Page 54 of The King's Pawn
His father had done the same thing plenty of times before his untimely demise.
Artyom Malyshko used to look at me the same way when I was younger. Back when I was still proving myself, when mistakes were tolerated only if they hurt enough to be educational. That same steady, invasive stare that seemed to peel you open, strip away pretense, and catalogue every flaw you thought you had hidden had unnerved me then, too. Though I would never have admitted it out loud, then or now.
Nikolai inherited that look, perhaps even refined it.
I keep my face carefully composed, the mask settling easily into place. Years of practice ensure nothing leaks through. No irritation at being iced out, no concern about Alina being dragged into this mess, no resentment at being summoned like a subordinate instead of an equal.
My posture remains relaxed, both hands still folded on the table in front of me as if this is just another routine meeting instead of a quiet ambush.
Inside, however, I am already cataloging.
Nikolai’s fingers lace together on the table.
“Let’s talk about Moscow,” he says calmly. The words themselves are innocuous, administrative, almost bland in nature. It’s the kind of phrase a bureaucrat might use before droning on about zoning laws or infrastructure budgets.
But beneath them lies an unspoken accusation.Your grip on your territory is slipping.
I give a single, measured nod in response and nothing more. There is no value in defending myself preemptively beforeI know which version of this conversation Nikolai intends to pursue. Any explanation offered too early will only be repurposed and sharpened into something damning later.
I have learned that lesson the hard way, unfortunately.
There is, in theory, a rare chance this meeting ends with something resembling collaboration. A hand extended across the table, not out of goodwill but in necessity. The bombings have unsettled the city. Chaos, even controlled chaos, threatens profit margins and destabilizes districts that rely on predictability to function.
If Moscow grows too erratic to function, it draws attention none of us want. FSB pressure. Political interference. Scrutiny from other countries.
In that scenario, Nikolai would frame this as a collective problem.Ourcity,ourresponsibility. He would speak of unity and efficiency, of tightening patrols and redistributing resources until the people behind the bombings were found and dealt with accordingly. He would offer support, not because he cares about my districts in particular, but because disorder is contagious and he cannot afford it spreading beyond my borders.
Favors in our world are never free. They are loans with interest that compound quietly until you wake up suffocating beneath the weight of them.
However, there is the other possibility, and the far more likely one that will happen instead.
I will be put on trial.
Not formally, of course. None of us are the type to raise our voices or put on any theatrics for the sake of making a point.Instead, there will be questions asked that I will have no choice but to answer truthfully. Statements framed as observations while curiosities are voiced under the guise of concern. Each of them will take turns circling, probing for weakness, looking for fractures they can pry open and exploit.
Volkov will needle. Kuznetsov will scrutinize. Nikolai will watch and decide.
They will not ask whether I have lost control. They will tell me I have and wait to see if I deny it. Whatever direction this goes, I know one thing with absolute certainty. This conversation was never about Moscow.
Moscow is just the excuse.
“These bombings are becoming a serious concern. The FSB has been running circles around themselves trying to track down whatever they can about both incidents,” Nikolai says evenly.
His tone is conversational, almost indulgent, as though he’s recounting a mildly amusing inconvenience rather than a pair of explosions that has rattled half the city and lit up international headlines.
I nod along as he speaks, outwardly attentive while inwardly calculating.
I can’t tell yet whether this is a genuine recap meant to align us all on the same page or a carefully framed indictment meant to be laid at my feet. Nikolai has always favored the slow build. He likes to let silence and ambiguity do the work for him, to make his target squirm long before the blade ever comes out.
I fight the urge to tap my fingers against the table.
It’s a nervous habit I’ve never fully managed to eradicate—an echo from childhood, from long hours standing beside my father while men twice my size argued over territory and occupation. He used to snap at me for it, bark sharp words until I stilled my hands through sheer force of will.
Still, it surfaces when the pressure mounts.
Nikolai has noticed it before. More than once. He’s never called it out directly, never embarrassed me with it in front of the others, but he has a way of letting his gaze linger on my hands just long enough for me to feel exposed. Just long enough to remind me that he sees everything.
So instead, I press my tongue against the back of my teeth, grounding myself in the small discomfort, and speak before the silence grows too heavy.
