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“Kata,” Mila mumbles into the phone and lets out a yawn, no doubt sleeping off the booze that she must’ve ingested the night before.
She doesn’t sound like the chipper psychotherapist, more like the hungover party girl that she truly is.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I ask, glancing at the clock that says three in the afternoon. “It’s late even by my standards.”
“I had my patients in the morning,” she replies, her voice thick with sleep. “I finished two hours ago.”
I smile at her ability to keep doing her job well while going clubbing with me night after night. Since she first stepped into my life, Mila has been a savior in my direst moments—someone from whom I know I can get the best advice and who will listen to me intently without interruption.
“Would you mind talking with a friend?” I ask quietly.
“Sure,” she replies, finally sounding half-awake. “Is this going to be a session where you complain about Nikolai?” Mila asks with a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Only half of it,” I reply. “The other half will be about my brother.”
She releases a groan from the other side of the line.
“Fighting, huh? I assume you’ll need alcohol,” she says. “Do you want to come to my house, or are we going out?”
“Considering that I just got a call from Mr. Jackson himself asking me to sign a band, I think we can do two birds with one stone,” I blurt out.
“Solanum then,” she says, cutting me off. I wasn’t even halfway through with my explanation, and Mila already had the whole picture in her head. “And congratulations. I know what it means to you to get a direct assignment from your boss.”
I let out a grateful sigh. “Thanks, and yes, they’ll be at Solanum,” I reply. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Hanging up, I let my hand with the phone slump down by my side.
If only my life wasn’t dictated by powerful men, I’m sure I would enjoy it a whole lot more.
SEVEN
NIKOLAI
Blood is pooled underneath our feet.
While Ivan and I were on the helicopter that took us to the heart of the attack site, another one of my locations was bombed.
The April breeze is still cold enough to cut through our clothes, no matter how many layers we wear. Even though my insulated winter coat is doing its job, the cruel Siberian air still snakes through the smallest of cracks.
The oil rig workers turn their backs to the howling wind. I, too, am trying to keep out of its brunt. The crew inspecting the damages glance at me, some bowing their heads in reverence and some glaring at me with murder in their eyes.
I let my gaze scan the worker. My eyes take them all in, secretly wondering who’s the culprit. There must be a mole. Someone from the inside who wanted to earn a few extra bucks.
“How’s the crew?” I ask in a bored tone.
The foreman, a Russian who looks like he’s close to fifty, responds with a nervous twitch, yet stands his ground, straightening his back to accommodate my height.
“We’re perfectly fine, nachal’nik. I was the first one on the site when the explosion happened. It was a lucky chance that there weren’t deaths. We’re trying our best to contain the damage. More men are on their way.”
I say nothing as I let him finish. As if on cue, Ivan turns on his smartphone’s screen and presents a list of names and a short evaluation of my employee’s response.
I nod curtly.
The crew turns and goes to their respective tasks. Ivan motions for the driver to approach us. He does, holding an arm out and offering an umbrella to shield me from the strong winds.
“Close the umbrella,” I order the man. He obeys without question, and I gesture for him to take a step back. I don’t pay any attention to the freezing rain. Instead, I follow my instincts and approach my security men gathered in the oil refinery. They have captured two of the attackers, and the workers have gathered around, watching silently.
A sardonic smile spreads across my face. Even the most seasoned of them can’t hide their reaction at the sight of a cold, drenched Nikolai Volkov with zero remorse for the ones on the receiving end of my fury.
