Page 92 of Cruel Demands

Viktoriya is pretending not to look at me. Dima is not pretending nearly as well, and suddenly Mikhail’s last question comes back to me.

Do you think he’ll still want to take you out after work?

I almost laugh. Dima doesn’t want me. Mikhail knows Dima doesn’t want me.

That might be the most insane part. This was never about Dima. It was about Mikhail seeing another man’s hands on me and finding that he couldn’t stand it. And so he had to punish me and mark me like a piece of undiscovered land.

And beneath the anger and humiliation and every sensible instinct telling me to run as far from this man as I can, some ugly little part of me feels warm at the thought. Chosen, even.

Inside his office, Mikhail laughs quietly at something the minister says. My eyes snap toward the glass.

I hate him. And if that door opened right now and he told me to come back inside, I’m not entirely sure I would say no.

20

TAYLOR

Three days later, at five thirty, the office is mostly empty. Viktoriya leaves first, wrapped in a camel-colored coat with Dima trailing after her, offering to carry her bags while both of them insist they don’t have plans after work. I make a mental note to grill her about that later. By six, the office has emptied itself of everyone with reasonable boundaries. The assistants disappear. The phones stop ringing. Printers stop printing. The office settles into silence.

By eight thirty, I’m still here. This is partly because Viktoriya trusted me with cross-checking the sponsor and vendor records for the Governor’s Winter Education Benefit before morning and partly because my mother sounded strained when we spoke earlier, and I’ve been thinking again about whether I can afford to send home more money. That thought has become considerably less private since Mikhail informed me, three days ago and in the middle of an argument, that he knows exactly what I do with my bank account. I glance toward the darkened glass of his office and feel my face heat despite myself.

Mostly, though, I’m still here because going back to the apartment means turning Anya down about Petyr again. I don’t care if he is a “nice guy.” I don’t care if she thinks I’m being unfair. I don’t particularly want to sit in my kitchen while he pretends that the way he behaved at the bar was concern instead of some bizarre claim of ownership over a woman he barely knows. The irony of this thought is not lost on me. I stare at Mikhail’s office. No. Absolutely not. Those are different things. I return to the spreadsheet.

His office door has been closed for nearly an hour. Light glows faintly beneath it, and every so often I hear the low movement of his voice. He’s on the phone, speaking too quietly for me to understand more than the occasional change in tone. I try not to listen. This is difficult because Mikhail does not speak on the phone like a politician. Politicians perform even when no one is watching. They soften statements, repeat names, manufacture intimacy. Every phone call is another small stage. Mikhail gives orders. Sometimes he argues, but even then, he never sounds as though the outcome is uncertain.

I glance at the clock again. Eight thirty-seven. My eyes drift toward the dark glass. This job doesn’t make sense, and I’ve been trying not to think about that. Three days ago, I might have convinced myself I was being dramatic. He’s the governor of Moscow Oblast. Of course he has money. Of course he has security. Of course powerful men know other powerful men. Then he told me I had sent my parents two hundred dollars three weeks ago. Now I’m less inclined to explain things away.

If I had met Mikhail only here, I might believe he was exactly what his public biography says he is. The governor of Moscow Oblast from a well-connected family. Wealthy, certainly. Influential enough that no one would question a few luxuries.

But I didn’t meet him here. I met him at a bar and went home with him, and his home is not a few luxuries. The property alone must be worth more than he could earn in several lifetimes of government work. Then there are the cars, the staff, the guards, and the men stationed around him who do not behave like ordinary political security.

Having protection is one thing. Mikhail has men who scan people for disobedience. When people talk to him, they lower their voices. Men twice his age wait for permission to sit down. Sure, I could argue it’s respect. Except that it’s not. Fear is difficult to fake.

A drawer closes somewhere inside his office, and I look down quickly and return to the records. Most of the paperwork is painfully legitimate. Catering estimates. Floral invoices. Transportation vendors. Sponsorship confirmations. Security clearances. Temporary permits. Donations designated for teacher-retention bonuses and emergency school repairs. I check one registration number against the internal vendor list, mark it verified, and move to the next.

The next company is a freight contractor.

Orlov Transport.

My fingers stop over the keyboard. I stare at the name. I’ve heard it before. Not in a meeting. Through Mikhail’s office wall. Three days ago, I was passing with paperwork for Viktoriya when I heard him say the name Orlov in a voice that made me walk a little faster. At the time, I assumed it was a person. Apparently it is also a company.

I search the registration number. The company is real. Large. Freight, storage, commercial transport throughout Moscow Oblast and several neighboring regions. Nothing illegal about that. Nothing particularly interesting about that either, except that the company is listed here as providing temporary transportation support for the benefit despite another contractor already being assigned to the event.

I frown and compare the paperwork. Maybe it’s a backup vendor. I flip to the next page and stop. A sheet has been tucked between the vendor summary and the insurance certificate. It doesn’t belong there. The benefit documents are stamped, coded, numbered, and annoyingly thorough. This page has none of that. There’s no letterhead. No departmental seal. Only a short list typed in Russian with several handwritten notes beside it.

LYUBERTSY — CLEARED

17B — CONFIRMED

O.T. — TRANSFERRED

SIX — PENDING

I read it twice. Lyubertsy. That’s a district. Seventeen-B could be a permit number. O.T. could mean Orlov Transport. Six what? Six invoices? Six vehicles? Six permits? I turn the page over. Blank.

My pulse begins beating a little harder. This is ridiculous. It’s probably someone’s logistics note. I pick it up anyway.

The office door opens behind me.