Page 92 of The Beast of Moscow

Who blessed him with that control?

“I’m not the kind of man who meets for brunch,” Vaslav said then.

A throat cleared, and seconds ticked by.

“Not lunch or dinner, either?”

“Not particularly, but there’s a fruit basket on the table. I’ll even find you a knife, yes?”

“I do like to eat when I talk business,” the unfamiliar man murmured. “Keeps the hands busy and on the table, you see?”

“I’ll stand, you can eat, and we’ll both see hands while we chat. Deal?”

“One might think your need to acquire my cocaine would mean you would bend over backward to ensure a good business partnership,” Mario noted.

“Take my money, or don’t,” Vaslav uttered low. “That’s what you fucking get from me. Very little else.”

No wonder Vaslav hadn’t been concerned about business earlier. Vera was acutely aware of the fact she shouldn’t be sitting there eavesdropping on a conversation that was clearly meant to be private. It reminded her of being little and sneaking down the stairs of her childhood home to listen to the hissed conversations between the men who answered to her father.

The walls had ears.

“Your man is staying outside?” Vaslav asked.

“I am willing to play by your rules, Mr. Pashkov.”

Again, silence took over the dimly lit apartment, growing stronger in heaviness by the time it reached Vera sitting on the step. She wondered if the Italian man had called Vaslav that and waited as long as he did to see if the Russian would offer him the same respect he had handed over earlier.

Nothing hard. Just his name. Like a friend might do.

Once more, the Italian cleared his throat.

Vaslav simply said, “The dining table, then?”

Even Vera could feel the tone of the meeting change between the two men. Unspoken, but thick and cold in the air.

There are no friends here.

*

A woman with any sense would have turned her ass around and took herself straight back to bed once she realized she was overhearing the private details of a long-term business transaction between two high-ranking criminals, but apparently Vera was not very smart after all. Because she never moved farther than the top of the stairwell. Even as her bladder continued to scream for relief, she curled herself into a ball, using the pressure of her arms around her stomach to hold in her pee so that she didn’t have to move.

She knew she shouldn’t hear.

She also shouldn’t interrupt.

That could be worse.

Vera opted for the less dangerous option and ended up creeping to the top of the stairs where she sat in silence while the men talked in the dining are of the large kitchen. While she couldn’t hear everything, she heard enough, and could piece together the rest without much trouble or effort.

Vas needed cocaine.

Mario produced and exported it. With a worldwide ring of smugglers at his fingertips ready to do his bidding. It was all very ... boring. Shockingly so. From preparation, to packaging and packing, and how it would be hidden when it was smuggled into Russia as close to Moscow as possible. Someone even got a pencil and paper out to sketch some numbers. Right down to dimes and cents, because American currency was the only one the two men could settle on for a mutual method of payment.

All cash.

Millions delivered monthly.

Math made Vera want to gag.