Page 15 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)

negotiations

NICOLAI ROMANOV

My second mistake was getting drunk with Russians.

If my uncle had tried to steer my brother and me out of the club, I would have pressed the panic button on the side of my watch to alert my security detail, but he pushed us toward the round booth at the dark edge of the bar.

“Russians?” My voice was harsh in my throat. “I cannot invest in Russia. The Russian government will take the opportunity to seize our assets, and Putin will interpret it as a personal insult if not an attack. He’ll come after Kostya and me.”

With Konstantin right there, I didn’t want to say that Putin would kill us, probably brutally, to make an example of what happened to people he perceives as enemies or threats.

“It’s not an investment in Russia,” Michel assured us.

“We stay away from Russia.” In any case, going into negotiations blind was insane. “What is this deal you’ve set up, Michel?”

He muttered near my shoulder, “It’s just an initial meeting.”

“What are we talking about here? Construction? Real estate?”

“No. It’s a different kind of deal.”

Konstantin glanced at me as we threaded between the tables, the flare of his blue eyes giving away his dismay at being shepherded away.

I bent my neck to talk to Michel. “I am not getting mixed up with anything blatantly illegal.”

“Christ, Nico. It’s not illegal.”

His dismissive tone was insulting. “And yet all the hush-hush and clandestine meetings. I’m not dragging family money into anything disreputable, either.”

“Just listen to what they have to say.”

“Have you committed us?”

“There’s room to back out, probably.”

“Fuck, Michel. I’m not doing this, whatever it is.”

“Just come over and listen. I don’t want to force this deal.”

And my uncle could commit some of the family money without my consent if he convinced a few other family members to co-sign for authorization.

My father had never known me as an adult, so he didn’t know whether I’d turn out to be at least somewhat responsible or one of those hard-partying drunkards I attended school with when he’d signed the generational family trust nearly twenty years before.

At the dark corner booth, Michel presented us to three men with a flourish like he’d won us at a golf tournament. “Gentlemen, may I present Nicolai and Konstantin Romanov, my nephews.”

The men stood as much as the booth would allow and offered their hands for shaking. Formality around us was common, especially with Russians who yearned for the old stability.

I am nothing if not regally polite, so I reached across the table and shook their hands in turn. Konstantin followed my example as Michel continued the introductions. “These are Anisim Popov, Leonty Fedorov, and Demyan Volkov.”

Revulsion popped through my skin, and my handshake stuttered as I overrode an instinct to yank my hand away.

Demyan Volkov, the trim, silver-haired man with a mild gaze holding onto the other end of my arm, was as malign a criminal as had ever existed.

Since infighting had rotted the Solntsevskaya bratva from within a few years before, Volkov’s organization had risen into the power vacuum.

The Tambovskaya bratva now ruled the St. Petersburg area and was notorious for dismembering anyone who interfered with their business.

Volkov wore a slim-fitting dark suit and tie. His sharp expression was neutral, neither a smile in any fashion nor a snarl, as neutral as concrete.

His eye-flick appraisal of my clothes and mannerisms suggested he’d served in Russia’s intelligence services.

The other two men were known to be his associates and also subtle with their attention to everything about me and Konstantin.

The most surprising thing was that three high-level Russian gangsters had managed to pass through US immigration, but private flights were subjected to less scrutiny, and American officials were now notoriously amenable to bribery.

A few off-brand crypto coins here or there, and one could import or export almost anything.

It was becoming like the Soviet Union around here.

No matter what Michel had promised about the negotiations tonight, my family business would not become tangled up with the Tambovskaya organized crime group.

No deals could be closed without my signature, and I just would not sign anything. Staying out of it was that simple.

However, Volkov was not known for taking no for an answer.

Then again, neither was I. John Borbon told me I was arrogant as fuck at every opportunity, and I supposed I earned it.

If anyone could stand against a bratva mobster, a tsar could.

However, I didn’t want to piss off the Russian bratvas. Russia’s secret service assassins casually trying to end me whenever the opportunity presented itself were bad enough.

So, I would proceed with grace.

My usual smile lifted the corners of my mouth, and I thought pleasant but unapproachable thoughts. “Pleased to meet you.”

Demyan Volkov didn’t smile back. “It is good we’re meeting as men first.”

