Letting Yuri replace Mikhail could be seen as efficient. But he’s a wild card, so even if he seized the Baranov power seat and I found and exploited his weaknesses, that doesn’t mean I’d be able to easily keep what I take. His ties in Moscow run deep.
The smart move is to do nothing, to prefer nothing, to let the heir and the cousin battle it out. I should want that more than I do.
She’s frowning at something on her screen. Whatever problem she’s working through, she won’t stop at the first answer. Sofia keeps pressing until she finds the right one. That alone tells me she won’t be easy to steer once her father dies. She’ll push backon the friendly alliance we currently have. Friendly as in I won’t slice one of their throats if they don’t set foot in my territory.
Sofia could be harder to control initially, but I believe she would be easier to work with in the long run. Yuri would be easier to remove but dangerous to work with, especially if Moscow sends reinforcements. Pros and cons to each.
Please, please promise me you’ll keep her safe.
The ghostly words flit through my mind.
I promisedher.
The practical move is distance from Sofia Baranova. The problem is that eight years ago, I gave my word to a dying woman. And there is nothing practical about that.
3
Sofia
I walk down the hall, the rubber soles of my tennis shoes nearly silent on the marble floor. I was summoned mid-workout. He hates when I work out. Hates when I wear what he callsneopryátnyy. Sloppy. Messy. Unbecoming of a bratva princess.
Being assaulted in a back alley is also unbecoming. If I ever find myself in that position again, I want the strength and the skills to protect myself. He’ll just have to deal with a sweaty daughter.
I knock once before pushing the heavy wooden door open.
My father is behind his desk. I know one of his men helped him into that chair. His health is much worse than he lets on. He sits behind the desk because it makes him feel powerful.
His ice blue eyes that are nearly identical to mine sweep over me. He mutters under his breath before he gestures one frail hand to the chair. “Sit.”
I take a seat, crossing one leg over the other.
He looks older than he did even a week ago. Skinnier. Paler.
He is sixty-two and has always seemed ageless in the way powerful men sometimes do, but something has changed in the last thirty days. I don't say it. I wouldn’t want someone pointing out my frailty.
"I spoke with Oleg this morning," he says.
Oleg Petrov. Manages the construction arm of the business. I have been working around Oleg for two months now because Oleg is in his late fifties and has strong opinions about who belongs in a boardroom. Me with my vagina is naturally excluded. Apparently the lack of a Y chromosome somehow interferes with my ability to understand construction.
And that’s why I scheduled the subcontractor meeting for when I knew he'd be out of the office and on a site.
"I heard," I say.
"He tells me you ran a meeting with the Harlem subcontractors."
"I did."
My father looks at me. I can’t tell if he’s happy or angry. Another trick he’s always had.
"He says you renegotiated the material sourcing on the Riverside project."
"The existing contract had us paying a seventeen percent markup on steel. Nobody bothered to check whether the rate was competitive. It wasn't. I found a comparable supplier at market rate. We'll save roughly a quarter million on that project alone."
“We buy from the Italians,” he says.
“And the Italians have been screwing us over for long enough.”
I know the rules. I scratch their back, they scratch mine. We pay inflated prices and launder a little money, and they turn around and do the same. I know the business and how it works, but it’s been leaning a little too much in their favor.