Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)
Ivan: Chapter 21

‘Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.

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After I meet with Alya at the Gazeta offices, I’ve got some time to kill. I booked tickets on the afternoon train back to St. Petersburg, leaving at 4:00 p.m.

I spend some of that time fighting with Ivan, who wants me to hide out here while he slugs it out with Remizov. Obviously, that’s not happening. We agreed to work together on this little project—I’m not going to be a glorified UPS delivery guy.

It’s sweet that Ivan’s worried about me.

But I don’t want him to be worried about me. I want him to trust me.

Which is what makes it so extraordinarily irritating when I see three men watching me on the train.

It’s hard for thugs and mercenaries to blend in. How often do you see two or three men together who are all over six feet tall, bursting out of their jackets, and sporting military-style haircuts?

They can sit apart from each other on the train, they can try to act casual. One of them is even pretending to read a Russian magazine. But even there, he hasn’t got the rhythm quite right. He’s turning the pages too regularly, not skipping the boring articles and spending a long time on the stuff that interests him.

And, invariably, they keep glancing in my direction. Not often, and not all at the same time. But with enough regularity that I know they’re watching me.

At first, I think that Ivan must have sent them to keep tabs on me on the way home.

But I’ve seen enough of his men to have a pretty good idea what they look like. They’re all Russian by birth, and since most of them are related to Ivan in one way or another, there’s a certain family resemblance.

These three aren’t brothers or cousins. At least one of them looks Armenian, the other Polish or Ukrainian. The third one, the biggest of the lot, just looks plain mean. He might have been good-looking once upon a time, in a college football-player kind of way. But now his face is set in the sort of cruel, calloused lines that show that this guy has done some shit in the years between twenty and thirty-eight. No one wanted to sit in the seats directly around him. Which gives him a clear view right over to me.

I could get up, pretend to go to the toilets and try to switch cars, but I don’t want to isolate myself off by the bathrooms or between cars. For the moment I’m safest right here, amongst the muddle of businesspeople and students and tourists. All these witnesses.

I’m assuming these goons plan to grab me when we get off at St. Petersburg.

The train makes several stops before the Moskovskiy station. The closest to St. Petersburg is at Tosno. If I wanted to be really tricky, I’d get off sooner—I know the men will be more vigilant the closer we get to our destination. But I don’t want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere.

I try not to look at the three men at all. I make conversation with my seatmate, a woman on her way to visit her sister in St. Petersburg. And I only allow myself to watch the soldiers out of my peripheral view, when I pretend to stretch or glance out the opposite window.

At each stop along our route, I seem to pay no attention as the doors open to allow passengers off and on to the train. But I’m timing the seconds between the warning chimes, and the moment when the doors seal themselves, so the train can take off down the track at 155 miles per hour.

The Tosno station is small. When the doors crack open, only two people from my car get off, and only one old woman gets on. She’s carrying an old shopping bag full of books and snacks for the short journey remaining to St. Petersburg.

I wait and wait, pretending to read on my phone, not even glancing up at the doors. The warning bells chime. I stay in my seat as the agonizing seconds tick by.

Right then, the handle of the old woman’s shopping bag snaps. Two oranges tumble out of the bag, rolling down the aisle of the train.

I hear the doors chuff as they ready themselves to close.

The man closest to me, the mean-looking one, is distracted by the oranges.

I leap out of my seat and sprint for the doors.

They’re already starting to close.

I can hear the three goons behind me, jumping out of their seats, shoving past passengers to chase after me.

They won’t make it before the doors close. I’m barely going to make it.

I jump down the steps, the doors sealing themselves behind me, trapping the Armenian and the Ukrainian inside the train.

But the football player has that ungodly speed of a forty-yard rusher, despite his size. And he’s smarter than the other two. He didn’t chase after me to the same door—he ran to the back of the train. The back doors try to close but he’s turned himself sideways and wedged his chest and shoulders through.

The doors make an outraged warning sound. He pries them apart with his beefy arms and keeps forcing himself through the gap, like a grotesque version of birth.

I don’t wait around to see if he’s going to be successful.

I start running down the platform.

Here’s the part of my plan that isn’t very smart at all.

