Page 58 of Boardroom Ties
“You told the kid,” I say evenly, “that he had no business in the room.”
“That’s right!” Raymond smacks the table again. The two other partners at our table, Bill Oglethorpe and a withered old fossil named Zimmerman, laugh on cue. “That’s exactly right. No business. None.”
I sip my soda water. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all night. I need to be at my sharpest for what’s to come.
Across the table, Cass is laughing politely at something Bill’s wife Susan is saying. The laugh is a little too bright to be real, though. She’s performing every bit as much as I am.
She looks like a fucking vision. She’s wearing a black silk dress with long sleeves to the wrist and a high neck. The bruise is gone from her cheek and the stitches have healed to a thin pink line you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
Afon’s voice echoes in my head:She is a door we walk through.That’s all I can afford for her to be.
The roles for tonight’s performance are clearcut. I am the protégé, the rising star, the well-dressed Russian with the killer billable hours and the deferential laugh. I am the man Raymond likes to point at when he wants to brag about his eye for talent.
Cass is the wife. Pretty, quiet, and above all, decorative. She is there to be seen, not heard—and she knows it.
We’ve made eye contact a grand total of three times all night.
The first was when I came in and Raymond waved me over to the table. I shook her hand like a stranger, addressed her asMrs. Snyder, and she called meMr. Satyrinback. Her fingers were like ice.
The second was when the soup came. A server reached between us and she had to lean back. As she did, her eyes found mine for half a second, no more. And then they were gone.
The third was during Zimmerman’s toast, when Raymond wasn’t looking. She met my gaze over the rim of her glass and held it for one beat, two, three. I gave her the smallest nod I could manage. Her throat moved. Then she looked away.
That was twenty minutes ago. Now, the salads are gone and the waiters are clearing for the entrée. Raymond’s bourbon is going down faster than the food. Everything is proceeding according to plan.
“Cassandra.” Raymond snaps his fingers in her direction without looking at her. “Eat your bread.”
“I’m not hungry, honey.”
“Well, eat something, for fuck’s sake. You look like a coat hanger in that dress.”
My hand tightens around my glass. I force myself to ease it, finger by finger.
After tonight,I tell myself,no one will ever say things like that to her again.
The plan is simple. Raymond will drink himself into a bourbon coma, like he does at every one of these events. At some point, he’ll stumble to the bathroom. I’ll wait a beat before I follow him. In there, I’ll do what I came to do.
And a man who deserves to die will meet his grisly end at my hands.
“Satyrin.” Raymond elbows me roughly. “You’re awful quiet tonight.”
“I’m listening and learning, sir,” I say in a cool voice that I know will please his ego.
Sure enough, he nods with satisfaction. He turns to Zimmerman. “You know what this kid did last month? Made Greg Gordon cry.Cry.In a fuckin’ deposition. Real tears, on the record. I almost framed the transcript.”
“He’s a peach,” Zimmerman agrees, not really listening.
“He’s better than that. He’s the future of this damn firm.” Raymond reaches over and grabs the back of my neck with his bourbon-warm hand and shakes me. “This kid is going places. Mark my words.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Cassandra, are you listening? Don’t be rude. Matvei is the future of the firm.”
“That’s wonderful,” Cass says to her plate.
“Look at him when you say it, Cassandra. Jesus.”
She lifts her face and gives me her hostess smile. “That’s wonderful, Matvei. Congratulations.”
