Page 11
“I’m all set,” Ariadna replies, coming to lean against the railing a few feet away. A cigarette already dangles from her slim fingers, mostly for show. “Got all the stimulant I need.” She tips it up in greeting.
Now I smile.
She looks exactly like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine—cream skirt, fitted navy blouse tucked neatly at the waist, sunglasses resting in perfectly styled dark hair. Every detail is effortless.
Which means every detail took effort.
Most people see a socialite. I see the woman responsible for knowing everyone’s secrets before they become problems. She’s the head of my intelligence unit, an impressive feat considering she’s only thirty-two. Her cousin is one of my top Avtoritets, leading the largest and most spread out brigade in the Adirondacks.
“What catastrophe requires stilettos?” I ask, chucking my chin at the little leather numbers.
“I wasn’t aware intelligence operations had a dress code.”
“They don’t. As long as you keep bringing me information.” I grind my teeth, wishing that I could’ve had just one day. But as the Pakhan, I don’t get to show exhaustion.
She steps closer, putting her cigarette out with a rub of her thumb, a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. Routine. Nothing about Ariadna’s expression or demeanor raises any concern.
Until another figure appears at the screen door.
Beaumont.
Everything inside me goes cold.
Late sixties, perfectly tailored charcoal suit despite the muggy morning. His white hair is combed back without a strand out of place. I can recall seeing him decades ago in my father’s study, and when I took over, I inherited him.
He should be in Manhattan, not standing on my porch already patting a sheen of sweat from his forehead.
Lawyers never travel three hundred miles to deliver good news.
I set my cup on the table at my side. At first neither of them speaks, which tells me everything I need to know. Whatever they’re here for is far from good.
“What happened?”
Beaumont removes his glasses, polishing them with unnecessary precision.
“Mikhail was arrested at six-thirty this morning.”
“Mikhail?” I repeat, as though there might be another one. “Osipov. My accountant.” They don’t nod, but don’t correct me. “The FBI?”
“No.” Beaumont meets my eyes. “Financial Crimes.”
Somehow that’s worse. With a sigh, I let my head drop sideways, rubbing at my temple. How is a headache already setting in? I ate breakfast and barely had a sip of my cappuccino. When I reach for it blindly, the coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup. I don’t even feel the heat; I’m too focused on the issue at hand.
Mikhail is my accountant, my Obshchak. He controls all the financial aspects of my business, both legitimate and otherwise.
Which is why his arrest is a problem.
Mikhail has personally overseen every transaction for nearly fifteen years. He’s not just another accountant; he’s the accountant. The only man who understands exactly how every legitimate business connects to every illegitimate one without either collapsing into the other.
If someone starts pulling on those threads…
I don’t finish the thought.
“What are the charges?”
“Invoicing fraud. Conspiracy. Falsifying business records.” Beaumont pauses just long enough for me to know the next sentence matters. “Those are the initial charges.”
Initial. Meaning they expect more.