Moskovskiy station is large and busy—I might have been able to lose myself in the crowd. And Ivan is waiting for me there.

Tosno station is deserted. The two passengers who disembarked have already disappeared. There isn’t an employee or a police officer to be seen. Even the tickets are sold from automatic machines.

I’m running down the open platform, my boots ringing against the cement. I can hear another set of footsteps behind me, much heavier and faster than my own.

I don’t even want to look back to see how close the linebacker is getting. I just race down the steps, out to the open parking lot behind the station.

And here’s where fate ceases to be my friend.

The platform was shoveled and salted, but the parking lot is full of snow. It’s thick and soft. My feet sink down into it. It’s like trying to run through sand, but much more slippery.

The linebacker is gaining on me. I can hear his hoarse breath, chugging closer and closer. I try to sprint faster, but I’m tiring out, I can’t get purchase. It’s like a nightmare where a monster is chasing me, and my legs are getting heavier and heavier.

There’s only two or three cars in the lot, no people around. Pointless to scream for help.

No time to get out my phone, to try to call Ivan.

The linebacker tackles me, and my head strikes the ground.

When I wake, I’m lying on a soft bed in a cool, dark room.

For a moment, I think that Ivan must have been waiting at the Tosno station. He dealt with the linebacker and brought me back to the monastery.

However, as soon as I sit up, that illusion is dispelled.

This is no monastery.

It’s a house, modern in the extreme.

I’m sitting on a platform bed, in a dim and highly luxurious room, decorated in shades of gray and blue. Several architectural prints hang on the walls, and a sleek chandelier dangles from the ceiling.

Yet I notice at once that this room has no windows, not a single one. The drapes hang across blank walls. Along with the digital panel on the wall that controls the light and temperature, I’m quite sure this room is rigged to record video and sound.

I’m in a cell again. Not as obvious as the ones in Ivan’s catacombs. But a cell nonetheless.

My head is throbbing, particularly the spot on the left temple, just above the hairline, where my skull struck the snowy ground.

I’m lucky the snow was so thick. If the parking lot had been bare cement, that idiotic goon might have brained me. When apparently his instructions were to bring me back here.

Raising my hand to gingerly touch the lump on my head, I feel a strange jingling on my wrist. I look at my arm and see that I’m wearing a diamond tennis bracelet.

Glancing down at my body, I discover that the simple slacks and blouse I wore to meet with Alya have been replaced with a ball gown. Deep burgundy in color, off the shoulder, with a sweetheart neckline and a slit up the thigh, cascading down into tiers of ruffles.

Someone has put a bracelet on my wrist, earrings in my ears, and shoes on my feet. They’ve re-dressed me, all the way down to my underwear.

What. The. Fuck.

I swing my legs off the side of the bed and stand up.

Doing so sends a spike of pain shooting through my skull. A wave of nausea washes over my body, making me sway so I almost have to sit down again. I’m unsteady on my feet, especially in these ridiculous shoes. I hate high heels with a passion. I agree with the feminist who said that men invented high heels so women couldn’t run away from them.

In point of fact, the dress and the shoes are hobbling me, and weighing me down. I’m tempted to strip them all off again. I’d rather be naked, like I was at Ivan’s house. That was more honest, as well as more practical.

But I’m quite sure that Remizov is watching me. And I’m not sure I want to start antagonizing him. At least, not yet.

I do intend to go find him, however.

He didn’t bring me here and dress me like this for no reason.

He wants to use me as some kind of bait or pawn against Ivan.

Well, if that’s his plan, we might as well get on with it.

Sure enough, when I stride over to the door and try to turn the handle, it swings open.

I make my way down the hallway, descending the stairs to the main level. There I find the linebacker waiting for me, along with the Armenian. They’re standing outside a set of double doors, like bouncers outside a nightclub.

The linebacker smirks at me. I’d like to smack him right in his smug face for this lump he gave me. His eyes are crawling over my body in the revealing dress. He better not have been the one who changed my clothes.

“Next time, run faster,” he grunts at me. He gives me a wicked grin, showing off his straight, white teeth.