His Petersburger accent was faint but distinct, a reminder that he was Russian first but from the cultural center of St. Petersburg.

He signaled for more shot glasses, which were delivered so fast that the waiter must have been on ice skates.

Another waiter shoved three chairs over for my uncle, Konstantin, and me to sit on the outside edge of the table.

Volkov tipped a vodka bottle over the cluster of shot glasses in the middle of the table, pouring neat shots with a practiced hand.

He looked up at me over the tilted bottle. “You want vodka?”

“Of course. Let’s drink to your health.”

That boarding school of mine had taught us customs and manners of every country, but everyone knew never to turn down a Russian’s offer of vodka. It was rude and aroused suspicions.

Konstantin took his shot glass, raised it to toast, and threw back the shot.

I did the same. Top-shelf vodka burned tasteless chemical fire in my sinuses and throat with an aftertaste of paint thinner, and I gasped a little.

I wasn’t a vodka shots kind of guy. Scotch on the rocks was my drink, from the hellfire-smoke aroma to swirling the clinking cubes as they melted, diluting the whiskey and separating the flavors.

Volkov poured more shots, saying, “Your uncle Michel has been instrumental in arranging this deal. We drink to your health, Michel.”

He slammed back a second shot of premium vodka in as many minutes.

Konstantin held his shot glass out for a refill, as did I, because it was Russian-polite.

If I’d known Michel was going to spring Russians on us, I wouldn’t have drunk that bottle of wine over supper with John.

Or ordered those several whiskeys at the bar.

I wasn’t proud of the fact that my knees already felt fluid. Konstantin was probably in better shape as he was in college and still training his constitution, but I often went days or longer between drinks. Doing business in the Middle East made one’s liver lazy.

We held out our shot glasses as Volkov spoke. “And it is good to meet both of you, Tsesarevich Nicolai and velikiy knjaz Konstantin.”

Beside me, Kostya choked but turned it into a cough. He knew exactly why we didn’t claim or even tolerate those titles.

I took over, because no, that was not proper. No one should call us the tsar’s successor and a Russian grand prince in any company, but especially among other Russians. “While we appreciate your courtesy, we don’t use those titles, ever. Our family rightfully abdicated. We renounced them.”

Volkov shrugged and threw back his shot, which was not a retraction.

We did the same.

Damn it, Michel had set up a meeting with Russian legitimists, of all people. Was he trying to get us shot? I’d have to check my cologne for Novichok for the next few weeks.

Fuck, I was starting to feel the alcohol, and the several shots of vodka in my stomach were only beginning to filter into my blood, already flammable from my earlier imbibing.

Volkov poured more shots, his aim only slightly less accurate than before. “It’s an honor to meet the scions of the imperial Russian family.”

That term was marginally less likely to get us shoved out a window.

I would have avoided mentioning it if given the option.

But I was never given the option.

Instead, I said, “Yes, thank you for your kind greetings. It’s an honor to meet you, a noble businessman, Demyan Volkov.”

Konstantin echoed what I’d said but stammered a little, thrown off his game after being greeted as the Grand Prince of Russia.

We drank again.

Kostya’s fumble was funny, though I didn’t allow a shred of amusement to show on my face. Hell, I was pretty sure Konstantin hadn’t told his friends at college that he was second in line for the throne of the Tsars of Russia, after me.

If we were ever restored.

And if the Empire were inherited through male primogeniture, father to son to son.

Otherwise, there were other claimants, ones descended through matrilineal lines or an unbroken line of non-morganatic marriages.

And to be fair, royals like us didn’t really care about who would inherit the actual title because there was no money or property associated with it, only a target on your back. The amount of blue blood in one’s veins meant more than ownership of an extinct title.

I tapped my shot glass a little harder as I set it on the table, signaling the glass should stay down and not be filled again. Four shots in less than fifteen minutes were enough. “It is good to meet you and your associates, Anisim Popov and Leonty Fedorov.”

Everyone nodded, a sign that this was casual.

All right, back to the plan.

My first priority was immediately shutting down this deal, whatever it was. “I’m not sure what my uncle has told you, but our assets are quite tied up right now.”

Demyan glanced at Michel and back at me as he set down the vodka bottle. “We are planning to front an investment in your portfolio as part of the deal.”