.

One.

The lights cut out. Darkness swallows the room.

“Chert voz’mi,” Novikov curses.

I move before his eyes can adjust to the darkness, crossing the distance between us in two strides. My hand finds his throat, pushing him against the wall with enough force to startle but not injure.

His eyes bulge as recognition dawns. “Tarasov,” he chokes out.

“You fucking thief,” I keep my voice low, controlled. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

He struggles against my grip, face flushing. “Poshel na khuy,” he spits. “What the fuck did you expect after you walked out on my daughter at your wedding?”

“And what the fuck did you expect for stealing my business?” I push harder against his throat, punctuating my words.

Fear flickers across his face, quickly masked by defiance. “What… do you want?” he forces out, the question strained through my grip on his throat.

“Cancel the contracts with Whitmore.”

“Fuck you!” he snaps, spittle misting my face. I twist my grasp, knuckles pressing into his carotid artery. His eyes start to roll back before I ease up a little.

“I can do this all day,” I growl.

“Alright, alright,” he wheezes, hands raised in surrender. “Just let me go and let’s talk, okay?”

I release him, stepping back just enough to maintain control of the situation. A mistake.

His fear vanishes, replaced by something worse— confidence. He moves with surprising speed for a man his age, one hand reaching inside his jacket. Metal glints in the dim emergency lighting as he pulls a gun, pressing it against my ribs.

“Not so tough now, are you?” he hisses, forcing me back against the wall. His breath reeks of expensive whiskey and cheap triumph. “You think I came unprepared? You think I haven’t been waiting for you to make your move?”

I keep my expression neutral, calculating angles, distances, risks. The gun presses harder into my side.

“I know about your freak son, Tarasov.” His voice drops lower, vicious with satisfaction. “And if you don’t want me to air your dirty laundry, you’ll leave me alone and let me continue my business.”