“Next time, try not to dress like an extra in Die Hard so I don’t spot you five minutes out of Moscow,” I tell him.

His smile falls off his face and he narrows his eyes at me. His fist tightens. I know he wants to hit me just as much as I want to do the same to him.

But that’s not his orders. Not yet, at least.

So instead, he just glares at me while he cracks the door to the adjoining room.

I sweep past him, into the formal dining room.

There I find Remizov himself, sitting alone, eating his dinner.

He’s wearing a glossy navy dinner jacket and tie. His hair is combed back. Soft music is playing.

And yet, I can’t shake a feeling of deep revulsion as I approach the table.

There’s something extremely off-putting about Remizov. It extends from his person to his house. It’s all clean, elegant, orderly. But it’s also . . . blank. His house is like a hotel. Lacking any elements of personality or experience. And that’s how he is in person as well. Watching him cut his steak and take a bite is like watching an android. He chews and swallows, but he hardly seems to taste it.

He looks up at me. Holds out a thin, pale hand.

“Would you like to join me?” he says, in his soft voice.

I sit down opposite Remizov at the long, rectangular table.

There’s a plate of steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus in front of him. A covered platter in front of my own seat. Remizov is sipping from a glass of deep red wine—the exact color of my dress. My glass is empty.

“Go ahead,” Remizov says, nodding toward the platter.

I lift the lid, seeing the same well-arranged meal that Remizov is currently eating.

I’m not inclined to partake. I’ve poisoned too many people to accept a meal from a known enemy.

Remizov chuckles softly, guessing at the reason for my hesitation.

“You’re perfectly safe with me, Sloane,” he says. “While we wait for your lover to arrive.”

I don’t know what kind of weird Hannibal Lecter game he’s trying to play with me, but I always prefer to be blunt. Especially when I’m scared. And the idea of Ivan showing up here, walking right into Remizov’s trap, fucking terrifies me.

“What’s your beef with him?” I demand, forcing myself to look Remizov right in his stiff, expressionless face.

“I don’t have any ‘beef’ with Ivan Petrov,” Remizov says calmly. He blinks slowly with his strange, faded eyes. “I’m taking over St. Petersburg. I analyzed the major players in the city. I attacked those who were weakest first. Then I worked my way up the list. When it was Ivan’s turn, I targeted his weak points. Distracted him while I made alliances. Planned the final blow against him. But then you arrived to . . . complicate the situation.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” I say.

That was another favorite quote of my father’s.

Remizov frowns. He doesn’t like me impugning his planning abilities.

“Interesting that you position yourself as my enemy,” he says. “You and I have no conflict. Other than the matter of my flash drive.”

“And the fact that you blew up my apartment,” I say, “and tried to kill me.”

“Simply an attempt to retrieve my property,” he says. “Or neutralize it. Nothing personal.”

I laugh, remembering that I once said the same thing to Ivan.

Remizov doesn’t like that laugh either. He doesn’t understand the joke, and I can tell that when he doesn’t understand something, it angers him.

“You’re not a Petrov,” he says sharply. “I read your file from Zima’s computer. You’re an American. Your father was CIA.”

“What’s your point?”

“You have no loyalty to Ivan Petrov. You were hired to kill him, and you failed to complete the job. Why are you working with him now? Why didn’t you leave, after you lost your apartment?”

I shrug, not wanting to give Remizov any more information than he already has.

“I like St. Petersburg,” I say.

To stay on the conversational offensive, I add, “Why are you so determined to take over? You’re not Bratva either.”

“That’s right,” Remizov says. He takes another bite of his steak, chewing slowly, and washing it down with a swallow of wine. “I have no family. No clan. That’s a strength, not a weakness. My organization will be a true meritocracy. Not weighed down by tradition and birthright.”

He looks me over, in the revealing red dress.

It takes a lot to make me uncomfortable, but his cold, inhuman stare does it. He’s not like a normal man, inflamed by lust. He evaluates me the same way he probably evaluated the furniture for this house. With no attachment or emotion—just a consideration of whether or not it would fit his purposes.

