ANTON
“Have the catering staff arrived?”
Lev eyes me knowingly. “Is that really your question?”
I grimace. He’s on one tonight. “Answer it, motherfucker.”
He chuckles. “Yes, Don Stepanov, the catering staff—none of whose identities matter at all in any way to anyone, especially not the sous chef’s and especially not to you—just pulled up outside the staff’s quarters. They’re making their way up to the kitchen on the seventeenth floor as we speak.”
Lev and I are sitting in a private drawing room that adjoins the immaculate suite at the Plaza Hotel that I’ve booked for the evening. The dinner will take place in The Gilded Room, which boasts a stunning view of Los Angeles.
I like seeing the city from up here. It reminds me how much of it I own.
“You want me to bring her in before service starts?” Lev asks.
I nod. “I want you to bring in the whole staff before service starts. I want to have a chat with my caterers.”
Lev raises his eyebrows.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re playing with your food before you eat it. Almost literally, actually.”
“What’s your point?”
He holds up his hands in self-defense. “No point. Just good to know you’re still in there, man.” He stands up and makes for the door. “I’ll go get ‘em lined up.”
When Lev is gone, I turn back to the view.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost make out the boundaries of my own property. It’s perched on a hill, overlooking the other mansions sprawled prostrate at its feet. I’d rather be there than here. As nice as the hotels I stay in are, nothing beats being home.
But I wouldn’t dare let Rodion into my inner sanctum. And he wouldn’t agree to it, either. Too much for both of us to risk.
Him agreeing to this meeting may seem like a positive sign, a gesture of friendship—Lord knows Lev and Yulian are both optimistic in that department—but I know the man too well to be so sure.
Rodion likes his agendas. He’s cunning and he never issues a challenge he isn’t sure he can win. He is playing nice with me thus far because he understands he can’t beat me. But if that tide turns in the slightest, this meeting could become a declaration of war.
I wander into my personal dressing room and change into dark black suit pants and a crisp white shirt. I add cufflinks with my family crest emblazoned in silver, but ignore the black jacket.
When I make my way into the main sitting room, Yulian is standing by the window, staring out at the view.
“Yo, bro,” he says, glancing towards me. “Exciting night, huh?”
“That remains to be seen.”
He rolls his eyes. “Ever the pessimist.”
“Realist,” I correct. “I’m not in the habit of claiming premature victories.”
“He’s coming, isn’t he?”
“But for what reason?” I ask, joining him by the window. “That’s the question you should be asking.”
It’s a sheer drop down to the sidewalk below. Our lives hang on the strength of the thin pane of glass in front of us. It’s the only barrier between being in this room and tumbling to our deaths. No man with a fear of heights would be able to stand here. But Yulian and I don’t fear anything anymore. That kind of thinking was trained out of us. The only fear we were allowed is the fear of looking weak.
“He’s only trying to determine if you’re still worthy of bearing the title he wants to pass to you.”
“I have the title,” I snarl, “regardless of what he deigns to give me. I don’t need or want his fucking approval.”