Page 25 of Kazimir

I nodded, not trusting my voice. We wandered past closed doors marked with placards—Finance, Records, Human Resources, IT. Every person we passed nodded or smiled. Some said hello. No one looked at me like I didn’t belong, which was maybe the weirdest part.

The kitchen had a real espresso machine. Nikolay asked if I wanted a coffee. I said yes, mostly to fill the silence, and to watch him make it—slow, careful, hands deft on the levers and dials. He handed me a steaming cup, fingers brushing mine for a split second.

I took a sip, and for a moment, the world stopped. It was the best coffee I’d ever had. I blinked at the cup. “Did you drug this?”

He laughed, startled and genuine. “No drugs, Ms. Wade. Only the finest imported beans.”

I stared into the depths of my cup, trying to hide the warmth rising to my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not used to being… treated well.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He considered that, then nodded. “You will be. We take care of our own here.”

For a second, I almost believed him.

We returned to my desk, where I fiddled with the laptop, opening the spreadsheets and files preloaded onto the desktop. I don’t know how I knew things, but most of it was basic stuff—expense reports, payroll, profit-and-loss summaries. I could read numbers fine. It all made sense in a way that was almost scary, like some muscle memory had survived my lost years.

Nikolay leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’ll meet my brother Bohdan, soon. He is the manager of Obsidian. If you have questions, ask him or me. Or my father. He is always available for his employees.” He paused, voice gentler. “He is a good man, Ms. Wade. Even if he doesn’t always show it.”

The mention of Kazimir sent a small shock through me, like someone had thrown ice water down my spine. I’d been so focused on not screwing up that I’d forgotten the reason I was here. I wondered if he was in the building, watching, waiting for me to settle in.

“Will I see him?” I asked. Even as I asked the question, I knew I could feel him here. I don’t know how or why, but it was like his presence was pulling me to him.

“Soon,” Nikolay said. “He is eager to welcome you personally. Perhaps even tonight, if his meetings end early.”

I swallowed, suddenly parched despite the coffee. “Okay.”

He straightened and smoothed the front of his suit. “Until then, take your time. There are emails with instructions on some things you might want to work on today. There is nothing urgent.” He left, the door shutting behind him with a whisper.

I tried to focus on the screen, but my eyes kept drifting to the window, the city below. I could see the Schuylkill River, the blue ribbon of I-76, the lights of Center City starting to come on as dusk crept closer. All those people in all those buildings, and here I was, on the inside for once, not the outsider looking in.

The late afternoon turned into night. I skimmed reports, memorized codes, and even practiced my digital signature. At half-past six, as the sun slipped below the rooftops, there was a knock at my door.

Amaya. She had changed into a beautiful and sexy pale green gown with a slit up the leg that reached almost to her hip. Her dark hair was loose and curled around her face. I don’t know if I’d ever get used to the beauty of the people here.

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s time.”

My mouth went dry. I smoothed my jacket, checked my teeth for lipstick in the reflection of my laptop screen, and followed her down the hallway.

We took the elevator up one floor, then walked toward an intricately carved door. Amaya knocked once, then stepped aside.

“Enter,” came the voice from within. It was unmistakable—deep, a little gravelly, like a confession made over whiskey.

I hesitated at the threshold, caught between two worlds. Then I stepped inside, into the lion’s den.

The door swung shut with a click. The room was cathedral-high, lined with shelves of glass and obsidian, every surface polished until it looked wet. A large window wall looked down on the main floor of the club. Behind a massive desk, Kazimir sat, elbows planted, hands steepled as if he’d been expecting me for hours. He wore a black suit with a shirt just a shade lighter, no tie, the collar open at the throat. Against all the darkness, his face was pale as a death mask, those arctic-blue eyes the only color.

I stopped just inside the rug’s border, not sure if I was supposed to approach or kneel or what. The air was different here; thicker. I could feel the blood moving behind my ears.

“Sit,” he said, voice soft as suede.

There were two chairs in front of the desk, both upholstered in crimson. I took the right one, perching on the edge like I might need to bolt. Kazimir didn’t move, but his gaze flicked up and down, clocking my new clothes, the makeup, the shoes. A tiny nod—approval, maybe. Or just taking inventory.

“You’re wondering why you’re here,” he said. Not a question.

“Yeah, I am,” I said. My voice sounded high, the way it always did when I was trying not to sound scared.

He pressed his hands together, index fingers at his lips. “You came into my club last night,” he said, “and you left an impression. That’s rare.”

I waited, unsure whether I was supposed to thank him or apologize.