“You Americans appreciate egalitarianism,” he says. “With the exception of the contract on Petrov, you’re good at your job. Ivan isn’t leaving this house tonight—he had his chance to fall in line, and he refused. But I extend the same offer to you that I did to him. Come work for me. I’m always in need of good help.”

Men are always offering to hire me. As if I’ve just been wandering around, pining for a good healthcare plan and a 401K. Usually it annoys me. But the only part of that paragraph I can seem to focus on is “Ivan isn’t leaving this house tonight.”

Remizov intends to kill him.

I can’t let that happen.

If Ivan comes here, it will be for my sake.

If he takes that risk for me, I can’t let him die.

“So,” Remizov says, putting down his fork. “Where is it? Where is the drive? I assume you took it to Moscow with you?”

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to stare at him with my mouth hanging open.

He doesn’t know what I was doing in Moscow.

He knows I went there. His men found me on the train back. But they missed my meeting first thing in the morning.

“Ivan has it,” I lie smoothly. “My trip to Moscow had nothing to do with the drive.”

Remizov stares at me, silently. Watching my face.

The tension stretches between us like a rubber band, longer and longer until one of us has to snap.

He who speaks first, loses.

It’s the oldest trick, and the hardest to withstand. The temptation to fill the silence is almost overwhelming. My father always told me to pinch the skin on the inside of my palm to relieve the anxiety, to help me stay quiet.

I pinch myself hard.

At last, Remizov says, “You know what’s on the drive?”

This is a ploy to check my honesty. He’s asking me a question to which he already knows the answer.

He knows we’ve decoded the drive. He wants to see if I’ll admit it.

“Yes,” I say. “I saw it.”

“Did you make copies?”

“No.”

Long, painful silence again.

“Don’t lie to me,” Remizov says softly. “There are no second chances with me.”

Well, I might as well swing for the fences then.

“Look,” I say, “I don’t care about a bunch of dirty little secrets. I stole the drive because I thought I could sell it. But if it’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth, I’m happy to give it back to you.”

I try to sound as reasonable as possible. But all the while that I’m speaking, I’m focusing on the steak knife to the right of my plate. It has a heavy wooden handle, a serrated blade, and a sharply pointed tip.

“If you don’t mind,” I say to Remizov, “I would like some of that wine after all.”

“Of course,” he says.

He lifts the dark-colored bottle, pours the thick red wine into my glass. While he’s doing so, I slip the knife off the table, into my lap.

Then I take the glass and raise it.

“What should we toast to?” I say.

“To new management,” Remizov says.

“To new management,” I agree.

With my right hand, I hold up my glass. With my left, I clutch the steak knife. As Remizov leans forward to clink his glass against mine, I swing the knife, intending to plunge it into the side of his throat.

Remizov catches my hand, his cold fingers closing around my wrist like a manacle.

He’s moved so fast that I can hardly understand what’s happened. I’ve dropped my wineglass. It tips over on the table, the dark liquid spreading across the bare wood. But Remizov hasn’t spilled a drop.

He gives a sharp twist to my wrist. My hand opens helplessly, the knife clattering down on the table next to the wine glass.

Remizov shoves me back down in my seat.

My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s on fire.

Remizov hardly even looks angry—just annoyed.

“Consider your offer of employment rescinded,” he says. “And don’t try that again.”

I’ve never seen someone move so fast.

I have a horrible feeling that after all that’s happened, I’ve still underestimated this man.

Remizov glances down at his watch. It’s a Vacheron Constantine. One of the simplest models, with no numbers or complications. Plain and utilitarian, if you can say that about a twenty thousand-dollar watch.

“Ivan said he would be here in an hour,” Remizov says. “Do you think he’s on his way?”

Ivan could stay home, I suppose. Wait for Remizov to send him another horrific package to his gate. He’ll know this is a trap as well as I do. Staying home would be the smart thing to do.

Yet I’m sure that he’ll come for me.

I have no reason to believe it.

It defies all sense and reason.

But I know he will.

“He’ll come,” I tell Remizov.

“I hope, for your sake, that he does,” Remizov says.

There’s a knock on the door.

The linebacker pokes his head inside.

His face is all politeness when he addresses Remizov—no trace of his hateful smirk.

“He’s here,” he says.

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