Page 64 of Mayflower

Tsariuk chuckles. “I know. Everything is in comparison.”

Compared to his billions? Sure, my millions don’t shine so bright, I guess. “Money doesn’t keep one safe,” I blurt.

Oh, wrong words.

He cocks a brow, lighting a cigarette, and tosses the lighter onto the table, then leans back in his chair. “No?”

I probably should keep my mouth shut, but it’s obvious—what happened to his wife, to Maddy, to me.

“That’s why you do business right,” he explains. “Stay loyal. Do not fuck up.”

“It doesn’t help when violence is part of the business. That requires”—I nod to his bodyguards, then mine—“an army.”

“Hmm.” He nods, staring at the tip of his cigarette. “So, you play by the rules. Or you learn to swing fists and make people afraid.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. We are—what is the word”—he snaps his fingers quickly, then stabs the air with his forefinger—“biased, yes? You see, the most honorable and good men would do awful things to protect their children or partners. See what I am getting at? Our morality is biased. Our code of honor is too. Cannot be honest? Learn to protect yourself. Want to have authority? Learn to punish. The higher you get, the more people around think—think”—Tsariuk taps his temple for emphasis—“that they are left behind. They get envious. See, I build churches, group homes, donate to charities, this and that, you know. Because I can. Those people love me. Why? Because of the gifts. Those people are nobodies. I do not do business with them. They are not afraid.”

He picks up an olive off a plate, shakes the juice off, and plucks it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Those who deal with me in business? Fuck their loved ones. If they fuck up, it is on them. I am not Mother Theresa when it comes to business. I learned to fight. I learned to protect. And I learned to punish.”

We lock eyes for the longest time. I hear Maddy clear her throat. But Aleksei fucking Tsariuk and I are having a staring competition.

I give in first. “Good thing I am not doing business with you. Anymore,” I add.

He narrows his eyes on me. “The arms contracts?”

I raise my palms in the air. “That’s Ayana’s business.”

First Tsariuk chuckles. I smile back. Then he starts laughing in short bursts, looks at Maddy, then turns to his Dracula assistant who stands by the terrace doors. “You heard this guy, Artiom?”

Tsariuk turns back to me and grins like Zeus over his servants. “I like you.” He laughs again. “I do.”

I stare at the cigarette butts in the ashtray, then go for my whiskey glass, but stop midway, because I’m dizzy. Fucking wasted. Whoa.

Tsariuk whistles to one of his servers, says something in Russian, and the guy comes back in a minute with a new bottle of cognac.

“I can’t,” I say, turning to Maddy and silently pleading.

Tsariuk pours himself a shot. “No, you cannot. It’s for me. Cheers!”

He downs the shot, chases it with an olive, then gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. “Go to bed. Talk tomorrow.”

Just like that, I think he got all he wanted to know about me.

But the next day, Aleksei is Mr. Tsariuk again as we gather for a meeting at the Center.

Tsariuk informs us that he is leaving Zion in the afternoon. He’s been a great help. In fact, his IT guys, his hackers, his chemists and assistants and the security guards assigned to Maddy are staying. But the news that Tsariuk is, in fact, departing, even if for a short time, makes the entire Center breathe out in relief.

Don’t get me wrong, the guy is likable. I mean, Margot flirts with him. The cyber operations specialist shakes hands and beams like a teenager when talking to him. I’m still hungover after our dinner yesterday, but Maddy was humming under her breath this morning and said, “Dad freaking loves you.” Her words.

But he is a lot. He filled the main hall of the Center with dozens of desks for his personnel. His presence seems to fill the entire island. That’s Tsariuk.

When he is gone and we have a regular meeting at the Center—Archer, Marlow, Bishop, Ortiz, and several others—it feels peaceful but at the same time deserted.

Ortiz watches me get off the phone with Tsariuk—Tsariuk was calling to recommend the latest book he’s reading—and grins, “How’s Papa Tsariuk?”

Everyone looks at me like I got blessed.

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